#lois

Apartment 2b, straight across from apartment 3b.

For the better part of 3 years, you and Clark Kent have lived in these apartments. It took 3 months for you to first interact, 4 more to invite him over for coffee.

You couldn't have just said, " hey Clark, wanna come over for coffee?

Nuh uh, this is you that we were talking about, so obviously it had to have been in a ridiculously, word vomit-y way.

You were both returning from work at the same time, something that had happened every day this week, and every week before that. Turns out you have the same hours as the daily planet reporter across the hall. 

You’d meant to ask him in for coffee last week, but overthought the concept too much. 

Who wants coffee after work? hellloooo caffeine wakes you up and he is obviously trying to go to sleep after work, not get more energy? sigh, just forget it.

But that one evening, the one where returning to your dull, cramped apartment alone for what must've been the thousandth something time, was too tiring and depressing to endure again. There was also that little hope in your head that maybe he was tired of it too. So you decided to spew out whatever word vomit was pending in your mind, before you had time to think about it.

“Hey Clark wait up,” 

A light buzz of excitement shook in the pit of your heels, when you realized that you were really doing this. Watching him turn around at your words, maybe just a little too quickly, like he was waiting for you?

“Y- yeah whats up?” he continued after clearing his throat, his initial attempt at a response coming out far too high pitched for a grown man.

“I uhm, did you…”

I want to come inside! Say it. Come on say uh, say did you want to come inside Clark, do you want coffee? For the love of god say something and stop staring at him.

He looked at you expectantly, but not like he just wanted you to hurry up and spit it out, more like he would wait another hour for you to speak without a complaint.

The first thing you noticed about him, he was always well mannered. Not even on purpose, it was more like a reflex. 

“Do you want the, uhm apartment tour?”

…Seriously? I mean I know I said say anything but come on! It's a metropolis apartment, the layouts are basically the same in every one for the next 10 blocks you idiot! 

“Or, not that because that doesn't make sense, we have the same apartment. I meant coffee, do you want boffee-"

 A sigh of disappointment left your lips and your head dropped at your speech impediment that seems to have resurfaced from 1st grade, and set up shop right in between you and the man across from you.

To your surprise, when you lift your head back up, Clark hasn't gone into his apartment and shut the door, with a mental note to avoid his embarrassingly awkward neighbor for the rest of his life. He is instead, leaning against his locked door, with his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, and an amused little smile on his face, one that shows the cutest dimples you've ever seen in your life. 

“Do you wanna start over?” he draws, tone laced with just as much amusement as his face

A tang of shame and something else you can't quite put your finger on, causes the corners of your mouth to curve up in a small smile, as your eyes meet his.

“ Would you like to come inside for coffee, Clark?” you manage, finally.

“Yea, yea I would”

---------

After that, the two of you were classified as normal friends for a while, but became more the first time you drunk-puked all over his shiny black work shoes. Situations like that are really always the make or break point in any kind of relationship, lucky for you it worked out in your favor.

Well lucky isn't exactly the word you would've used to describe it at the moment. It would be something more along the lines of horrific or treacherous, but looking back now... no that was uh, still pretty bad.

But it turned out great! Because now, 2 years and a few months later, Clark Kent is pattering around in your kitchen –he's the only one that's ever really used it– making you lunch. The same way he had for… you can't even remember how long now. 

You watch uselessly from the couch while he cooks a random meal that you'd sent him off Instagram reels, you offered to help, but even he isn't polite enough to pretend you'd know what you were doing. 

He pretends to not want to make it, claiming that social media is causing your generation to lose the good quality meals passed down from your elders. But every time you send him a new video, with the message “ can u make this 4 me??”, he’s over by yours the next day.

 Holding bags of groceries, because “the only groceries you ever buy are instant noodles and frozen fries”, ready to make whatever it is that you want. 

He was like that in every way, with you at least, always there in a flash when you needed him. 

Whether it was a crazy bad date that you needed to escape from. Like that one last week that was so bad you still couldn't even tell him. And he didn't need you to, he just stood outside the ridiculously expensive restaurant your date had insisted on, then just so happened to conveniently forget his wallet, only after ordering the both of you two of the most expensive entrees on the menu. 

Carefully studying the tall building, shifting his body weight on either foot while waiting outside for you. All the while silently wondering if these are the only kind of guys you're into, the expensive restaurant, designer wearing, horrible credit kind. 

Eventually you did come outside, moving too quickly for heels that were as high as yours, glancing back to the glass front wall of the restaurant, wondering if your dad had seen you take the turn to the exit, instead of the bathroom.

After hearing you say once that you didn’t wanna talk about it, he filled the silent walk with ramblings of the hookup stories Jimmy would run his ear off about when he was trying to work.

Shoulders –more like your shoulder and his upper arm, due to your height difference- just barely bumping together as you made the trek back to your place in the chilly, busy, Metropolis streets.

When he noticed your teeth slightly clatter and your shoulders shake a little from the breeze, he didn't say anything about how your date should've offered you his jacket the moment he saw you in that beautiful but slightly skimpy dress, like he wanted too.

Instead, he shrugged off his own, wordlessly draping in over your shoulders. He couldn't just tell you why he  couldn't get cold, despite how much he wanted to.

So instead he continued the flow of the conversation so you did not have the option to reject the sentiment, in fear of him being cold. 

Wrapping his jacket around yourself tighter, you wondered what it would be like to be more than friends with a guy like Clark. Even though you knew you didn't really want “ a guy like Clark”, you really just wanted him. 

“What are you day dreaming about over there?” he remarked from across the kitchen/living room, quickly noticing the lack of keyboard clacking from where you were sitting.

“Just about how I'm ready to tell you about my nightmare of a date from last week” you stated in a sorta cocky tone, only because you know how much he hates not knowing things. Not looking up from your laptop, you quickly type in the last sentence of your paragraph. 

You listened from your cozy position on the couch as the tried to feign nonchalance at your statement, accidentally knocking something over in the process.

He was always so predictably, himself, yet another thing you loved about Clark Kent.

“Yea?- Crap… Ill ah, ill clean that up dont worry” 

“Didnt doubt it Kent” the words leaving your mouth in a vaguely mischievous tone, a plan forming in your mind. As you leisurely strolled over to the kitchen island, dropping yourself down on a creaky stool,  and scooping a handful of shredded cheese in your mouth, taking advantage of his distraction. By the time he noticed, you already raised your hand up to your mouth.

“Hey dont! Ah you little…” he drew sarcastically from your kitchen floor, where he was looking up at you from his hands and knees, wiping up the spilled mixture before it could seep into your sketchy flooring, making a suspiciously attractive tsking noise.

You never noticed, but he always knew when you were going to take something, and what you were going to take. So he’d secretly grate more cheese, or cut a few more strawberries, in anticipation for your stolen handful. Pretending he didn't know, because he knew you liked it.

Clark was just the kind of guy that remembered all those little things about you. 

Like how you “didn’t believe in umbrellas” because it was “just a little rain”. But you always found an umbrella in that little space between your wall and front door, where the paint is cracked along the seam.

Or how you never packed any food for yourself because you claimed you never got hungry at work.

 You did, wouldn't admit it, but you did. Clark knew that about you, which is why you'd always find an apple, crackers, and a juice box in a little box at the bottom of your laptop bag. With a little note in Clarks scribbly hand writing that says “eat me, im good for you!”

You didn't verbally thank him because you knew he didn't want you to.

So instead you did little things for him too, brought new flowers for his apartment without mentioning it, always picking up two laundry detergents at the store because he never remembered it.

You weren't the kind of girl that remembered all the little things about people, you were barley able to remember your own shit, let alone somebody else's.

But for Clark? for him you did, every time.

Friends just do stuff like that, you told yourself. Don't be full of yourself, he doesn't like you, you're just close friends, your subconscious insists whenever your heart gets the notion that it could be for a different reason. 

“Thought you had a story for me? Jeez, where are you today princess?” 

His words dragging you back down to earth, you met his slightly concerned gaze. he was using the nickname he’d given you a while back, after you first asked him to make one of your “reels meals” as he so cleverly called them.

(It wasn't that clever but you didn't have the heart to tell him, because he looked so proud of himself.)

“Didn't realize you were so eager to know about my love life, kansas” you replied, with a nickname of your own, one you’ve also been calling him for a while. 

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me, now spill” 

You couldn't help but giggle at his inability to hide his flaming curiosity when it came to you.

 “Okay well, it was going great until he showed up 40 minutes late with no text…”

You watch as his jaw dropped, before you swear you literally saw the thought shoot up to his head, his face morphed into that of someone who was trying to stifle a laugh.

“Wait, what do you mean it was going great until he was late? That was how he started the night!”

He replied after he was sure he wouldn't burst out laughing in your face, although you still weren't too sure of his ability to compose himself.  

“Yeah it was great when I was at home!”

Now he did laugh in your face, and you couldn't help but join him. It didn't matter what he was laughing at, between his dimples, and the tone of his laugh, you were always laughing with him. 

“Aw princess…” 

He said, gazing at you with a remorseful look on his face. Not that remorseful, considering he still had that big dopey grin of his across his face, but still remorse nevertheless. 

“Thats it Kent, you're not getting any more story time, you’ve lost your privileges!” you exclaim dramatically feigning sadness at his reaction. 

“I just, you deserve better. You know that right?” he says, his laugh drying up, looking you straight in your eyes, completely serious when he says the last part of his sentence.

“Yeah, i uh i know that it's just…” you look down to where your fingers are fiddling with a bottle cap you hadn't even realised you’d picked up, while you try to figure out how to word what you want to say.

“I'm tired of not having someone, you know? For all that romantic jazz” you trail off, trying to make your feelings sound less serious than they are, because you don't like serious feelings.

Clark however, doesn't mind talking about your feelings at all.  “Is that why you went out with that…” he takes a second, choosing his words carefully as he tries to remember that he was raised as a well mannered farm boy who usually has no trouble refraining from profanity.

nother thing that was different with you, he felt so strongly about well, everything concerning you. Like it was all heightened or something.

“Jackass?, jerkoff? dickhe- ” you fill in after noticing his lack of words.

“I was trying to avoid profanity, but yeah.” he cuts you off, exaggerating the word “avoid” to remind you to not “be so crass”.

“I guess, these days it feels like, having someone is better than nothing, y’know?”

“Yeah i get it”

This is it, ask him on a date!! You're both lonely, Do it!

“Hey listen Clark, would you uhm want to… uh-”

Your ability to speak is short circuited by his direct gaze into your eyes.

You’ve studied Clark Kent’s face countless times, and every time, it steals away your ability to speak. 

The subtle crinkle in between his perfectly shaped eyebrows, the one that tells you, you have his complete undivided attention.

The stubble that he rarely let grow, but when he did, it extended your ovulation by 4 days, each time. And his blue eyes that held so much emotion when he looked at you, like you were the only girl he’d ever seen. 

A sudden ding, that you quickly recognized as your oven timer, cut through the tension and made you jump a little.

“And that would be our lunch, let's see how it turned out” Clark said, trying not to sound excited at his newest creation. 

“Yeah lets see if I'm gonna keep you around” you joked

To which Clark snorted in response as he kneeled down to pull the tray out of your old cranky oven. 

“Like you could find someone else to do crap like this” he says under his breath, knowing he'd hate if you went out and got yourself a boyfriend to do this stuff for you, he definitely knew you could.

“Mmm yeah i guess you're right…” you replied, letting him know you heard him anyway, extremely enticed by the smell wafting out the oven. If you could, you'd be floating out of your seat in the air to the smell of the food, like those cartoons you watched as a kid.  

Clark got to work plating the food, placing in front of you, a plate, knife and fork. Before turning around to grab you a coke from your fridge.

Pouring it into a glass instead of just giving you the can like you insisted,

“Hey, the can is fine!” your groan, reaching for his arm across

“No, that's so… just no” you watched the 6 '4 man shudder at the idea of drinking soda straight out the can, quite the ridiculous sight.

“Fine but you're just giving me unnecessary dishes to wash.”

Scoffing in response “ like you ever wash dishes, please! Its dishwasher or dirty over here”

“And besides, I cooked, ill wash the dishes”

“Thats not how it works”

“Its how it works with me, now eat your food” he says while placing down the glass beside your plate.

Giving up on arguing with the incredibly stubborn giant in front of you, you instead dig your fork into your food and bring it up to your mouth.

“Clark, this is great! holy sh-” you grumble out loudly , bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, since your mouth is still full.

“Hey, you can thank me by refraining from your course language, missy” he cuts you off before you finish your sentence. 

“Yeah alright, dad” you remark under your breath, quiet enough so that there was no way he'd be able to hear it.

“What was that? He says without missing a beat, spinning around with a plate and glass of his own before setting it down across from you.

“Wha- how’d you hear that?” you replied, shocked. 

“You- y’said it so loud what do you mean?” he said too quickly, like he was covering something up. Averting your eyes while he spoke in a tone that was too high for him to be telling the truth.

Normally, he is great at lying, seeing he’s been doing it for more than 2 decades now. It's just that thing about it being you, that's causing his ability to dwindle. 

“Oh” you spoke again, you knew you didn't say it audibly, you barely heard it yourself. Over the years, being friends with Clark Kent means you’d have to pretend you didn't notice something.

There weren't any huge slip ups from him that would lead you to question if he wasn’t human or anything. Just little things, here and there. 

Like when he would take a pan out of the oven and use an oven mitt, only those oven mitts were way too thin for him to be holding the pan for longer than 5 seconds. You’d gotten them for 30 cents at a garage sale, you’re pretty sure they’re older than you. 

So without even noticing you were doing it, you’d make up excuses for him along the way. 

The oven mitts aren't that thin then, I must just have really sensitive hands or something. 

Oh anybody could've accidentally snapped that door handle off, it was loose.

Little things prevent you from believing the impossible that everyone did, whether they noticed it or not. Which was probably a big part of the reason Clark had managed to keep it undercover for as long as he did. 

“ Do y’have any more horrible dates planned for tonight, or are you staying in?” his voice cut through the momentary silence.

You scoffed before replying, “ill have you know that the date I have planned for tonight is rather promising” in a know-it-all tone.

“Mhm” Clark says skeptically.

“Whats his name?” he asks and you mentally kiss your teeth. You were hoping he didn't ask that. 

“Its…” you take a second before continuing, brain scrambling to decide if you’d rather make up a fake name then tell him, as you move food around with your fork. 

Sighing, you reluctantly continue, "It's Bartholemew… But he goes by Bart!” you're quick to add the latter when you see his lips beginning to curve in a cocky smirk. 

“Well I hope it goes well.”

“So do I Clark... so do I” you said hopelessly.

It took a while for Clark to be comfortable enough with you to joke around with you a little. When you first became friends, he was all gentleman-y.

 Don’t get me wrong he still is, he's just able to joke around with you now, he’s comfortable. That was what you weren't willing to risk by dating him. Him having someone comfortable to him was such a big factor in your lack of courage.  

—-------

Turns out Clark was right, your date sucked. After getting all dolled up, makeup, hair, the perfect dress, your date wasn’t just late.

He was hours late, as in your date started at 6 and he showed up empty handed at 8.. He’d texted you “5 minutes babe” , at 7 o clock and even your standards weren't low enough to deal with that. 

So here you are, alone in your bed at 9:30, face rid of makeup all snuggled up in your bed, rewatching glee. Instead of being wined, dined, and brought back to bed like how you intended this night to go. 

You’d been wallowing in self pity for hours and decided to make it worse by ordering junk food around 30 minutes ago. Which is what you thought that the loud bang you heard was. 

Woah, the driver must be in a hurry, you thought. 

Only that noise didn’t come from the side of your wall that the door is on, no that came from across the apartment, from where your window is?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you go to investigate the noise, freezing suddenly when you hear your window latch open. 

Holy shit okay, okay this is happening. Fuck my phones dead, that's, that's fine i can do this.

You talk yourself up, grabbing the closest thing you can find to defend yourself, the umbrella.

Quietly, you creep around the corner, steps silent as adrenaline and nervousness buzz through your entire body. Hands shaking so bad you're worried the intruder can hear the latches on the umbrella clicking together. 

Taking one last deep breath, you veer your head around the coroner, only to find the last thing you would expect. 

“Clark?” The words leave your mouth at the same time your death grip around the umbrella loosens, clashing to the floor as you rush over to kneel beside the bleeding, large, groaning man on your floor. 

Your shock and adrenaline illuminates throughout your body even faster as you take in his appearance. 

His hair disheveled in a way you've never seen it before, his soft curls aren't combed back, they now sit all over his head, tangled with between the strands. His face is littered with little cuts,

your eyes zoom in on a particular gash under his eye. Watching it a little further, it almost looks like its… healing itself? 

You watch in amazement as the skin under his eye begins to pull itself together. Forcing yourself to look away, you trail your eyes down the rest of his body.

The familiar emblem is what you notice first, then your brain starts to register the deep blue covering his broad muscular shoulders, the dirtied red cape that surrounds his body. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

The thought races in your head as your mind draws you back to all the things you excused or turned a blind eye to all of these years, how could you have not noticed this?

“M’sorry, t-thought you weren’t home” his deep, damaged voice cuts through the sound of your heart beating erratically in your eardrums. 

“Clark you’re…” you say, unable to continue.

“Superman? Yeah i notic-” he fills in for you, trying to joke away the terribly concerned look in your eyes. 

“Hurt” you cut him off “You’re really hurt” you say, eyes trained on the cuts littering his face, like you think it'll go away if you blink, like you think he will go away.

Shock drapes over his pained features, like he can't believe that you'd care about anything other than the stamp across his chest.  

“Yeah I was, mmfph, yeah I'm hurt” he concludes after trying, and failing, to sit up and talk to you.

Your thoughts momentarily short circuit, trying to figure out what to do, before realizing that you couldn't possibly know how to help him because he is an alien. 

Bringing your hand to either side of his face, forcing him to look at you when his eyes began to flutter closed and his head began to loll to the side. 

“How do I help Clark?" you decide to just ask him, concern washing through your body at a rate that disables your critical thinking skills.

“I'm really sorry about– ahh jeez –this, I thought you wouldn't be here ill-” he drones on, literally apologizing for bleeding into your carpet.

Squeezing his face lightly, you interrupt him again, “Clark”

You watch him look at you, like he's trying to look straight through your eyes and into your mind to figure out what the hell you're thinking right now.

“Yeah?” tone softer than before.

“How do I help?” You say slowly, hoping that he'd stop feeling guilty and just tell you what to do.

“Can you uh, help me up? I'll be fine, I heal fast, I just need to sleep it off.

Immediately, you shift your body to help him up, a low deep groan leaving his lips when you begin to help him off the floor.

He begins to walk over to the front door of your apartment but you quickly drag him deeper into yours. 

“I can go.. Ill be fine i promise” he begins

Holding your ground, “No, no way Clark im not leaving you like this come on” you say as you lead him towards your bed.

He drops heavy onto your mountain of blankets, eyes closed in pain. You find yourself worrying about who's been taking care of him while he takes care of everyone else. 

You bring yourself to lay beside him, wrapping your hands around his head, wishing there was more you could do.

“Again i'm sorry about this, about all of it i-”

“Stop apologizing Kent, trust me if I didn't want you here you wouldn't be here” you joke, trying to make him feel less guilty.

You watch a small smile grace his face, wincing at the same time he does when the movement stretches a cut on his eyebrow.

“How long?” you ask 

“How long what?” he replies, craning his head to see you

“How long does it take for you to heal?”

“Oh this? This isnt bad ill be all good and out of your hair in a few hours” he downplays.

“I guess I'll see what happens on the news tonight huh?

A low chuckle leaves him, filling the quiet room  “Yeah I guess you will.”

—----

You both keep the conversation going, as an attempt to distract yourselves from how close you are to each other.

It doesn't work, every time your leg brushes against his thigh, or he shifts to get comfortable, you notice it. You both really notice it, and it's driving you crazy. At some point during your conversation,Clark was able to turn on his side to face you. 

So now it wasn't just the moderate physical touch that was driving you mad, it was the way he looked at you too. He looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen, and somewhere under that all that adoration, there was something darker that mustered as well.

Soon, you realized you both hadn't said anything for a whale, you were just looking. Just for a second, something you could have easily missed, his gaze dropped down to your lips. 

That second was all it looked for you to bring your face just that little bit closer, and finally close the gap between you two. Clark stilled for a moment, before beginning to move his lips on yours. He didn't kiss like you thought, in truth you’d never been kissed like this before. 

He moved his lips on yours like he craved you for years, and maybe, he had?

His hands grazed the curve of your waist, seemingly asking for permission. You granted in by moving even closer to him, causing his back to lay flat on the mattress, you brought your thighs on either side of him. 

 Hovering your center over his, not because you didn't want them to connect– in this moment, you actually wanted nothing more, but because that would make it real.

Breaking the kiss would also make it real, it would mean you would have to look him in the eyes and give him the chance to take it back.

Eventually, did you have to pull away to breathe, and meet his gaze. When you did pull away, his lips were all pinked and swollen, pupils dilated and he studied you with the same intensity you studied him with. Searching your eyes for any sign of doubt, anything that told him you didn't want to cross this line. 

Because you both knew that once you did, there wouldn't be any going back. 

“Are you sure? I need you to be sure” his gruff voice cut through the blissful silence.

Deciding quickly in your head, you lowered yourself onto him, connecting your heat to his. The action earned you a deep growl that you were sure you would never forget.  

Studying his expression again, you noticed the crinkle in between his eyebrows again, and felt a shock of worry course through you. 

“Shit did I hurt you?” You ask, voice sharp and concerned

“Not the word I’d use to describe it princess” he replied, a subtle smile on his face.

“I need to hear you say it, please.” he spoke again, in a tone sounding like he was in pain.

You brought your face as close as you could without kissing him, and whispered the words he’d dreamt about hearing for far too long. 

“I want this clark, I want you”  you told him, rolling your hips into his so you could watch him writhe underneath you.

Hearing those words seemed to flick a switch in Clark's mind, gripping your waist, he flipped the both of you in one swift motion. The action surprised you, causing a yelp to leave your lips.

“Making noise for me already?” He speaks slowly against your neck, trailing sloppy kissing along your sweet spots, as he begins undressing you. 

This new version of the sweet, thoughtful, gentle man you've known for years, has a pool of wetness collecting in your underwear. 

All you can do is moan helplessly while he works his way around your body, seemingly knowing every one of your buttons to press. The sounds you make bounce off the thin walls of your apartment, drawing Clark's attention.

He murmurs from his position just below your waist , “Cant be too loud okay baby, walls are thin” 

As he pulls your thin sleep shorts and underwear down your thighs.

“You- you’re… wow” he stutters out.

“Clark!” you whine, struggling to keep your composure since he is taking so long.

“Sorry, sorry baby” he says, dragging the suit from its low position on his hips, all the way down to his ankles, before kinking it off. 

Leaving him in his boxers, you examine his length through them, sitting up on your elbows to watch him. 

Dragging your eyes away from his underwear and back up to his gaze when he catches you staring. A lopsided smile sits on his face as he watches you. You’re in nothing but your red lacy bra now, you’d still had it on from your previous night plans. Desperately whining for him to bury his cock deep inside you. 

You watch him peel his underwear off, as soon as his cock is released from its confines, all nine inches of him spring out against his stomach. Tip glistening in precum, you don't even notice your tongue come out to wet your lips.

A smug chuckle leaves Clark's lips as he brings himself back down on top of you, his arms on either side of your head.

“Condom?” your eyes watch as his mouth contours to form the word, wanting nothing more than for him to have his mouth on you.

Your gaze is still trained on his lips while the words leave your mouth,

 “I-im on the pill” you stutter out. The realization that this is finally happening hitting you all at once.

“Okay, are you sure you wanna…?”  Clark speaks again, still wanting to make sure everything was right for you. 

“Yea, yes just, kiss me? Please” you say while bringing your hand up to either side of his head, dragging his lips down to yours. You feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip and the action has you opening your mouth even wider for his access. 

Pulling apart from you, Clark lazily strokes himself in preparation. You look down at the motion to find yourself entranced by the sight. 

“Gonna make my girl feel good” he mutters the words more to himself than to you.

 You feel the tip of his cock graze your entrance and gasp, causing his head to look away from where you're both connecting, and back at you. 

“Tell me if I need to stop, okay?” he says, light concern floating evident on his expression.

“Oh hold on” you say, contouring to try and remove your bra, before you feel a large hand on your stomach stop you.

“Wait can you uh, can you leave it on” he says, eyes gauging your reaction.

Swallowing, you nod and lay back down, gesturing for him to continue. 

“You say the word and I stop okay? No hard feelings”

“Clark…” 

“Yeah”

“Fuck me please” you dont even recognize your own voice, desperation so evident in your tone. 

Your words are all it takes for Clark to move himself into you, a synchronized moan leaving the both of you. Your hands shoot to grip either side of his arms, to brace yourself. 

“Hpmh- you feel, shit baby can I move?” he strangles out, using all his control to not thrust further up into you.

You nod eagerly, the feeling of him inside you with nothing in between the both of you unlike anything you’d ever felt before, you'd had raw sex before but it wasn't like this.

Clark drags himself out of you, before aggressively thrusting back into your throbbing pussy, that had been sucking him in with so much force, it took effort to move.

He continues his motions, causing moans so harsh to leave you, you weren't sure if you were moaning or screaming. 

“Clar- Clark, feels so, i can’t…fuck” you sputter out, brain rendered useless when he was fucking you this well.

“What's that princess? Where's all your attitude now baby?”

His words cause you to squeeze him in even further, his cock throbbing with need inside you is all you can think about. 

Clark brings his motions to a stop, causing a look of confusion to cover your features. He brings his hands to the backs of both your knees beside you, and your ankles over his shoulders.

In this new position, he somehow feels even deeper than before. He continues his pace, fucking you like youve been waiting for. 

“G’na, fuuckk, Clark” you scream, feeling the tight coil in your stomach radiate through you, unable to control yourself. 

You’ve never come so hard in your life, toes curling, vision blurry, all the while he is still pumping in and out of you, searching for his own release. 

You feel a large palm clamp over your mouth muffling your loud cries as Clark buries his face on your shoulder, releasing his load, deep into you.

All you can do is lay there and listen to his moans of pleasure as you let him use you. 

You both sit there for a minute, breathing heavily against each other, coming down from your highs. 

After a moment, Clark drags himself out of you and drapes a blanket over your naked, sore and shaking body. Your eyes flutter shut as you hear the shower begin to turn on, and Clark returns, still naked, holding a towel.

“Come on let me get you cleaned up”

After watching you groan and roll deeper into the mattress, Clark lets out a sigh of amusement before lifting you in his arms and carrying you towards the bathroom.

Adding to the overflowing list of things you loved about Clark Kent. 

You know how bad it sounds, and never in a million years would you have imagined that this would be your situation. You had always prided yourself on having a strong moral compass. Yet, here you were, its needle spinning wildly and hopelessly lost in the magnetic field of Clark Kent.

You ran into him for the first time while you were working.

The cute little flower shop on the corner near the Daily Planet. 

He had come in a rush, looking annoyingly handsome, even as he ran in, tuxedo large and twisted, glasses half falling off his face the bell above the door signalled his entrance. 

And you were stupidly, hopelessly enamored from that very first moment.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice coming out softer than you intended.

He blinked, still taking in the explosion of color around him as if he'd stumbled into another dimension. “Hey,” he said, dazed.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through dark, disheveled hair, making it worse. “Can I get your prettiest bouquet of flowers?” He added quickly, almost desperately, “But not roses.”

You nodded, emerging from behind the counter while internally cursing the thick canvas apron stamped with your shop's logo. It completely covered your carefully chosen outfit—a polka-dot skirt and matching top that you'd thought was so cute this morning. Now he'd never see it.

“Of course, follow me,” you said, leading him through the narrow aisles. You could feel his large presence behind you, filling the small space in a way that made your skin tingle. 

“We have tons of options. These over here have lilies and baby's breath—very classic,” You gestured to buckets of poppies. “These are poppies, which are in season right now.” You stopped at your favorite display. “And these… These are my personal favorites. Peonies.”

He didn't respond. You glanced back to find him not looking at the flowers at all, but at you, with an expression you couldn’t quite read but made your breath catch all the same.

You cleared your throat. “Are you shopping for a specific someone, by chance?”

That seemed to snap him out of it. He blinked, color rising along his neck.

“Yeah,” he said, and your heart—stupid, traitorous thing—sank before he even finished. “For my girlfriend. Or, not yet, but hopefully tonight. With flowers. I just know she isn't a fan of roses.”

Of course, you thought, plastering on a smile while something small and hopeful curled up and died inside you.

Of course a man like this is taken. Why wouldn't he be?

You sucked in your teeth, refusing to let the disappointment show. “I think she'll love these.” You reached for an assortment of peonies in deep burgundy and soft peach, arranging them with practiced hands. “An assorted ray of peonies, and I'll throw some tulips and baby breath in there as well.”

He watched your hands work, that intense focus returned. “Yeah,” he said softly. “These are perfect actually. Thank you,” He reached for his wallet. “How much?”

“Don't worry about it,” you heard yourself say, stupidly, recklessly. “It's on the house.”

He blinked. “What? No, I can't—”

“Consider it a good luck charm." You thrust the bouquet toward him before you could take it back. “I hope things go well with your soon-to-be girlfriend.”

He took the flowers carefully, reverently, as if they were made of glass. That crooked smile returned.

“Thank you,” he said again, and his voice was so warm, so genuine, that it hurt. “Really. I'm Clark, by the way.”

You offered your name and he repeated it back to himself, like he was tasting it, like he wanted to remember it. “I'll be back.”

And then he was gone, the bell chiming his exit, leaving you alone with the scent of flowers and the echo of your own foolishness.

He came back exactly one month later.

The bell chimed and there he was, no tuxedo this time, just a simple button-down and those same kind eyes behind those same glasses. He looked just as handsome as you remembered. More, maybe. The memory hadn't done him justice.

“You're back,” you said dumbly, because apparently your brain stopped functioning in his presence.

He grinned, that crooked masterpiece. “Yeah. Your flowers were perfect.” He leaned against the counter, easy and warm. 

“She said yes. Well. She said yes months ago, technically, but your flowers helped with the date part. Now I have a girlfriend. Officially. For a month, anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy and rambling. “I was hoping you could help me find something for our one-month?”

You ignored the tiny, vicious twist in your chest. “Of course,” you said brightly. “One-month anniversary. That's exciting. Let's see. Maybe garden roses—” You caught yourself. “Right, no roses. Peonies again?”

He laughed, a low, warm sound. “She loved the peonies. Let's do peonies.”

So you wrapped peonies for his one-month anniversary.

And for his two-month, you helped him choose a mix of dahlias and snapdragons.

For three months, you suggested sunflowers, because they were bold and bright and perfectly bloomed in season.

By six months, you were starting to feel genuinely pathetic. You still looked forward to his visits with an eagerness that bordered on embarrassing. You still dressed a little cuter on days you suspected he might come, around that monthly anniversary mark. You still replayed every conversation after he left, searching for hidden meanings in throwaway comments.

He had a girlfriend. A real one. A six month-and-counting, anniversary-celebrating, flowers-deserving girlfriend. You had no right to hope for anything.

But that didn't mean you couldn't be as delusional as you pleased in the privacy of your own heart.

Especially around nine months, when seemingly something shifted.

Clark started coming in more often. Not just for anniversaries anymore, but for “apology flowers”—he'd been working late, he explained, missing dinners, being distracted. He needed something that said “I'm sorry” without saying “I'll keep doing this.”

You helped him choose white tulips for sincerity, then lavender for devotion, delicate sprays of baby's breath to soften the message.

He started lingering after the purchases, you noticed. Leaning against your counter, asking about your day. About the books you were reading, the music you were listening to, the small ordinary details of your life that he seemed genuinely interested in.

At ten months, he stayed for forty-five minutes after buying a single stem of orchid for his desk. You talked about everything and nothing—his job at the Daily Planet, your dream of opening a second shop, the way the light hit the buildings at golden hour.

Clark started mentioning her less.

At first you barely noticed. Then you realized, with a jolt, that you couldn't remember the last time he'd said her name. Clark talked about work, about his parents in Smallville, about a story he was chasing involving corrupt contractors and substandard building materials.

But the girlfriend who had once been the reason for every visit had faded into the background, an absence you were too afraid to question.

So you didn't. You selfishly, desperately, let yourself hope.

And as 12 months rolled around, after a year of knowing him—a year of flower purchases and lingering conversations and a connection that felt, to your starving heart, like something real—you could wholeheartedly say that Clark Kent was your friend.

He came in very often now. Sometimes not even to buy flowers. He'd appear in your doorway with two cups of coffee from the vendor outside the Daily Planet, claiming he had a spare, and he'd sit on the little stool behind your counter while you arranged stems and wrapped bouquets and tried not to stare at the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

He talked to you about everything. His fears about his career. Which made no sense sometimes, especially when we would start talking about saving others. You didn’t think journalists saved that many people?

But, hey, what did you know?

He went on the occasional tangent about his childhood, the weight of expectations he carried without ever quite explaining what those expectations were.

You talked to him about your own dreams and doubts. About the loneliness of running a small business, the ache of watching friends marry and move away, the secret fear that you'd end up alone with nothing but flowers for company.

He listened. God, he listened. With his whole body, his whole attention, as if nothing in the world mattered more than whatever small thing you were saying.

You were in love with him. Deeply, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with him.

And you still didn't know if he was truly available.

Clark never said explicitly they'd broken up. In your lovesick, desperate mind, you'd convinced yourself that reading between the lines was appropriate. That the absence of her name meant the absence of her. That the way he looked at you meant something more than friendship.

But he never said it. And you were too afraid to ask.

So when he'd shown up at your shop near closing time with that familiar tentative smile, asking if you'd eaten yet, and you hadn't, you let yourself believe that this was it. This was finally it, after the longest year of your life.

Clark suggested a place around the corner, a small Italian restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles.

The entire walk over you felt the tension in the air. Your hands would brush occasionally as you bumped into each other, you would giggle when you made eye contact at the same time. 

There was no possible way his girlfriend was still in the picture. No way that this was just a casual friend's outing. 

Even the conversation flowed easier than it ever had, fueled by cheap red wine and pasta and the intimacy of dim lighting. When the check came, he reached for it before you could, his fingers brushing yours in a way that lingered just a heartbeat too long.

“I've got it,” he said, his voice low.

“You always get it.”

“And I always will.”

That phrase echoed in your head for the rest of the night. The weight of it pressed against your ribs, warm and dangerous and exactly what you'd been starving for.

He walked you back to your apartment, the city buzzing softly around you, streetlights casting long shadows that made him look taller somehow. Broader. Like he was taking up more space in your world than he had any right to.

You stopped outside your building, fumbling with your keys, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn't been with him in months.

“Tonight was nice,” you said, aiming for casual, landing somewhere around breathless.

“Yeah.” He stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell whatever clean, simple soap he used and his intoxicating cologne. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his glasses had slid slightly down his nose. “Really nice.”

Your heart was a caged animal in your chest.

Maybe you weren't as delusional as you thought...

He reached up, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips grazed your cheek, your jaw, your—

“Clark,” you whispered, and it came out like a question you were afraid to finish.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Can I—”

You kissed him first.

It was clumsy and desperate and perfect. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him like he'd been waiting to do it for months. Maybe he had. Maybe you both had. His lips were soft, insistent, and when you parted for air, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“I've wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, and something in your chest cracked open, spilling light through all the dark corners you'd been keeping it in.

You laughed, a wet, shaky thing. You felt the adrenaline and dopamine coursing through your veins and you wondered briefly if you were dreaming.

“Then why didn't you?”

He was quiet for a moment, thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. “I wasn't sure if you— I just didn't want to make things complicated.”

“Complicated,” you repeated, and the word tasted strange in your mouth. But you swallowed it down, because he was here, holding you, looking at you like you were something precious. “It doesn't have to be complicated.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

You invited him up.

Somehow, some way, clothes were discarded haphazardly as you made your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of fabric and anticipation in your wake. His shirt hit the hallway floor, your top draped over the doorknob.

By the time your knees hit the edge of the mattress, you were both down to bare skin and pulsing desire.

Clark paused above you, one arm braced against the headboard, the other pressed flat beside your hip. He was all broad shoulders and warm planes, the dim streetlight filtering through your curtains catching on the hard lines of his chest, the soft give of his stomach, the way his breath came shallow and uneven.

“You're sure?” he asked, and his voice was wrecked, rough at the edges.

You reached up, pulled him down by the back of his neck, and kissed him instead of answering.

You were never more sure of anything in your life. You absolutely wanted Clark Kent.

He came willingly, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress in a way that made your mind go blissfully blank. His skin was hot against yours, his hands mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft skin of your inner thigh where his fingers trailed slow and teasing.

You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like he was starving for it.

“Clark,” you breathed, and his name had never sounded like this before—so desperate and hot.

He kissed down your throat, your collarbone, the place where your pulse beat wild and frantic. His lips were soft, his stubble rough, the contrast sending shivers across your skin. When his mouth found the swell of your breast, you arched into him, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, “How long I've wanted this.”

“Then show me.”

He lifted his head, eyes dark behind his glasses—he'd forgotten to take them off, you realized, and something about that, about the way they sat crooked on his face while the rest of him was undone, made the heat between your legs ache.

Clark kissed you again, deeper this time, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was nothing between you but the space where your breath mingled and the quiet sounds you were both trying and failing to contain.

When he finally thrust inside you, it was slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to make it last, trying to memorize every second, every sound, every way your body responded to his.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, and you let yourself feel it—all of it. The stretch from his large dick, the burn, the way he filled you so completely that for a moment, just a moment, nothing else existed.

Just him. Just this.

He moved with a rhythm that was equal parts careful and hungry, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open for him. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your mouth, and when you opened your eyes, he was watching you.

Like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. You almost came on the spot.

“You feel—” he started, but the words broke apart, swallowed by a groan when you clenched around him. His hips stuttered, just for a second, and the control he'd been holding so carefully started to slip.

You reached up, cupped his face, felt the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your palm, the way his lips parted when you pulled him down for a kiss.

Clark moaned into your mouth, and then he was moving faster, harder, driving into you with a purpose that made the headboard knock against the wall and your vision go hazy at the edges.

You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies finding a perfect rhythm. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip to the space between your legs, his thumb finding the spot that made you cry out, and the sound seemed to undo something in him.

“That's it,” he breathed, voice ragged. “There she is,”

You bit your lip, tried to muffle the sounds climbing up your throat, but he pulled your bottom lip free with his thumb, shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Don't. I want to hear you.”

And maybe it was the way he said it, soft and commanding all at once. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or maybe it was just that you'd been wanting this, wanting him for so long that had you finally coming undone.

The sound that came out of you was raw, unfiltered, and it seemed to unleash something in him too. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard, hips driving into you with a urgency that built and built until the world narrowed to just the slide of skin, the press of his mouth against your throat, the way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

You came first, the orgasm crashing through you without warning, your body clenching around him, your hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only solid thing in the world.

He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck, a low groan vibrating against your skin as he shuddered through it, spilling into you with a desperation that made your chest ache.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

His weight pressed you into the mattress, warm and solid and real. His breathing was still uneven, matching yours, and you could feel his heartbeat against your chest, fast and hard, slowing gradually into something steadier.

You stared at the ceiling, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his back, and tried not to think.

That was the first time.

And the weeks that followed after that were a blur of the best and most confusing moments of your life. 

Clark came to your apartment more nights than he didn't. He left clothes in your closet, a toothbrush in your bathroom, a copy of the Daily Planet on your coffee table with his byline circled in red pen. He cooked breakfast on weekends, pancakes from a recipe his Ma had taught him and you'd sit on the counter watching him, legs swinging, feeling like maybe, finally, you'd landed somewhere safe.

With him, with Clark.

But there were cracks in it. Things you noticed and smoothed over because looking too closely meant seeing what was underneath.

Clark never stayed the whole night. He'd kiss your forehead at 5 AM, murmur something about a deadline or early shift, and slip out before the sun fully rose.

He never took you out on ‘real dates,’ never brought you to his fancy work events, never invited you to meet the friends he sometimes mentioned. You only ever saw Clark when you were at work or when he was in your bed.

He called you at odd hours, too, his voice tight and distracted, asking if you were alone, if he could come over, if you needed anything from the store on his way. And he usually brought it, no questions asked.

Clark never brought you flowers though.

It was a random observation you made one day.

And maybe you were reading too much into it, but he did get his other girlfriend flowers when he was trying to get her to be his officially. And you literally worked at a flower shop, so of course he knew that you liked them. And you knew for a fact that he knew what your favorite flowers were too with how much you mentioned them.

So why hadn’t he bought you any? Why wasn’t he trying to make you his girl, officially? What was this arrangement you had gotten yourself into?

A part of you knew why. Deep down at least. You told yourself it was fine anyways. Clark was a person. He'd needed to take things slow, you convinced yourself.

Two months of this passed. 

Two months of his body tangled with yours, his voice in your ear, his heart—you thought—slowly opening to you.

But you never asked where he went when he left your bed at dawn. You never asked why his phone screen faced down when he set it on your nightstand. You never asked about her. The girlfriend who had once been the reason for every flower purchase, whose name you hadn't heard in so long you'd convinced yourself she'd been a ghost this whole time.

You took what you could get. And you told yourself that was enough.

Month three of this confusing situationship arrived sooner than you expected.

Clark had texted earlier saying he'd come by after work, that he had something he wanted to talk about. You'd spent the afternoon cleaning, changing the sheets, arranging a bouquet for your living room table, even cooking a light meal.

He showed up later than usual. His hair was a mess, his tie loose, and there was a tightness around his eyes that you'd learned to recognize as stress.

You kissed him hello. He kissed you back, but his mouth was distracted.

“What's going on?” you asked, leading him to the couch. “You said you wanted to talk.”

He sat down heavily, running both hands through his hair. For a long moment, he just stared at your table, the flowers you'd arranged, at the newspaper with his article on page four, at the small stack of mail you had out.

“I should have told you sooner,” he said finally. “I've been… I've been a coward.”

The word landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water. Rippling. Spreading.

“Clark.”

He looked at you then, and there was something in his expression you'd never seen before. Not guilt. Something deeper. Shame.

“Remember when we first met? The flowers I bought?”

You nodded slowly, though your throat had started to tighten and your hands were getting sweaty.

“They were for my girlfriend. I told you that. You knew that,” He paused. “Well, she's still my girlfriend.”

The words didn't make sense at first. They bounced off your brain like stones off glass, refusing to penetrate.

“What?”

“She's been abroad. For work. In London. She was supposed to come back earlier but it kept getting extended, and I—” He broke off, jaw working. “I didn't mean for this to happen. Any of it. I just kept telling myself it was temporary. That when she came back, I'd… but I couldn't. I couldn't stop coming to you.”

Your hands were cold. Your whole body was cold, like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter and let all the heat out.

“She's coming back,” you said. Not a question.

“Next week.”

You stared at him. At this man you'd given a year of your life to, who'd slept in your bed, cooked you pancakes, kissed you like you were the only woman in the world.

He was in a temporary long distance relationship the whole time.

“Next week,” you repeated, and your voice sounded strange, even to yourself. Distant. Like it was coming from somewhere outside your body.

“I'm so sorry.” He reached for your hand. You let him take it, numb, watching his fingers wrap around yours. “I should have told you. I should have been honest from the start. I just— I didn't want to lose you.”

You pulled your hand back. Gently, maybe too gently, because he looked almost relieved, like he thought this was going to be easier than he'd braced for.

“I need you to leave,” you said.

“Please, just let me explain—”

“You just did.” You stood up, arms wrapped around yourself, suddenly desperate to be alone. “You explained. She's coming back. You're her boyfriend. I'm— I don't know what I am. But I need you to leave so I can figure that out.”

He stood too, towering over you, and for a moment you thought he might argue. Instead, his face crumpled. “I care about you,” he said, low and rough. “That's not nothing. What we have—”

“What do we have, Clark?” Your voice cracked. “What exactly would you call it?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. And somehow that was worse than anything he could have said.

When the door closed behind him, you stood in the middle of your apartment for a long time, not moving, not crying, just… waiting. For what, you didn't know. For the numbness to wear off. For the anger to come. For some version of yourself to emerge who knew what to do with the wreckage he'd left behind.

But nothing happened. At least not until 3 AM, when you were curled on your bathroom floor, the cold tile pressing against your cheek, and you couldn't remember exactly how you'd gotten there. The sobs came in waves, ugly and animal, tearing out of you with a force that left you gasping.

You thought about every time you'd told yourself it was fine. Every time you'd ignored the voice in your head that said ask, ask, ask. Every piece of yourself you'd handed over without ever once asking for the truth.

You were the other woman. 

You had been for months. And before that, you'd been something worse—a friend who'd let herself fall in love with someone else's boyfriend.

The worst part, you realized as the sobs finally quieted, was that you'd known. Some part of you had always known. And you'd chosen this anyway.

You were an awful person.

You didn't text him. Didn't call. For three days, you went to work, came home, stared at the ceiling, and tried to remember who you were before Clark Kent walked into your shop with his crooked smile and his impossible eyes.

On the fourth day, he showed up.

The bell above the door chimed and there he was, looking wrecked in a way that made something vicious and satisfied curl in your chest. Dark circles under his eyes. Unshaven. His shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it.

“I know you don't want to see me,” he said before you could speak. “I just needed to—” He stopped, swallowed. “I needed to see if you were okay.”

You should have been angry. You were angry, somewhere deep down. And you hated Clark, without a doubt.

But you hated yourself even more. Because whatever guilt and shame he felt, you felt it too, probably even more than him. And yet, looking at him now, standing in your doorway like a man coming home to a house that wasn't his anymore, you felt something else too. Something that had been there since the first moment you saw him, stubborn and so, so stupid and apparently indestructible.

“I'm okay,” you said. It wasn't entirely a lie. You had started to believe it anyway.

He exhaled, a shaky release of breath. “I'm so sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” You did. You'd always known he meant it, and somehow that made it worse. A man who didn't care would have been easier to hate. “She's back?”

Clark nodded slowly. “She got in yesterday.”

You waited for the sharp edge of that, the jealousy or grief or fury. Instead, you just felt tired. Hollowed out, maybe.

“Clark.” You stepped out from behind the counter, closing the distance between you. “I'm not going to pretend it's okay. What you did, what we did, for months, that wasn't fair to anyone. Her, me, you.”

He flinched. “I know.”

“But I also know,” you continued, and the words came easier than you thought they would, like they'd been waiting in your chest for days, arranging themselves into something true, “that I don't want to lose you either.”

His head snapped up.

“Not like that.” You held up a hand before he could move toward you. “Not— not that. I can't do that. You have a girlfriend. I can't be the person you come to when you're not with her. I can't.”

“Then what?” His voice cracked. “What are you saying?”

You took a breath. “I'm saying I want you in my life. As my friend. The way we were before. Before the—” You gestured vaguely, unable to say it out loud. “I miss that. I miss you. And I think maybe you miss that too.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Grief, maybe. Or relief. It was hard to tell. You were giving him a way in, a way to keep each other in your lives.

“I miss it,” he said quietly, taking his chance. “I miss you.”

“Then be my friend, Clark.” You stepped back, putting distance between you, giving the words room to breathe. “Be honest with me. Tell me about your day. Bring me coffee. Sit on my counter while I arrange flowers. But don't—” Your voice caught, just for a second. “Don't come to my bed. Don't kiss me. Don't make me complicit in something I can't live with.”

He was quiet for a long time. The bell above the door was silent. The whole street seemed to hold its breath.

“Okay,” he said finally. The word was heavy, weighted with everything he was giving up, but underneath it, something else. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope. “Okay.”

Unfortunately for everyone, that didn’t last long. 

Six months had passed since that conversation.

Clark still came to the shop most days, coffee in hand, and sat on his stool behind the counter. He mentioned her sometimes—Lois, her name was Lois—in ways that were careful and deliberate, never hiding her but never lingering on her either.

You listened. You laughed at his jokes, teased him about his tendency to disappear mid-conversation when he got a call from work, watched him eat the sandwiches you guys would get when he forgot lunch again.

It hurt, sometimes. 

When he'd glance at his phone and smile at a text you knew wasn't from you. When he'd leave a little early because he had dinner plans. When you'd catch yourself wondering what it would be like if things had been different.

But mostly, it was good. Better than you'd expected. Because you'd meant what you said. 

You missed him. And having him as a friend, flawed and complicated and yours in a way that didn't require you to be someone's secret, was better than not having him at all.

One afternoon in early autumn, Clark came in later than usual. The light was golden, slanting through the windows and setting the flower displays ablaze with color. He looked tired but happy, his tie undone, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

“You're late,” you said, not looking up from the arrangement you were working on.

“I know. Busy day.” He slid onto his stool, watching your hands move through the stems. “How was yours?”

“Good. Got a new shipment of peonies. They're beautiful.” You paused, something occurring to you. “Wait, weren't you supposed to be at some award ceremony tonight? You mentioned it last week.”

He shrugged, but there was a softness around his mouth that made you look closer. “I didn't go.”

“Why not?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Lois won. Some big journalism award. She wanted me there, but I…” He trailed off, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. “I wanted to be here.”

Your hands stilled. The flowers hung between you, half-arranged, the stems dripping water onto the counter.

“Clark.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. We said— I'm not asking for anything. I just…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You're my friend. You're my best friend, actually. And I didn't want to spend tonight pretending I wasn't thinking about you.”

Your heart, that stubborn, stupid thing, clenched in your chest again.

“You shouldn't say things like that,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“You have a girlfriend.”

“I know.”

“And I'm not—” You stopped, swallowed. “I can't be that person again.”

“I'm not asking you to.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and when he looked at you, there was nothing in his expression but honesty. “I'm just telling you the truth. Because you asked me to be honest with you. And the truth is, I think about you all the time. I come here every day because I want to be where you are. And I know that's not fair. I know I don't have the right to feel this way. But I can't stop.”

You stared at him. At this impossible, infuriating, wonderful man who had walked into your life and never really left.

“You're an idiot,” you said finally.

He laughed, surprised. “What?”

“You're an idiot, Clark Kent.” You set down the flowers, wiping your hands on your apron. “You have a girlfriend who won some big journalism award, who's probably incredible, who's been with you for years. And you're here. Telling me you think about me all the time.” You shook your head, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just love, stubborn and foolish. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. “I don't know.”

“Me neither.”

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but present nonetheless. The way silence could be when two people knew each other well enough not to fill it with noise.

His eyes flickered down to your mouth.

“I know,” he said again, finally breaking the silence, and his voice had gone low, rough, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I know I shouldn't be here. I know I don't get to do this. I know I'm not— I'm not asking for anything. I just—”

He stopped. His hands were at his sides, clenched into fists, like he was physically holding himself back as his body got closer to yours.

You should have stepped away. Should have put the counter between you, should have told him to leave, should have been the person you kept telling yourself and him you wanted to be.

Instead, you set the peonies down.

Clark exhaled, shaky. Taking that motion as a sign to keep going. “Every time I'm with her, I'm thinking about coming here. Because I lied to myself for months that I could be your friend and just— just be only your friend, and I can't. I can't.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

“You said you weren't asking for anything.”

“I'm not.” He stepped even closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him, smell that clean soap and delicious cologne. “I'm not asking. I'm just— I'm telling you. Because I promised I'd be honest. And I can't keep showing up here pretending I don't want to—”

He didn't finish. Couldn't. Because you'd already closed the distance.

The kiss was nothing like the first one.

That one had been softer, more tentative. This one was desperate. Messy. Full of pent up desire. His hands came up to your face, cupping your jaw like you were something precious, something he was terrified of breaking, and then his fingers slid into your hair and he was pulling you closer, closer, until your back hit the counter and there was no space left between you.

He kissed like a man starving. Like he'd been holding himself back for months and the dam had finally cracked. His mouth was hot and insistent, slanting over yours, and when you gasped against his lips, he made a sound, low, broken, that sent heat straight through your chest.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him down, pulling him in, and he came willingly, one hand sliding down to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he was trying to make up for every moment for the past months he'd spent pretending he didn't want this.

You broke apart for air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.

“Clark,” you whispered, and his name tasted different now. Heavier. More dangerous.

“I know,” he said, and his voice was wrecked. “I know.”

But he didn't stop. He kissed you again, softer this time. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. He was memorizing you. Committing you to memory.

“I can't—” you started, but the words died when his lips found the spot just below your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin. “Tell me to go. I will. If that's what you want, I'll go.”

You closed your eyes. Your hands were still tangled in his shirt, holding him there, holding him close.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you.

You looked at him. At this man who had walked into your shop with a crooked smile and an impossible request, who had spent a year becoming your friend, your confidant, your everything, who had held you and kissed you and then told you he belonged to someone else.

You should want him to go.

“No,” you said.

Something in his expression shifted. Cracked open. And then he was kissing you again, and you were kissing him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind a voice was screaming that this was wrong, that you'd made a promise, that she was waiting for him somewhere and he was here, with you, hands shaking as they pressed against your skin.

But the voice was quiet. Smaller than it should have been. And when he lifted you onto the counter and stepped between your legs, you let him. When he pulled back, breathing hard, pupils blown wide, you pulled him back in.

“I can't be your friend,” he said against your lips. “I tried. I tried so hard.”

“I know.”

“This isn't— I'm not asking you to be okay with this. I'm not asking you to be something you're not. I'm just—” He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “I'm not strong enough to stay away from you. I've tried. And I keep coming back. I keep— I can't—”

You kissed him quietly. Because you understood. Because you'd been telling yourself for months that you could be his friend, that you could watch him leave early for dinner with her, that you could smile when his phone lit up with her name. And you'd been lying.

“I know,” you said. “I know.”

He kissed you again, savoring something he knew he shouldn't have. His hands slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks you'd find later, and you let him, because you wanted the proof. You wanted to know this was real.

“Stay,” you said, and it wasn't a question.

Clark looked at you for a long moment. There was something in his eyes, that shame, maybe, or the ghost of it, buried under something he didn't have a name for.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Okay.”

You closed the shop that night earlier than you should’ve.

You didn't think about the fact that he was supposed to be somewhere else, with someone else, that he'd chosen to come here instead. And you definitely didn't think about how this wouldn't be the last time.

Instead, you let him lead you upstairs, let him press you against the door of your apartment the second it closed behind you, let him kiss you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

And when Clark pulled back, just for a second, to look at you, hair mussed, chest heaving, you saw something in his expression that you'd been waiting for since the first moment he walked into your shop.

Not love. You weren't sure he was capable of giving you that, not the way you wanted it, not with her still in the picture.

But want. Desperate, undeniable want. 

It wasn't enough. You knew it wasn't enough. But you took it anyway.

Because you were an awful person, and you knew this for two reasons.

One, because you were 100% sure that you were the other woman.