#reporter!reader

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.”

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 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.

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2010

It was the last race of the season and you were nervous, especially for Sebastian. It was down to Fernando, Mark, Sebastian and Lewis, one of them was going to be them champion. It was your job to cover the race and conduct interviews before and after so this gave you a chance to speak with Sebastian and wish him luck. The media didn’t know about your relationship that had just become official a month ago.

Sebastian had asked you out before the Japanese Grand Prix. That day, you decided to make a deal with him. If he won, you would go to dinner with him. After 53 laps, Sebastian secured a win and a date with you.

While you finished up your interview with Lewis, Sebastian stood patiently to the side. He kept his eye on you, staring at how you talked with such confidence and passion. He loved how expressive you were, sometimes talking with your hands. After letting Lewis go so he could prepare for the race, it was Sebastian’s turn. He happily joined you.

“Hello Sebastian, how are you?” You asked, knowing already how he felt, but you had to do your job. The night before, you stayed in Sebastian’s room, that’s when he told you how nervous he was feeling.

“Good, excited, happy.” He replied, smiling at you.

“Well I won’t keep you here for very long—”

“Why not? I enjoy talking to you.” Sebastian interrupted. His smirk was making you weak and all you wanted was to drag him into a room and let him have his way with you, but you couldn’t at least not now.

Several questions later, Sebastian was still giving you that look making it hard for you to concentrate. It was the same look he gave you the night before when you and him were in his hotel room ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Alright, good luck Seb . . astian, sebastian sorry.” You apologized.

All Sebastian did was laugh at your mistake. Since nobody apart from Mark knew about your relationship, you couldn’t call him Seb. He nodded then mumbled an ‘I love you’ and left. You really hoped nobody could read his lips since you were still live.

You understood that Sebastian needed to concentrate before the race so you didn’t bother him. Soon, the race had started, almost instantly on lap 1, a crash happened. After the race restarted, you watched Sebastian keep his p1 position. When it came to the final lap, everyone was silent in the Red Bull garage where you were watching the race from. Sebastian crossed the finish line, but you still had to wait for the other four cars.

Lewis came in second then came Jenson. After confirming, it was clear that Sebastian had become world champion.

You and the team members of Red Bull made it to the podium ceremony. The German national anthem played as Sebastian soaked in the moment. He had made history by becoming the youngest world champion. After the national anthem finished, he tried to look for you in the crowd. When he finally did, he winked at you. Again, he was making you feel all sorts of emotions.

After the podium celebrations and posing for photos, the three drivers had to do threat post race interviews. You were in charge of being the first to interview the new world champion.

In the media pen, Sebastian spotted you getting ready for your interview. When you were done, he walked up to you with the biggest smile on his face.

“Congratulations Sebastian. How was it up there on the podium?” You asked.

“It was a dream, but now it’s reality.” Sebastian replied. “I just wanna thank all the people that supported me and you of course, you’ve been there for me.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. Was Sebastian about to reveal your relationship?

“Well congratulations again, go celebrate this historic win—” Before you could finish your sentence, Sebastian placed both of his hands on your cheeks and brought you closer to him, placing a kiss on your lips. You could taste the champagne that had been poured of him by Jenson and Lewis. From the distance, Jenson cheered, making everyone turn their attention towards you and Sebastian.

Sebastian didn’t care that you were still live. All he wanted was to celebrate with his girlfriend. “I love you.” He mumbled against your lips. When he finally pulled away, he licked his lips. “Cherry, my favorite.” He smirked.

“You’re the worst.” You laughed. “I love you too, champ. Go, I’ll see you soon.” You practically had to push him away from you so you could continue with more interviews.

“I’ll wait for you!” He yelled as he walked away.

Then Jenson made his way to you since you were going to interview him next. “Do I get one as well?” He teased.

Of course you and Sebastian celebrated, how could you not? He had made history. After the famous kiss, you were sure that you were going to get fired, but nothing ever happened. You did get a warning to not do it again, which Sebastian reminded the FIA that it was his idea not yours resulting in him getting a warning too.

Over the years, you were there when Sebastian won, when he lost, when he moved to Ferrari. You comforted him when he realized he would never win a championship with Ferrari.

During the summer break of the 2019 season, you and Sebastian decided to get married. It was an intimate wedding with only close friends and family attending. The night of your wedding, Sebastian promised you that he would take you anywhere for a while so you could spend your honeymoon. Of course being an F1 driver and a reporter, it didn’t go as planned as a global pandemic hit. You assured Sebastian that you weren’t mad, you had traveled almost everywhere with him anyway.

After the 2020 season ended, Sebastian was now with Aston Martin. He had only secured one podium finish with the team, but you were still more than happy for him.

One day after media day had finished for the 2021 French Grand Prix, you and Sebastian were in the Aston Martin motorhome having lunch. You were talking about a new piece of furniture you wanted when your phone vibrated. You checked it and saw a picture of your friend’s baby that she had sent you.

“Look, remember my friend Jane? That’s her baby girl, aw she’s so adorable.” You showed Sebastian a picture of the baby. “I need to tell her to stop sending pictures or I might get baby fever.”

“It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, right?” Sebastian asked. “We’ve been together for eleven years, married for two.“

“I did always dream of being a mother. It would be fun to play dress up with our daughter or play with your toy cars with our son. Can you imagine that? They would call me mom . . holy shit.”

Sebastian thought about it. He was in his mid thirties, he already won four titles, that was enough for him.

“I guess this plays into what I’m about to talk to you next. . . I didn’t renew a contract for 2023 with sky sports.” You said.

“Are you going somewhere else?” He questioned.

“No, I didn’t sign anything with anyone. I just thought that it’s time for me to step back. Give someone younger their moment.” You replied. You made the decision a while ago even before the 2021 season started.

“But you love your job.”

“I can’t stay here forever, Seb.”

All day Sebastian had thought about your words. He couldn’t stay in formula 1 forever either. The younger generation had to have a go too.

At the end of the 2021 season, Sebastian had told you the news that he would be retiring at the end of the next season like you. You were sure him retiring was the result of your conversation, but he assured you that even before that he had considered retirement.

“So when are you going to announce it?” You asked.

“Soon. I want to enjoy winter break with you first.”

You and Sebastian spent the holidays in your home in Switzerland surrounded by family and friends. You weren’t even sure how it happened since you and Sebastian spent most of your time at home, but both of you ended up testing positive for covid. You assumed you contracted the virus when you went out for groceries.

The 2022 season had started and you and your husband were stuck at home quarantining. It wasn’t bad, it was just a normal day except you had medicine and empty tissue boxes scattered around the floor.

“Do you need another blanket, liebe?” Sebastian asked you. He touched your forehead feeling it not as hot as before.

You two were in your bedroom watching the Bahrain Grand Prix. You didn’t expect this to be the start of your last season, but at least you were with Sebastian.

“I’m okay, I’m thirsty though.” You sat up as Sebastian walked to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. Once he returned, he saw how sad you looked as you watch the race.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to miss it, but I’m happy that I get to be home with you.” You smiled weakly at him.

“We can visit whenever we want, liebe, and then one day we can visit with the kids.” Sebastian replied. “Here, drink.” He handed you the glass of water.

Soon enough, you and Sebastian were good to return back to the paddock. You felt refreshed and ready to officially start the season. You did your interviews, greeted your colleagues and then made your way to the Aston Martin garage where you were going to watch the race.

By lap 24, Sebastian was out. It broke your heart to see it, it was his first race back and he didn’t get a chance to finish it. He arrived back to the garage in a Marshall’s scooter making it a funny moment despite his dnf. He looked for you first.

“Are you okay?” You asked, running your hand through his messy hair.

“Good.” Was all that he said.

After doing some post race interviews, Sebastian waited for you in the Aston Martin motorhome. When you arrived, you noticed a plate of fruit and berries on the table. “I figured you didn’t get a break all day so eat. I made sure to get plenty of pineapple and strawberries.” He moved the plate closer to you.

“Thanks, it wasn’t that stressful today. Hopefully the next race is better for us.” You said once you sat down and started to eat the fruit. “No cherries today?”

“You and your cherries. Not today, liebe.” Sebastian grabbed a strawberry from the plate.

Eventually it was time to announce to the world of motorsports and media that Sebastian and you were retiring. You announced it first with a lengthy post on instagram with pictures of when you first started to now, you even posted the famous kiss that Sebastian gave you in 2010.

You received lots of comments and messages from family, friends and colleagues. It was nice to feel loved by them. The next day, it was Sebastian’s turn to announce his retirement. It started with him making an Instagram account then posting a video.

“I hereby announce my retirement from formula one by the end of the 2022 season.”

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2022

You felt a giant wave of deja vu. Here you were back in Abu Dhabi only this time it would be the official last Grand Prix for you and Sebastian. You would still visit like Sebastian mentioned, but it wouldn’t feel the same.

You walked into the paddock with Sebastian holding your hand. You were greeted by photographers, fans that wanted to get pictures with Sebastian and several members of other teams that wanted to congratulate you and your husband on retirement.

First you went to the Aston Martin motorhome again since you were a bit tired. You sat at a table in the corner. For a couple of weeks now, you were keeping a secret from Sebastian. Your friend, Jane, was the only one who knew since she had gone through a similar experience.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sebastian asked as he noticed the tired look on you. “Want something to eat?”

“No I’m okay, I promise. It’s still too early for me to function I guess.” You dismissed it. “I’ll catch up with you later, I’m sure you have lots of people waiting for you.”

“They can wait. If you need me here then I’m staying, end of discussion.” He was about to sit down next to you, but you stopped him.

“Seb, no. I mean it, I am fine. Go.” You demanded.

Before he left, Sebastian placed a kiss on your lips. When he pulled away, he frowned. “Is that coconut? I thought you were going to wear the cherry one.”

“Change of plans.” You smiled. “Go, the team needs you.”

“Be careful, I’ll see you later.” He placed one more kiss on your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You reply as you watch Sebastian walk out. “I can just imagine how protective he’s going to be about you, baby.” You spoke to yourself as you looked down to your stomach.

You found out you were pregnant when Jane was visiting you in Switzerland. You had gone out to eat for brunch at a nice little restaurant. Immediately after arriving, the smell of eggs made you run to the nearest bathroom and vomit in the toilet. Jane had ran after you making sure you were okay.

“Fuck . . It’s the smell.” You confirmed.

“Babe, when was the last time you had your period?”

Jane’s question made you think back to your vacation with Sebastian a couple months ago. You and Sebastian couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

After taking a pregnancy test, it was confirmed that you were pregnant. You called your doctor to schedule an appointment. Sebastian wasn’t home so you didn’t have to worry about him walking in on you holding a pregnancy test. You weren’t sure how you were going to tell him, but you knew that he would be the happiest man on earth.

You were assigned to interview Sebastian immediately after the race while on the track. You were told that it would be a special moment for you two seeing as you were both leaving. Apparently Sebastian didn’t know this so that was another secret kept from him.

Sebastian stood beside you as he got ready. You held his helmet, your name printed on the side in a small font. “Remember when I won back in 2010?”

“No, remind me again?” You joked. “Of course I do. It was the night you kissed me in front of thousands of people on live tv.”

“It would be a shame if we didn’t recreate that.” He teased. “You know . . . for historical reasons.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble on my last day.”

“You’re no fun.” Seb rolled his eyes playfully. “Kiss for good luck?”

You then kissed the top of his helmet and shoved it in his hands. “Good luck.” You were about to leave, but Sebastian grabbed your hand and brought you back to him. “Fine.” You kissed him as if your life depended on it.

“I was hoping you changed your lipgloss to cherry.” Mumbled Sebastian after pulling away from you.

“You’ll live.” You gave him a chaste kiss then waited for him to put his balaclava. “I love you and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Soon, the race was starting. Sebastian had started from P9. It was an exciting and emotional race for you and Sebastian. You didn’t want it to end, but you knew that Sebastian’s time in f1 was over.

By the end of the 58 laps, Sebastian had scored his last point in formula 1. You were content with the result even if he only scored one point. You were then directed to the track with a camera man and microphone in hand. As Sebastian did donuts on the track, you took your phone out to record his last moments. When he finished, you put away your phone. You didn’t even notice you were crying until a marshal gave you a tissue.

You thanked him and cleaned up as Sebastian made his way out the car to wave at the fans. Eventually Sebastian made his way towards you without his helmet and his racing suit hanging from his waist. You couldn’t start the interview without hugging him first so that’s what you did. Like in 2010, the camera filmed you and Sebastian as you embraced. You could hear the crowd cheering.

“You did so well. You made me cry.” You mumbled as Sebastian kissed your temple.

“You look pretty when you cry.” He let go of you since you needed to start the interview. He fixed your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear.

“Sebastian, wow, first off congratulations on your incredible career.” You began.

“I don’t know what to say. I feel a bit empty to be honest, it’s been a big weekend.” He looked at the crowd who were sad to see him go. He gave a speech that made you cry even more, which you blamed on the hormones. “I can say that you were always with me in the bad times and good times. Thank you for sticking with me.”

“Always.” You said, completely forgetting you were holding the microphone so the whole audience heard you.

Sebastian then thanked the fans for the messages and support he’s been receiving. It only made you want to cry even more so thankfully your interview was coming to an end.

“Congratulations, Seb. You deserve it.” You said and with that you and your husband hugged once more. “You’re coming home.” You sighed.

“You don’t sound too happy.” He teased.

“I am, trust me. That means you can help move some stuff around and redecorate the guest room.” You let go of Sebastian, but you still held his hand.

“Why would we need to redecorate the guest room?” He questioned.

“Because that’s our baby’s room.”

“Our baby? Really? You mean it?” His lips turned into a smile that he couldn’t wipe off. “When did you find out?”

“Weeks ago. I’m letting you know right now that if you ever make eggs around me, I will vomit so let’s not do that.” You laughed as Seb brought you in for a kiss.

Again, Jenson was cheering in the background like he did in 2010.

It’s a late Tuesday morning, and the bell above the door gives a lazy jingle when someone strolls in, but Dean’s too distracted to look up, his thumb tracing a crack in the salt shaker, only half-hearing Cassie across from him. She’s talking about San Francisco – her job at the Chronicle, the new apartment, and all that big city stuff. 

He’s trying to listen. Really, he is. But his mind keeps wandering around, skipping thoughts like a broken record. Sam’s leaving for Stanford in two weeks, and his own move to Los Angeles and the start of fire academy are just around the corner, too. It’s blessed him with quite a few sleepless nights so far. 

Is it too late to back the fuck out?

Cassie’s talking about Bay Area traffic now and how the fog will probably grow on her when a laugh outside filters through the glass – bubbly, unguarded, and intoxicating. His eyes slip past Cassie’s shoulder to the sidewalk and spot none other than you.  

Dean feels it – the match strike. It’s sharp, hot, and instant. 

Jo and Charlie are with you, sauntering down Main with iced coffee cups in hand and laughing like the summer belongs to the three of you, not a clue yet how heavy the world can truly get. The sunlight is causing your hair to glow and reflecting off your dark shades, your yellow summer dress swinging around your tanned legs with every chipper step. 

“Earth to Dean,” Cassie’s voice chimes in sing-song, and he realizes too late that he’s been caught staring and blinks out of his trance. 

He jerks his eyes back and clears his throat. “Huh?”

Cassie only smiles knowingly and takes a sip of her coffee. “You could at least pretend you’re listening.”

“I am listening,” Dean defends weakly and hopes she doesn’t test him on it because he didn’t register a single word in the last five minutes. 

“Mm-hm.” Cassie smirks, stealing a glance at the street over her shoulder. Then she leans back in the booth, tilting her head toward the window. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

His eyes widen for a second, but he quickly composes himself. Then he purses his lips, head shaking. “Who?”

Cassie shoots him a look, not angry but amused. “Dean, don’t even try.” She laughs a little and leans forward, putting her elbows on the table and watching him closely. “You’ve had your eyes glued to her since the bonfire. I’m a journalist, Dean. It would be sad if I didn’t notice these things. You were practically staring at her like she was the last piece of pie on Thanksgiving.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he scoffs defensively and scowls into his mug, feeling his heart rate accelerate and sweat accumulate in the back of his neck. 

Shit. 

Dean can’t lie and say you haven’t crossed his mind from time to time this summer. It’s not constant. It doesn’t ache. But he caught himself wondering on occasion where you were and what you were up to – wondering if he’ll ever see you again. 

He hasn’t seen your face around town since the bonfire and has only overhead snippets about your mythological existence from Sam’s phone conversations. Apparently, you were traveling with Jo and Charlie and doing an internship somewhere, but that’s all he knows. 

And Dean’s tried his damn hardest to forget you, but every once in a while, you pop up in his mind anyway.

Now, you’re just outside, laughing with your head tipped back, and it almost feels like a dream. 

Cassie’s brow raises, her chuckle dragging him back to reality. “You’re about as subtle as a brick wall, Winchester. Don’t tell me your pool’s already widening to the fresh high school graduates.”

Dean almost chokes on his coffee and does a full spit-take. “What?! No! Jesus, Cass! And maybe don’t say shit like that in a public place,” he scrambles for any excuse that doesn’t make him sound like a goddamn perv, flailing his arms around the chipped interior and the two guests in the corner booth. “I’m not–… She’s–… She’s Sam’s friend. She’s just a kid, okay?” 

Cassie snorts a laugh. “Relax, Dean. She’s eighteen and going off to college in a week. I doubt you’d go to jail for liking her. And I know you like to think of yourself as already washed up at twenty-two, but you’re barely past legal drinking age yourself,” she points out. “Look, I mentored her, so I actually know her pretty well. She’s cute, smart, funny, and she’s got more spark in her pinky than this entire town combined. Way out of your league. I get why you’re looking.”

Dean shrugs his shoulders, uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze. He’s trying to pick his words carefully, hyper-aware of their little summer fling arrangement. Sure, they dated on and off way back in high school, haven’t seen each other in four years, and then decided to have a little casual fun when Cassie came back to town this summer. It’s a convenient business deal, but he knows better than to test his luck. 

He cocks his brow suspiciously and takes a sip from his cup. “What’re you trying to pull here, Cassie? Is this a trap? I mean, what’re you getting at, huh?” 

Cassie studies him for a beat, then leans in with that knowing look he used to hate when they were dating. “Not everything’s a setup, Dean. Sometimes people just want you to be happy. You ever think about that?”

The words land heavier than he expects, but he masks the sting in his ribcage with a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Happy. Yeah, right… And what? You’re volunteering to be my wing woman now?” 

“Stranger things have happened,” she says, smirking. Then she gives a subtle shrug of one shoulder, her expression softening. “For the record, I think you two would actually make a great couple. She’d be good for you. Get you out of your shell a little. You need that.”

Dean frowns, muttering into his cup, “I ain’t a turtle.”

“I was more thinking of a crab.”

“Funny,” he huffs, rolling his eyes back as Cassie grins. “So, what? You running interference for me now? Didn’t think ex-girlfriends did that.”

“Dean, c’mon…” Cassie shoots him a raised look, smiling. “We had our fun, but we both knew we weren’t forever. We were at each other’s throat all the time.”

“Were not,” he scoffs under his breath. 

“You drove me nuts,” she emphasizes. 

“Fine. Maybe that’s a little true,” he admits, subdued. He leans back in the booth and crosses his arms, studying her. 

In high school, he once thought she was the one. Then they’d get into a fight, and he’d change his mind before the cycle repeated itself. And yet, he thought all the bickering was part of loving someone. Because the fact that they always made up had to mean something, right? 

But their relationship might as well have been a picked-naked daisy.

Then Cassie broke up with him before she left for college, and he moped around at home for an entire summer. But that ache didn’t last forever, and by fall, he had a stack of female numbers saved in his phone, realizing many could be ‘the one.’ And then, over the last four years, a string of late-night encounters just blurred into one.

Now, he knows he hasn’t fallen stupidly in love again with Cassie in the last few months, and he can tell she clearly hasn’t either. His ego is more hurt than anything else, his heart’s perfectly fine, and his dick’s just overjoyed it got some action this summer. 

Still, Dean doesn’t trust the peace. There’s always another shoe dropping, isn’t there?

“Look,” Cassie says and exhales a long sigh, “there’s no harm in me making sure you don’t brood yourself into an early grave before I leave. I know you. You like her.” 

“I barely know her,” Dean scoffs and fiddles with the sugar packets, trying to act like the words aren’t digging under his skin. 

“Then get to know her,” Cassie counters quite simply and smiles that wicked little smile again. “She texted me she’ll be at Ash’s party next weekend. Last big hurrah before we all scatter. I know you weren’t gonna go.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he mutters. 

Ash’s parties are pure chaos, and he doesn’t feel like doing keg stands to prove he’s still “fun.” But the thought of seeing you there lodges itself into his brain like a splinter. 

“Well,” Cassie says, sliding out of the booth and tossing a couple bills on the table for her half, “maybe you should rethink that. Could be your last chance. And don’t overthink too much, or you’ll scare her off. Just… be you – the you that isn’t busy tearing himself down every five minutes.”

Dean sighs as he watches her leave. He hates how much hope her words shoved into his chest.

Ash’s house sits at the edge of town. Obviously, it’s the one with the perpetually broken fence and the garage that doubles as a fucking stage. Blink-182 is blasting loud enough to rattle the cheap siding and shake the sand off the porch steps as Dean parks the Impala by the curb. 

The place is already packed with sweating bodies when he arrives with Sam in tow, his little brother grumbling since the minute Dean suggested coming here tonight as their last big brotherly bonding moment before Sam leaves for Stanford. He couldn’t say no to that, could he? 

So, his little brother involuntarily tagged along. But after the last party at graduation, Sam has apparently hit his fun quota and entered hibernation for the next decade again. 

“Remind me again why I’m here?” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets as bass thumps through the poster-covered walls. “I leave for Stanford in four days, Dean. I could be packing. Or sleeping. Or literally doing anything else.” 

Dean smirks, shoving his car keys into his pocket. “Because, little brother, it’s Winchester tradition. Ash throws a party, we show up, drink his beer, and watch him pass out in his own pool. It’s the circle of life. Consider it the family business.”

“Uh-huh…” Sam scowls, judgmental hazel eyes taking in the drunken and unruly crowd. 

Garth is standing on the couch and yelling over the music, couples are making out on whatever surfaces available, and Gabe is trying to start a beer pong tournament. Glow sticks are scattered on the tables, mixing with red solo cups that double as decoration, and Ash half-assed string lights across the ceiling. 

Benny’s already posted up near the back door, chatting to a group of girls, his accent doing all the work for him. And Cas, predictably, is sitting in a corner with a half-empty cup, cornered by Becky trying to explain astrology and gem stones to him.  

“Why are you even here?” Sam squints at him, the suspicion rising in his eyes. “You hate these things.”

“Relax, Sammy. It’s the end of an era. You gotta celebrate before you turn into one of those annoying college kids who corrects everyone’s grammar,” Dean retorts with an easy grin. 

Sam rolls his eyes, heading toward the tiki-lit backyard, where a kiddie pool doubles as an ice box. Dean’s halfway through his first beer when the crowd at the door suddenly stirs, and he glances up to see you walk in.

Volume down. Slow motion. He forgets to breathe for a heartbeat. 

You arrive with Jo and Charlie, looking like the kind of girl every love song on the radio is secretly about. You’re wearing jeans and an Iron Maiden shirt of all things, and his lips automatically draw a smile, wondering if it’s a coincidence or if you’ve picked it out for him. 

It’s simple, effortless, and still too fucking much. 

There’s nothing loud or overdone about you, just that natural and quiet kind of confidence that makes people look twice. Your skin glows with the tail end of summer, and it surely knocks the wind right out of him. 

Dean then watches you laughing, chatting, and hugging former classmates goodbye. He swallows a sip of beer that goes down the wrong pipe and coughs a little. Jo then starts talking to someone by the stereo, Charlie begins raiding the snacks table, and when you head alone toward the kitchen, Dean pushes off the wall and decides to follow.

Cassie’s words still ring in his ears when he finds you at the keg, wrestling with the tap. “Could be your last chance.” 

So, Dean gathers his courage and casually steps up beside you. “Need a hand?”

Surprised, you glance over your shoulder before recognition flickers in your eyes, and a grin spreads on your lips. “Depends. You know what you’re doing?”

“Sure do,” he says confidently, even when he fakes half of it.

You step aside and let him handle it. His fingers brush yours – warm, featherlight, and completely fucking intentional. You both feel the spark. 

“See,” he says, filling two cups with practiced ease, smooth and sure. He smirks as he hands one to you. “It’s all in the wrist. Gotta sweet-talk it a little first.” 

“Is that so? Didn’t realize beer kegs responded to flirting,” you quip, amused.

“Oh, they do. Just gotta know what to say,” Dean replies, his cheeks hurting from grinning too damn much. 

You arch an eyebrow, playing along. “Yeah? Like what?”

He smirks broadly. “‘Hey there, beautiful. Mind not spraying me in the face?’”

You laugh loudly, head falling back. Dean wants to bottle the fucking sound and take it with him like a souvenir. 

“So,” he starts, confidence flickering a little. “How was your summer? Haven’t seen you much since that bonfire.” 

You take a sip of beer, smiling. “Busy. I was interning at the Santa Lorena Gazette. They had me covering everything from bake sales to surfboard expos. My big scoop was a lost parrot reunited with its owner.” 

“Hard-hitting stuff, huh? But hey, somebody’s gotta keep the people informed,” he says.

“I guess so. My editor was a control freak, but I learned a lot. Plus, I got to cover that weird UFO sighting up by the cliffs, so that was fun,” you say, smiling. “Then I took a little road trip with Jo and Charlie up the coast. Nothing fancy – just beaches, diners, and bad motels, but it was great. Just got back last week.”

Dean chuckles, nodding. “Sounds like a perfect way to spend the summer. Leaving for college soon, right? Still going to SJSU?”

“Yeah, I leave in two days,” you reply, and he pretends your answer doesn’t sting a little. The town’s not the only one losing something precious. “What about you? Fire academy still on track?” 

“Uh, yeah. I leave next week. Academy starts in September,” Dean says, swallowing. He doesn’t want to admit that he already feels homesick before he has even left. 

“That’s awesome. Big deal,” you say, fingers tracing the rim of your cup, your hair falling over your shoulder. “You still nervous?”

“Uh, yeah. A little,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck. “Less about the fire part and more about the academy part, though. I’m not really the rule-following type.”

“That I believe.” You smirk into your cup. “What about Cassie? She’s leaving for San Francisco soon, right? You guys gonna do the long-distance thing then?”

Dean freezes and chokes on his beer a little. “What? No–… No, we’re not–… God, no.” 

You lift an eyebrow, hiding a smile. “Sorry, I just–… At the bonfire, you two looked…”

“Together?” Dean finishes for you, flustered. “Yeah, no, we’re not–… we’re not together. We just–, uh… we hang out sometimes. Like… talk. She’s great – don’t get me wrong, but, uhm… it’s not–… it’s not like that anymore. Nothing romantic. We’re… yeah, friends. Just friends.” 

Dean’s sweating buckets by the time he’s done explaining. You grin a little, trying not to laugh at how badly he’s tripping over himself. 

He exhales a deep breath. “What I’m saying is, I’m… unattached, you know? Solo… Just–, uhm, just in case anyone’s wondering.”

Is this painful for anyone else or just for him? He’s literally waiting for Ash’s sticky linoleum to open up and swallow him whole. 

You snort a small laugh, biting your bottom lip to cover your amusement. “Duly noted. Maybe I should report it on the news. Get the story out.” 

His cheeks flush crimson red, and he roughly clears his throat. “Ha, yeah, funny. Maybe, yeah. But, uhm… I think it’s enough when, you know, one–, uh, one person knows, so…” 

Fucking hell. What the fuck is happening to him? Is this a stroke? 

You probably think this is his first time speaking a human language. But instead of laughing at him, you’re just smiling into your drink, cheeks pink, and when your eyes glance up shyly to meet his, it’s enough to make his fucking pulse jump. 

“So…” Dean says and rubs the sweaty back of his neck again, desperate to shift gears. “You still owe me something, you know?”

Your lips curve with a smile. “Oh, do I?”

“Yeah, did you forget?” he asks mischievously, leaning a little closer. 

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Remind me what I owe you again?”

Dean smiles, his voice dipping a little. “The–, uh, the thing at the bonfire? I think you promised.”

“Ah,” you say slowly and nod, teasing. “The bootleg.”  

“Yeah,” he says, smirking. “The bootleg.”  

You bite your lips, eyes focused on your fingers playing with your half-empty cup. “You really want it that bad?”

His lips twitch with a soft grin. “Can’t stop thinking about it.” 

You hold his gaze with a smile, not backing away even an inch, and the glint in your eyes feels like a dare. His heart is drumming against his ribs like Led Zeppelin’s Moby Dick, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are just leaning closer and closer and closer. His eyes flick down to your plush, inviting lips and–

“Hey!” Jo’s voice cuts through the music and chatter from the back door. “Get your ass out here! Ash’s got Jell-O shots!”

You glance toward your friend, then apologetically back to him, looking genuinely torn. “I guess I should probably–” 

“Yeah, no, go ahead,” Dean says quickly, hiding his disappointment under a smile. “Duty calls.”

You mirror his smile, nodding. “Yeah, uhm, guess I’ll see you around?”

“Count on it,” he says and raises his cup in a lazy salute, watching you disappear into the noise. 

“Huh.” Sam’s voice suddenly chimes behind him, giving him a slight jump scare. 

“Jesus fuck, Sam! Don’t sneak up on a man like that,” Dean huffs, shaking his head, trying to calm John Bonham in his chest. 

“Interesting.” Sam doesn’t even flinch as he strolls closer, only quirking an eyebrow. “You gonna stop pretending now?”

Dean’s brow knits into deep creases, muttering into his beer, “Stop pretending, what?”

“That you’re only here for the free beer,” Sam replies slyly and grins. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about it, Sammy.” 

“Right,” Sam says, amused. “Total coincidence that you spent ten minutes fixing your hair before we left.”

“Shut up,” Dean murmurs and drains the rest of his drink. “Bitch.”

Sam grins annoyingly wide. “Jerk.” 

It’s just another party. Just Ash being Ash. Just friends and bad beer and someone probably climbing the roof to jump into the pool. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you raid your closet for something to wear. 

You change your top twice, maybe three times, still pretending not to care, even when you stand in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to find the right kind of effortless.

Then you finally stumble upon the Iron Maiden shirt you bought at that thrift store on Ocean Avenue at age sixteen. Can you put this on, or is it too obvious that you’re hoping to see Dean Winchester there?

You still go with it, even though you’re not that girl – the one that gets nervous about seeing someone and overthinks her outfits. But Jo always encourages you to be bolder and go for what you want, so you decide to listen to her for once. 

The whole summer, you couldn’t stop thinking about that night at the beach. 

It’s stuck in your head like that Walt Whitman poem. Your father always read that one to you as a kid after your mom left to go “find herself.” It seems like she’s still had no luck since she never came back. 

But that night, you remember the waves crashing softly in front of you, the bonfire burning down to embers behind you, and the comfortable silence between you and Dean. And before you knew it, the space between you had shrunk down to a breath. 

For a heartbeat, you were sure he was going to kiss you. 

But that’s silly, isn’t it? Because Dean Winchester is not some guy. He’s older than you, high school quarterback and this town’s golden boy. And you? You’re just his little brother’s classmate, the freshman reporter. He wouldn’t look at you that way. You probably imagined it, self-fulfilling some weird fantasy of your fifteen-year-old self. 

Hell, you know he didn’t look at you that way. Until the bonfire, the guy barely noticed you were even alive and existed on the same planet as him. 

Still, fifteen-year-old you would be proud you managed to talk to the most popular boy in high school without choking. 

Then there’s Cassie. Of course you think of her. 

Smart, cool, confident. Every girl wanted to be her, and you remember how Dean idolized her in school – so did you. You knew they broke up when Cassie went to college, but judging by their flirty closeness at the bonfire, they were apparently back together. 

The more you think about it, the surer you are that you’re delusional about that almost-kiss. There’s no way he even looked at you like that when he had Cassie. Why would he? He’d be nuts to cheat on her. 

Aside from that, she’s your friend. Your mentor. You wouldn’t betray her like that. In fact, your stomach knots with guilt just thinking about it. She’d probably hate you for eternity, and the whole town would cast you out and ban you from re-entering. It’s like spitting on the Queen of England or the American flag. Might as well do that instead of ramming your tongue down Dean Winchester’s throat. 

And yet, your heart explodes and your brain short-circuits when you spot him at the party. 

Worn leather jacket, dirty blonde hair perfectly mussed like he blow-dried it in the ocean breeze, and shit-eating grin plastered on his plump lips. The soft dust of freckles across his nose and cheeks shimmers golden under Ash’s string lights, and fuck, you want to melt and die right there.

You distract yourself with your friends, with jokes, with saying goodbye to faces you’ve seen almost daily for the past four years, and with the tequila shot Ash offers upon entry as admission. But even after all of that, your pulse is still thudding in your ears. 

God, that fucking smirk. Those hands. It’s goddamn impossible to talk to him without blushing. 

Jo and Charlie scattered somewhere in the crowd, leaving you to your own devices, and you realize you need another drink. Jose Cuervo has done nothing to calm your jittering nerves thus far. 

You need something cold, something to hold, and something to give your trembling hands a purpose, so you slip into the kitchen, but the ridiculous flutter in your chest still stays.

Ash’s garage smells like sweat, sawdust, and spilled beer. Dean’s been at the dart board for over an hour now while the house is slowly thinning out, the party dissolving in the blue hours after midnight. He, Sam, and Benny are half-bantering, half-competing, while Cas methodically tracks scores like it’s a holy ritual. 

Every few seconds, however, Dean’s eyes drift toward the doorway, scanning for a flash of your hair or the sound of your laugh. 

Nothing.

Whenever he caught a glimpse of you tonight, you were gone again, swept up by the party before he could make his way over to you. Eventually, he gave up and retreated to the garage with Benny, Cas, and Sam, fleeing the chaos and noise inside the house. 

Dean’s lining up another throw when he hears movement behind him. He glances over his shoulder and finds Jo and Charlie passing through the garage on their way out. The bubbly redhead is half-leaning on Jo, cheeks flushed and giggling into her hoodie sleeve. 

“You guys heading out?” Sam calls from his seat on the workbench. 

Jo nods, tightening her arm around Charlie. “Yeah, this one’s about to turn into a pumpkin,” she teases, grinning warmly at her friend. “Designated driver duty.” 

Dean’s already tuning them out, half-aiming at the board when your name drops. 

“Have you seen her?” Jo asks Sam, looking around the garage. Dean glances up at that, dart still dangling from his fingers. “I was supposed to give her a ride, but I can’t find her anywhere. She’s still somewhere inside, though. Can you make sure she gets home safe?”

“Yeah, sur–”

“Hey, I’ll do it,” Dean volunteers too fucking fast, cutting his little brother right off mid-sentence. 

Sam’s brow furrows instantly, Benny smiles to himself, Cas frowns, and even Jo’s lips curve into a smirk. Yeah, fuck, he might as well wear a t-shirt that says, “Pick me.”

“I can do it,” he repeats, less enthusiastic, dropping his voice a little into that cool tone that says he doesn’t really care. 

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you can,” Jo says, smirk still perfectly in place. “Thanks, Winchester. Tell her I’m sorry, okay? But this one already puked into the bushes.”

Then the blonde disappears into the night with a wobbly and giggling Charlie in tow, and Dean tosses the dart onto the counter, already hurrying to the door before even meeting his friends’ knowing looks. 

“I’ll take Sam home!” he hears Cas calling after him, but he only gives a thumbs up without looking back. 

As Dean weaves through the house, the pop punk music from the living room has quieted down to lazy indie songs. He dodges stray cups and people giving tearful, drunken goodbyes before something collides with his back. 

“Whoa, hey–” 

He spins, and you fall right into his arms as he catches you. His heart stills for a good minute. 

“Hey,” you say softly, eyes scanning his face as he steadies your wobble, arms tightly wrapped around you.

For one heartbeat, he forgets to breathe again. Heat crawls up his spine and threads through his heart. You fit against him so easily, warm, small, and perfect, and for the briefest second, his gaze drifts to your tempting lips again before he takes note of your glassy eyes. 

His grip loosens a little then, but his hands don’t leave you, sliding to your waist to keep steadying you. “You okay there, sweetheart?”

“I’m good,” you slur and nod confidently, but he’s not convinced. 

He chuckles softly. “Those Jell-O shots took you down, huh?” 

“What? Pff, no,” you scoff, waving him off. Then you squint at him, trying to focus as your brow knits in confusion. “Dean,” you whisper his name like a secret. “Have you seen Charlie and Jo? I was supposed to go home with them.” 

“Uh… they just left,” he tells you, still holding you steady. “Jo had to drive Charlie home. Ash’s shots did both of you dirty.” 

You blink slowly, processing, and then your face falls. “No! They left me?” Your voice breaks, half-whine and half genuine heartbreak. “I was supposed to sleep over at Jo’s! I can’t go home like this–”

“Hey, hey,” Dean says softly, catching your elbow before you topple over. “It’s okay. I can drive you home.”

“No. Mm-mm.” You shake your head vigorously. “I can’t–… I can’t go home. Not like this. You don’t get it. My dad’s–… my dad’s a Marine. He’d like… he kill me,” you explain miserably, fingers curling into his shirt. 

Dean’s mouth twitches, lips pursing. “Yeah, I actually get that. Got one of those at home, too.”

“I know,” you whisper, leaning a little closer on your tiptoes to reach his ear, which almost causes you to fall once more. This time, you manage to catch yourself, though, hands holding onto his shoulders. You giggle into his chest before you manage to glance up at him again. “He and my dad hang out. You know… fishing, drinking beer… stuff dads do.”

Dean’s brows draw together at that. “Wait, hold up,” he says, a laugh breaking through. “Your dad’s Tom?”

“Yup, that’s him.” You nod solemnly and add quite bluntly, “He does not like you.”

Dean snorts, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, no, he doesn’t.”

Well, shit. That complicates things. 

Your father isn’t his biggest fan. Mostly because every time John has him over at the house, Dean keeps making jokes about dating Tom’s daughter and asking about her – just to get a rise out of the guy. Sure, he realized you shared a name, but until now, he hasn’t put two and two together that you’re Tom’s daughter. 

Ironic, isn’t it?

He hopes your dad thinks so, too, but he would probably shoot Dean, and his own father would cheer yours on while he’s aiming the gun. 

You sway on your feet then, almost losing your balance, and he catches you again while he’s still trying to figure out what to do next. He doesn’t want to dump you into one of the bedrooms upstairs and leave you here, but he also knows he can’t just bring you home like this – not in this state. 

“Hey, uhm…” he says finally, his voice careful and hesitant before he clears his throat. “You don’t–, uh… you don’t have to go home like this, alright? You can crash at my place. I mean… if you want. Just for the night.” 

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes like you’re trying to make sure you’ve heard right. “You mean that?” 

“Yeah, I–, uh, I got my own setup in the garage. You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch,” he offers, a nervous smile flickering on his lips. “Promise I’m not trying anything funny.”

“Oh! You’re the best!” Your face breaks into an overwhelmingly grateful beam, arms wrapping around his neck as you hug him. He actually tumbles back a step from the surprising force of it, steadying you both on your feet. 

Dean laughs under his breath then, gently peeling you away from his chest and holding you by the shoulders instead before his hand drifts to the small of your back, guiding you toward the front door. 

“Alright, c’mon,” he says as you grip his arm, leaning into him. He fucking tries not to lose his cool and press you against the next surface right then and there, finally giving himself a taste of your lips. But he also wants to make sure you still remember a kiss like that in the morning, so he locks the thought away. 

“Ooh! Wow,” you gasp, eyes wide as you spot Baby glistening under a streetlamp by the curb. “I get to ride in your car? The car?!”

Dean grins helplessly. “Looks like it.”

“Shit! That’s so cool!” You grip his arm tighter in excitement. “You don’t understand… It’s like–… It’s like a legend. Everyone in school talked about it.”

He chuckles a little, cheeks flushed and flustered. “Think you’re exaggerating a little. You make it sound like a myth,” he says, opening the car door for you. 

“No, but–” You stumble over the curb and fall right back into his arms. 

As you glance up slowly and find his eyes, your smile fades, but he can feel your heart pounding. It’s beating in sync with his, and for a moment, no one says anything. There’s just the feel of your curves beneath his palms on your hips, and the smoothness of your hands as they slide up his chest. 

A tiny smile flashes on your face as you lean closer and stretch yourself taller in his arms, eyes flicking between his and his lips. “You smell good,” you mumble, cheek brushing his shoulder. 

Dean swallows hard and exhales shakily through his nose, heart hammering in his ears. He’s in fucking trouble, but he manages to pull away just enough to sidestep you. 

“Okay, nope,” he says quietly, more to himself than you. “We’re not doing that tonight.”

Jesus fuck, he should get a goddamn medal for that. 

“Doing what?” you question, brow creasing completely innocently. 

“Nothin’, sweetheart,” Dean says quickly and carefully guides you into the passenger seat, closing the door behind you. He rounds the hood and then gets in next to you, putting the key into the ignition. 

You lean back into the leather seat with a blissful smile, chewing your lower lip as you watch him. “You’re nice. I like you.”

Dean laughs softly as he pulls out of the curb, cheeks catching heat. “Yeah, well, you might feel different in the morning…”

The house is dark and quiet, not a light on as the old man is fast asleep upstairs when Dean shuts the Impala’s engine off in the driveway and leads you into the garage. He turns on the light bulb by the workbench, arm still securely around your waist as the space illuminates in a warm glow. 

You’ve spent most of the short drive humming along to whatever old rock song he’s had playing on the stereo, head tipped against the window, almost falling asleep. You crashed against his chest again when he helped you out of the car before he placed a firm arm around your middle. 

The garage isn’t much – bare concrete floor, an old rug under a battered twin bed, and posters on the wall that peel at the edges. He balanced a small TV on a stack of milk crates next to a mini fridge, and put a record player with a couple of vinyls on the dresser. It’s not lavish by any means, but at least he gets a little space from the old man here to breathe. 

He steers you toward the bed, guiding you by the arm, his voice gentle but firm. “C’mere. Sit.”

“You’re bossy,” you mumble with a pout but still obediently plop down on the edge of the bed and watch him closely as he crouches down in front of you to untie your sneakers.

He’s weirdly good at dealing with drunk people, Sam and Cas giving him the most practice.  

His hands then brush your ankles, causing a bubble of giggles as he gets one shoe off first before the other one follows. He then pats your leg gently and rises, tugging the blanket down from the bed. “Alright, up you go.” 

You flop backward onto the mattress like a kid, the springs creaking. He bites back a smile and pulls the blanket over you, tucking it lightly around your shoulders as your cheek snuggles into his pillow. He already knows then that he’s probably never washing those sheets again in his life. 

“There,” he says. “Better?”

“Mhm.” You nod, humming blissfully, eyes closing for a moment. “This is real nice.” 

He places a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol on the nightstand. “You’ll thank me for those in the morning.”

You smile sleepily and stare at him for a moment, eyes heavy but soft. “Can you stay with me?”

Every muscle in his body freezes. “What?”

You bite the pout on your lip shyly. “The garage is, like… super scary.”

He huffs a soft laugh and thumbs behind him. “Sweetheart, I’ll be right there on the couch, alright?”

The pout gets worse and becomes a full puppy dog look. 

“Don’t like the couch. The couch looks sad,” you mumble like you’re the one who has to sleep on it. Your hand then reaches out, curling around his wrist and pulling him closer. “Please?”

It’s the fucking pleading gleam in your eyes that undoes him. It just about kills him. He runs a hand through his hair, debating with himself. Everything in him screams that he fucking shouldn’t, but the thought of leaving you alone, drunk, and shivering, doesn’t sit right with him either. 

“Alright, scoot over,” he caves finally, exhaling a long sigh. “But only till you’re asleep, okay?”

You grin triumphantly and wiggle till your back’s against the wall. He toes off his boots and slips in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. The bed’s small, and no matter how he shifts, in the end, there isn’t a lot of space between you two left. You don’t seem to be bothered by the proximity, however, closing the remaining inches when you lean closer and rest your head against his shoulder. 

You hum softly, but he stiffens, every nerve suddenly awake before a deep breath out through his nose lets him relax enough to loosen a little. He then drapes an arm lightly across you but makes sure it barely touches you. 

His eyes are stubbornly fixed on the ceiling, but he can feel your eyes on him. When he finally meets your gaze, you’re smiling, and he finds himself smiling, too.

“Don’t do this to me. Go to sleep, okay?” he tells you, chuckling lightly. You could at least make it easier on him to stay good. 

You hold his gaze for another moment, challenging him a little, but then you finally capitulate and close your eyes, cuddling against his chest. “Okay. Night, Dean.”

He feels your steady breathing against his ribs, warm through the fabric of his shirt. Your hair tickles his neck, and he’s careful not to think too hard about how fucking right it feels. 

“Night, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

Dean wakes up slowly. One breath, then another, and then he blinks against the soft, golden sunlight seeping into the garage through the dusty windows. 

And you? You’re right there, still in his arms, your breathing a steady, shallow, and quiet rhythm. 

For a whole minute, Dean doesn’t move and just watches you. 

Your arm is lying across his torso, cheek pressed against his chest, and one leg is draped over his. He doesn’t know how it got there, but he hopes it doesn’t lift higher and collides with his morning wood. 

He exhales a long breath. He hasn’t meant to fall asleep next to you. Hell, he hasn’t meant to stay, but you curled into him and pretty much locked him in place. 

You look quieter in the morning light, beautiful in a way that pulls the rug right out under his feet and knocks him dead on his ass. You’re warm, soft, and peaceful. 

You’re something he’s not ready for and doesn’t know how to name. 

Then you begin to stir. 

Your nose wrinkles first, a sleepy frown pulling at your lips, and Dean can tell you’re about to wake up with a mean hangover. He’s had a few of those. 

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the sunlight, and then the disorientation hits hard. You jolt upright, head swiveling and body still tangled in the blanket. 

“Hey, hey… Easy there, tiger,” Dean says quickly, sitting up as well. “You’re okay. It’s just me.”

You blink groggily at him. “Dean?”

“Yeah.” He laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re at my place. Brought you here last night. I think you might have gone a few too many rounds with the Jell-O shots.” 

Your eyes widen, panic rising like a tidal wave. “Oh God, I did, didn’t I? I–”

“Relax,” he cuts in, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing happened. Promise. Only thing I took off were your shoes, and you were out cold after calling my couch sad.”

You groan, rubbing your temple with the heels of your palms. “Mm, I vaguely remember that. I unfortunately remember a lot, actually,” you mutter, then look at him. “I’m so sorry.” 

Dean snorts. “Don’t be. You were harmless. Funny as hell, actually, and way less annoying than Sam and Cas combined.” 

You peek at him from under your lashes, still flushed. “I wasn’t too embarrassing, was I?”

He smiles softly. “Nah, you were cute.”

You let yourself fall back onto the pillow, groaning as you hide your face in your hands. Dean eases down beside you, chuckling softly. 

“Trust me, you were nothing. I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been worse,” he tells you, hoping to calm your nerves a little. “Summer 1996. First time I ever tried one of Ash’s shots. Was also the last time I ever tried ‘em.”

You slowly lower your hands from your face and side-eye him curiously, cheeks warm. “That bad, huh?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Oh, yeah,” he confirms. “Sam had to clean up green puke from the gravel driveway, so my dad wouldn’t find out.”

“Wow, poor Sam,” you chuckle, your voice syrupy-sweet. “Well, uhm, thanks for not dumping me on my dad’s doorstep.”

“Yeah, no, no problem. Just collecting good karma. Gonna need it,” he says, laughing quietly. “‘Sides, knowing your dad, he probably would’ve found a way to blame me for it if I handed you over like that.”

You snort a small laugh, nodding. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” you admit, biting your lip. 

“Figured,” Dean sighs, amused. “And I wasn’t gonna kick you out onto the driveway and speed off, so…”

You giggle, cheeks blushing. “My, thank you. Such a hero. You’re gonna make a great firefighter,” you tease.

Dean grins boyishly at you. “Yeah, you’re welcome, sweetheart.” 

You laugh, soft and muffled against the pillow, the tension breaking just enough for something lighter to fill the air. It shifts from the morning-after awkward to something more… charged. 

The grins on both your faces fade to something softer and more vulnerable. You’re close again – close enough that he can see the tiny flecks of color in your eyes and feel the warmth of your skin.

He doesn’t know who moves first. Maybe both of you do. It’s like fucking gravity. 

Your fingers brush against his hand, reaching carefully. His heart is hammering as he shifts closer. You shiver when his hand softly traces up your thigh, along the curve of your hip, and up to your waist under the blanket. 

That little tremble fucking does something to him. 

Your heads then inch toward one another on the pillow, his nose nuzzling yours, shaky breaths mingling. Your hand reaches out too and comes to rest flat against his chest, beating heart just underneath it. 

“That okay?” he asks with a swallow and squeezes the flesh on your hip a little, pulling it closer to his.

You give a quick succession of small nods, never breaking eye contact, and suck in a breath like you’re planning to hold it until his lips touch–

“DEAN!”

His head drops between you two. 

“Oh, c’mon!” he groans upon hearing John’s voice thundering from the kitchen. Why is this family constantly cockblocking him?

God, he can’t fucking wait to get his own place. 

You burst into giggles then, curling into his chest, and he has to laugh, too. This is getting ridiculous. All he wants to do is–

“Dean!”

The door slams open with force, almost coming off its hinges, and John suddenly stands in the doorway to the garage, fuming with a thermos of coffee in hand, half Marine and half dad. Both of you jump up in bed, hearts pounding, eyes wide. 

Shit. This isn’t a good look.

Well, at least the two of you are fully clothed, so there’s a lot less to explain. By all accounts, he didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, he was so good he deserves a reward. 

Kissing you when you were sober and super into him was supposed to be that reward. Where’s his fucking karma?

Dean tousles his hair, blinking at his father through crinkled eyes, and mutters a “Morning?”

Best to pretend they were still innocently asleep. 

John squints his eyes in your direction, then his head tilts slightly to the right. “Is that Tom’s daughter?”

“Hi, uhm… Mr. Winchester,” you say sheepishly, halfway hiding behind Dean’s shoulder. 

Yeah, he wishes he could hide behind there, too. 

“Dean–” John already starts, his voice dropping into that deep, low octave that says Dean’s in trouble, but “we have guests.”

His jaw instantly tightens. “It’s not–… nothing happened, alright? She just–”

“She was very drunk,” you finish with a mortifying little laugh, shaking your head at yourself. Then your voice softens as you glance up at his father. “My friends left without me. Dean was just being nice, letting me crash here. I didn’t know anyone else there… He was gonna take the couch, but I–, uhm, I got scared ‘cause the garage is, uhm… creepy.”

John frowns slightly before letting out a long sigh, his shoulders deflating. 

Dean’s amazed by your skills as he watches the old man being rendered speechless. His father literally doesn’t know what to say. And you did it all with the truth. 

Well, almost the truth because you did know other people there, but that was a nice touch. Dean’s fascinated. You probably wrap your dad around your little finger all the time, don’t you? It’s admirable, really, and makes him wish Sam was born a girl. He could’ve milked that shit.

“Well, uhm…” John scratches his head and takes a gulp from his thermos. “Why don’t you go on home now before your dad gets worried, huh? Sam’s up. He can drive you.”

Sam?! 

Oh, Dean knows what that means. Sam’s gonna drive you because Dean’s gonna be busy getting a lecture. 

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” you say quickly and shift to the edge of the bed beside him, already fumbling with your sneakers. “I’ll walk. It’s–, uh… it’s not that far. And I feel a lot better now. I promise.” 

John nods once, still giving Dean that fatherly “we’ll talk later” glare. 

“Thank you again, Dean,” you say softly as you rise, eyes meeting his for a heartbeat. “For–, uhm, for taking care of me.” 

He smiles, small but genuine. “Anytime.” 

You then give John a polite wave and slip out into the morning light. His father waits till the door is all the way closed and your footsteps fade before exhaling the usual deep breath before any lecture of his starts. 

“Christ, son, you just can’t help yourself, can you? You wanna tell me what that was?” 

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “It was nothing. She was drunk. I helped her.” 

“I’m sure you did,” John says dryly, giving Dean a look that could cut through steel.

“I didn’t do anything! Nothing happened, alright? I just made sure she was safe. That’s it,” Dean defends. 

“That’s all, huh? Did you really have to crawl into bed with her?” his father points out more than he accuses. “‘Cause last thing I need is Tom breathing down my neck because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself for five minutes.”

Dean rolls his eyes back slightly, sighing. “Jesus Christ, she was scared, alright?” John looks unconvinced till an idea hits him. “And she was… whiny, you know?” he lies, watching his father’s stern brow waver slightly. “I didn’t want her to start crying and–”

“Alright, okay,” John cuts him off, rubbing his temples. 

Jesus fucking Christ, that shit’s really working. Man, you might have helped him find a new super weapon against his father. 

“Nothing happened – fine. Let’s just keep it that way, alright?” his dad says firmly. “She’s Tom’s daughter. He’s a good man, and that girl’s decent. She doesn’t need to get caught up in–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean mutters, already pushing off the bed and heading for the sink like he can outrun the rest of the lecture. “Message received.” 

“Dean,” John warns, tone sharpening. “Stay away. I’m serious.” 

Dean nods, but his eyes drift toward the door where you disappeared. He knows he should listen. He also knows he fucking won’t.

The next morning, Dean’s been up since the break of dawn – sorting, packing, and trying to make sense of the mess representing his entire life up until this point. Boxes line the walls, full of tools, records, and the kind of junk one swears they’ll sort through later but never do. 

Baby’s trunk is half packed with Sam’s shit, ready and shining in the driveway till he’s taking his little brother up to college. He figured a little road trip one last time would be nice. He kind of owed Sam for ditching him at Ash’s party.

Weirdly, he’s not been too bitchy about that. 

Dean’s been tossing shit into crates for hours, sweat sticking to every inch of his skin by now. He wipes his hands on an old rag and takes one last look around the space he used to call home, muttering to himself, “Guess that’s that. Almost done.”

“Looks like it,” Sam’s voice comes from behind him. 

Dean spins around, finding his little brother standing there in the garage with that half-weary smile of his and a cup of coffee. 

“Got everything packed?” Sam asks, nodding toward the piles of boxes.

“Mostly. Didn’t realize how much crap I had till I tried to fit it all in one car.” Dean gives a shrug of his shoulders, scratching the nape of his neck. “You here to help?”

“Yup,” Sam says, popping the p before he holds up a thick envelope with Dean’s Sharpied name on the front. “And, uh, this came for you. Someone dropped it off on the porch.”

Dean frowns. “For me? Weird. Not expecting anything.”

“Yeah, there’s no return address,” Sam notes. 

Dean takes the envelope, eyebrows knitting together as he turns it over in his hands. He then pulls the flap open, and a VHS tape wrapped in tissue paper slides out together with a folded note. 

The tape’s handwritten label reads “Night of the Wendigo (1994)” in blue ink, and a grin starts to spread on his lips before he has even unfolded the note. He knows who it’s from. 

For your horror education. Thanks for taking care of me. You’re officially my hero now (just don’t let it go to your head).  – Your freshman reporter PS: Don’t pee your pants. 

Dean huffs a chuckle under his breath, folding the note in half again and storing it in his back pocket. You kept your promise, and maybe this means it doesn’t have to be goodbye. 

“Alright, you ready for LA?” Sam asks, already neat-freaking and shifting a couple boxes around. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean replies, looking around the garage again – at the dented workbench, the rusted bikes the brothers had as children, and the bed still a little rumpled from the night before. “Gonna miss this dump, though.” 

Sam smiles knowingly, sipping his coffee. “Yeah, you will.”

The summer is over. Everyone’s leaving town. Not even Dean’s sure when he’ll be back. But now, he knows that maybe if the universe is small enough – someday, somehow – he will cross paths with you again.

▶️ Chapter 3: These Hearts, They Race From Self-Control

I may have listened too much to Ocean Avenue during this one lol... The "high school" era is officially over, and we're heading off to college (and fire academy) next! 🎓🧯

How did you guys enjoy their second encounter? I loved writing Cassie as well and not making her a villain but a real friend to Dean (though we can all agree she's way too mature for him 😂). Which kiss interruption was the most frustrating? But the bigger question is: Will their next attempt get interrupted, too? 😉

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The annoying techno bass rattles through his ribs, there’s fake fucking fog everywhere, and some “bro” is wearing a full-body banana costume doing keg stands in the kitchen. Everyone looks like they’ve raided the same goddamn Spirit Halloween on the same fucking budget. Dean tugs the brim of his cowboy hat, his half-assed costume, a little lower, feeling entirely too old for frat party.

Benny told him to commit to a vibe after seeing him in jeans and a flannel, hence the hat.

“Next time I say yes to one of your ideas, remind me I’m an idiot,” Dean mutters to Benny.

Benny grins, crooked plastic fangs glinting in the ultraviolet light. “Aw, lighten up, chief. Ain’t every day we get a weekend off. Think of it as team bonding.”

“Pretty sure that’s what push-ups and hose drills are for.”

Cas, white coat on his shoulders and stethoscope around his neck, crosses his arms, blue eyes squinting at the crowd of drunken college kids on the makeshift dance floor. “I don’t understand why parties must be this… loud. Or why that man over there is dressed as a slice of pizza.”

“Because, brother,” Benny says with a grin, patting him on the back, “it’s Halloween, and college kids have zero fucking shame.”

Before Dean can wholeheartedly agree, Sam and Jess join them, weaving their way through the crowd. His little brother’s got that dopey, in-love smile on his face, even though he’s dressed as Clark Kent – including the glasses.

Jess, on the other hand, is all sunshine and smiles in a nurse’s outfit that tells Dean she’s at least ten times out of Sam’s league. It admittedly suits her very well, and Dean’s happy his little brother’s doing so good. Means he’s done something right.

“Hey, you guys having fun yet?” Jess beams at the three of them, her fingers tightly interlocked with Sam’s.

Dean gives her a raised look and decides to humor her a little. “Define fun.”

Jess lets out a bubbly laugh. She’s the kind of person that makes eye contact and really means it. She’s been warm from the start, all easy smiles and questions about his life in LA and the training at the academy.

She bumps his shoulder gently. “You’ll warm up once my friends get here. Promise. They’re from SJSU. We all live in the same dorm. One of them actually introduced me to Sam. They should be here any minute,” she tells him casually, but Dean’s heart fucking stops, the oxygen slowly leaving his lungs. “They promised they’d come early, but you know how girls are with outfits.”

“Uh-huh, yeah…” He swallows hard, ears ringing as droplets of sweat form under his cowboy hat.

Could it be?

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You’ve spent years perfecting the art of the quick-witted interview, of slipping between charm and challenge with just enough finesse to get the answers you need without stepping on too many toes. You know how to banter with drivers, how to navigate the politics of the paddock, how to keep your cool when tensions run high.

And then there’s him.

Nico Rosberg, 2016 World Champion turned pundit, whose on-screen presence is equal parts insightful and insufferable. He challenges you in a way most don’t—whether it’s an on-air debate about tire strategy or a smug comment about your latest post-race interview. He’s sharp, calculated, always looking for the upper hand.

So, naturally, you push back.

It starts small—pointed remarks, playful eye rolls, the occasional dramatic sigh whenever he insists on proving a point. The fans eat it up. Clips of your interviews together rack up views, Twitter threads dissect every exchange, and soon enough, you’re both leaning into the dynamic.

But somewhere along the way, it stops being just for show.

It happens in Monaco.

The weekend is relentless—packed schedules, unbearable heat, and a media pen so chaotic it feels like a war zone. By the time Sunday evening rolls around, your patience is hanging by a thread, your feet are aching, and you’re running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower.

That’s when Nico finds you, leaning against a barrier near the paddock, sipping the last dregs of a lukewarm water bottle.

“Tough weekend?”

You glance up, too exhausted to throw back your usual sharp remark. “Something like that.”

He studies you for a second, then—before you can ask why he’s still standing there—says, “Come on.”

You frown. “Come on where?”

He shrugs. “Anywhere but here.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on the deck of a yacht, your heels kicked off, a cold drink in hand. It’s not his yacht, but a friend’s—one of the many floating in the marina, buzzing with post-race celebrations.

Except this one is quiet. Peaceful. Away from the chaos.

You exhale slowly, letting the night air cool your skin. From here, the city feels distant—the bright lights reflecting off the water, the sounds of revelry muffled by the gentle rocking of the boat.

Nico is beside you, leaning against the railing, his expression unusually relaxed.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I think I like you better when you’re not trying to prove me wrong.”

You snort. “That’s funny, because I definitely like you better when you’re not trying to be right all the time.”

He laughs, shaking his head. But then he turns to you, something unreadable in his gaze.

“I’m serious.”

Your smirk falters. There’s something different in his tone—something quieter, more certain.

You open your mouth, but he speaks first.

“I know what this is,” he says, watching you carefully. “What it should be. Just friendly banter, a good TV dynamic, nothing more.” He exhales, fingers tapping idly against the railing. “But tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Your breath catches.

You should say something—something logical, something that keeps things uncomplicated.

But the truth is, you do. You have for a while now.

The teasing, the debates, the way your eyes always seem to find each other across the paddock—it’s always been more than just professional rivalry. You just weren’t sure if he felt it too.

Until now.

The silence stretches, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you.

Finally, you swallow, forcing yourself to speak. “And if I do?”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Then I guess we have a problem.”

But he doesn’t look troubled at all.

And maybe, just maybe, you aren’t either.

The weight of his words lingers in the air between you, thick like the Monaco humidity.

“Then I guess we have a problem.”

You should be more cautious. You are cautious—your whole career has been built on staying sharp, keeping things professional, never giving anyone a reason to question your position in this world.

And yet, standing here, under the glow of the city lights, with Nico watching you like he already knows what choice you’re going to make… you can’t bring yourself to step away.

Instead, you tilt your head, lips curving slightly. “And what exactly do you propose we do about this problem?”

His smile is slow, knowing. “Well,” he says, eyes flicking over your face, “we could ignore it.”

You arch a brow. “That doesn’t sound like something you’re particularly good at.”

Nico exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No, I suppose not.”

Silence settles again, but it’s different now—charged, crackling like the air before a storm. His fingers are still tapping against the railing, but you notice now that it’s more deliberate, like he’s holding himself back.

You could walk away right now. You could turn this into nothing more than a fleeting moment, something to laugh about later when you’re both back under the bright lights of the paddock, playing your parts in front of the cameras.

Or..

You take a slow step forward. Not enough to close the space completely, but enough to make your intention clear.

Nico doesn’t move back.

“So if we’re not ignoring it,” you say carefully, “what’s the alternative?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drops briefly—to your mouth, then back up—before he finally says, voice quieter now, “We see where it goes.”

Your stomach flips.

“See where it goes.” That sounds simple. It sounds like something two rational adults could do without too much trouble. But nothing about this—about him—feels simple.

You should ask what that even means. If this is some fleeting, post-race, adrenaline-fueled interest, or if it’s something deeper. If he’s thought about this before tonight. If he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

But you don’t ask.

Because suddenly, his hand is brushing against yours—light, tentative, testing the waters. And instead of pulling away, you let your fingers curl slightly, just enough to let him know you’re right there with him.

His breath hitches. Just barely. But you catch it.

Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

And the only thing you can do is nod.

Later, when the world is quiet and the night has settled into something softer, you find yourself still standing on that yacht, still wrapped in the aftershock of what just happened.

You should be panicking. You should be overanalyzing every second of it.

But when Nico looks at you, expression warm and unreadable all at once, the only thing you can think is

You don’t regret it. Not even a little bit.

-

"I'm sorry, he what?!"

The mumbling on the other end of the phone makes you even angrier and more frustrated than ever. The frustration isn't new to you, not at all. It's part and parcel of being one of The Daily Planet's investigative journalists. The other thing the Planet appreciates in its journalists is people who have a nose for stories. You think you have one. Which is why everything is telling you that Peabody is prevaricating because he's trying to hide something.

"I understand your position, Mr. Peabody, but your contact is my biggest informant. If we don't have his testimonial, we'll never be able to publish this article on LexCorp."

There's more irate, increasingly loud yelling spilling down the speaker, but you could care less. You've been working on this article for months, carefully building layer upon layer of evidence, crafting the perfect hard-hitting expose. You're not taking his bullshit at face value anymore. Your mind is whirling as you lean back in your chair. Peabody is still spilling excuses into your ear, not that you care. Maybe you’re a little rough and brusque with Peabody as you hang up, but something about this situation is pinging in your head.

Your office is a bright space, all white walls, glass panes and metallic accents. From up on the 68th floor, Metropolis looks like a heaving anthill. Across the cityscape, another skyscraper glints tauntingly at you. You know Luthor is wrapped up in this. Okay, sure, corporate espionage isn’t exactly his deal, but who else could it be? You’ve carefully counted out every other potential culprit. Only Luthor is left.  Turning around, there’s an unholy rage in your countenance as you glare down at the twisted mess taking over your walls. There are newspaper clippings, articles, string and scribbled notes all over the walls. Just looking at it is sometimes enough to give you a headache. But you desperately need to get to the bottom of this situation. There must be a reason why all roads seemingly lead to Lex Luthor’s shining obelisk to his ego. You wouldn't be surprised if Peabody is clamming up because someone is blackmailing him.

Before you can further dig into the LexCorp situation, a whistle rings out through the air. You're the newest investigative journalist at the Daily Planet. It means you have the smallest office with half-broken heating and air conditioning, which nobody else wanted. It’s also the office furthest away from the bullpen.

The editor-in-chief of the Planet, a gruff, peppery older man named Perry White, only calls all of you together if there is something big brewing in Metropolis. You have to shove your way to the front of the circle loosely gathered around Perry. You're short, so you couldn’t see over the crowd if you tried.

“Alright, alright, settle down you lot.”

Perry's voice is gruff, carrying the tones of a person who grew up in Metropolis or one of its boroughs. Of course, most of the office hails from Metropolis. Sometimes you think your upbringing in the cornfields of Iowa has something to do with your distance from the other journalists on staff. After all, despite living in Metropolis for the past five years, your voice still holds the slightest twang. You can dress like a Metropolis professional, walk like one, and talk like one, but everyone makes it abundantly obvious you will never be a citizen of Metropolis.

The hazing is par for the course. You’ve seen more than your fair share in the three months since you started at The Daily Planet. The source of your struggles is, you’re sure, one person. She’s standing at the other end of the circle of reporters waiting with baited breath as Perry doles out assignments.

Natasha Trace.

She gets all of the best assignments from Perry, just because she’s his niece or something like that. The vindictive smirk she gives you as she accepts the latest city hall press conference is proof. Your own assignment is a little more dangerous, 300 words on the newest homeless shelter opening in Southside. According to the mayor, Southside isn’t dangerous anymore, but you don’t believe him. Perry quotes the same thing every chance he can get, especially because he sends reporters out to Southside pretty often. It’s all part of the Planet’s “For the People” reporting strategy. Every day, you hear people talking about another mugging or shooting or what have you. So you’re under no assumptions that Perry and Natasha are giving you an assignment they want you to succeed in.

You're cursing them more and more the next day when you're kneeling with a puddle of spilled tomato soup seeping into your sensible dark trousers. It was just your luck that masked gunmen waltzed into the shelter in the middle of your interview, wasn’t it?

 It was also just your luck that one of them had sent a spray of bullets into the air the moment hands went up. Cue some well-deserved screaming and a near-stampede for the doors, and you’d been pushed to the floor. So now you’re crouching in spilled soup with your hands up, trying and failing to moderate your breathing.

What the hell does a soup kitchen in Southside have for a gang of armed robbers, anyway? It’s not like it has much money. After all, this is only one of a string of new food shelters opening up in Metropolis. They’ve all been funded by the government, and they’re all supposed to be as clean as can be. Supposed to be, anyway. Obviously something isn’t right in the state of Denmark.

What’s just as interesting is the sight of the photographer you’ve been sent to the shelter with. Mickey Garcia is one of the Planet’s best. He’s got an eye for taking those photographs nobody else can. You’re not sure why Perry sent him with you. Usually he’s buddy-buddy with Natasha. He’s probably wishing he were with Natasha at City Hall right now. You know you are. But he doesn’t look scared or worried. He’s just kneeling in the soup next to you, hands up with his head cocked to the side and eyes staring into the distance.

It’s almost like he expects the police to come roaring up. Just as the lead invader turns his head, there’s a rush of wind and you see an imperceptible smirk on his face before he disappears between one blink and the next. You can smell ozone in the air, bitingly sharp, but it seems like nobody else notices but you.

Who the hell is Mickey Garcia? You almost wish you were hiding behind one of the tables. Because then you can pull out your notebook and start writing. Instead, it seems like all you have is your eyes and ears. How did he disappear so quickly? Metahumans aren’t exactly new in the world (or well, at least in the country). You remember reading about metahuman related events across the country. After all, everyone knows about Gotham City’s Bat. But recently there have been more and more reports. A meta-human in red-and-gold streaking through Central City. Villains with the power to freeze anything in its tracks and heroes with the power of the seven seas and beyond. And of course, everyone has seen the fluttering blue cape of Metropolis’ own metahuman.

So where does that leave you? Wishing for Superman, as you’ve heard him called, to save you? You’re not even sure he’ll show at all. There have to be a million other things happening in Metropolis more important.

“ALL OF YOU ON THE FLOOR!”

You’re not on the floor long when a hand grabs you by your hair and yanks you up.

“What do we have here?” A greasy voice growls the words into your ear as cold metal presses into your temple. “A little reporter eagerly waiting for a scoop?”

You shudder, your skin crawling at the hunger in this man’s voice as he traces his index finger up and down your throat. Your press badge thwaps against your chest with every movement.

“P-please.” You’re trembling in earnest, teeth chattering. “These people are innocent, th-they have no money. They’re here to get some food. The only money the shelter has is for food.”

His cackle chills you to the bone. “Oh, you’re so naive, you sweet little thing.”

“We’re not here for the shelter’s money. We’re here for the city’s money.” He grins, blowing his foul-smelling breath in your face. “And if the city doesn’t cough up the goods, we’ll just take you in exchange.”

“And what if he comes to save us?”

You’re not sure who asks, but it sparks a rising tide of questions. People are shouting the questions out, and the men grow angrier and angrier. From your new vantage point with a barrel pressed to your temple you can see how uneasy they actually are. Their fingers tighten around the weaponry, paling at the joints as they grip at the metal. The more people ask, bolstered by the sounds of the sirens outside and the crackle of voices through bullhorns, the angrier your captor gets.

“All of you, shut up!” It's a roar of sound which leaves your ears ringing. The gun hurts as it presses into your throat. It’s hard to breathe, to swallow, to think. Something tells you you're not getting out of this stand-off alive. Your pulse is thudding in your ears and your chest aches. You hear the tell-tale click and your eyes are screwed closed.

Please. Please. Please. I promise I'll be better. I promise I'll be a better daughter, a better employee.

You're not sure who you're praying to, but you’re praying nonetheless.

There's so much I haven’t done yet.

It shouldn’t be so sad, thinking about how pathetic your life is - how empty it is. You're braced to hear the sound of a gunshot, braced to feel pain and then feel nothing ever again. You can feel the silk of your blouse, the expensive one you never wear, sticking to your back as you heave in thready, unsteady breaths.

It's almost anticlimactic, the way it happens. You smell the same sharp ozone scent you did earlier and the hand wrapped around your throat, the gun pressed to the hinge of your jaw disappears. You keep your eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the yells of pain and cut-off curses as people get beaten up. You keep expecting to feel the acute pain of a bullet lancing through you, burning through your skin. But you feel nothing. You hear nothing, and obviously all you can see is the underside of your own eyelids.

“Miss, you can open your eyes now. It's all going to be okay.” 

You know what this voice is saying as you stand stiff-backed in the center of the room. Your muscles are locked in place and your hands are curled into fists at your side. You're not sure you could move if you tried to.

The hands that hold yours are warm, warmer than they have any right to be. But they feel good, and you can feel yourself relaxing into the touch. When your eyes open, you're not sure what you expected to see. But what you get is Metropolis's own Superman. He is smiling at you, pearly teeth on display, big brown eyes gentle as he talks you out of your panic. You're enraptured by how his dark hair curls just so over his forehead and how his jaw is so well-defined it could cut diamond.

More than anything, you wish you were still holding your notebook and pen or a dictaphone or anything. If there was anyone you want to interview here and now, it's him. But something is bothering you about him. He looks oddly familiar, something in the turn of his cheek and the fall of his hair.

Your statement to MCPD takes the longest. Long after all the other hostages have headed home or been shuttled to other shelters in the city, you stand, ignoring the way tomato soup is crusting on your clothes and how your fingers ache. Maybe your statement wouldn’t have taken quite so long if you weren’t trying to interview your interviewer back. In any case, by the time your throat is dry and aching, it’s late, approaching midnight and the only person left other than police personnel is Superman.

“A-are you okay, Miss?” 

You blink at his words, because he sounds oddly bashful, and that is a look you never expected to see on a superhero’s face.

“I’m fine.” You grin, the motion only halfway genuine. “I'm just about to head out. I'm sure a superhero like you has better things to do, other people to save and whatnot.”

“U-um, no actually.” He tips his head to the side, using his hand to fix his already immaculate hair.

“Do you always wait around at crime scenes to walk a gal home?”

“W-would it be alright if I walked you home?”

Your questions collide in midair against each other. You huff out an exhausted laugh, but he just blushes a little, golden cheeks flushing as his eyes twinkle at you.

“N-no. I don’t make a habit of waiting at crime scenes to walk girls home. Guess that's something only for you.”

Now it's your turn to battle hot cheeks. You can't even fan your face off because you don't have a thing to fan yourself with. Flapping your hands makes you feel stupid. So instead, you let Superman lead you out of the shelter and onto Metropolis’ streets. The city is alive with the sound of cars and ambulances. Someone has a radio on their window playing music. It feels like you're in an entirely different place.

“So, what about that walk home?”

He smells good. For the first time you notice how good he smells, this Superman, now that your nose isn't clogged with the smells of spilled tomato soup and sandwiches. You want to spend time with him. You want to forget what is waiting for you in the morning, how angry Perry is going to be when you didn't get a scoop on the shelter or any pictures that you know of. Maybe if you spin the Superman angle to this? It doesn't feel right, exploiting this man when he's so clearly doing it to help people. You also don't want to stop talking to him yet.

“Sure.”

Honestly you wish you'd clarified, because when he said walk, you thought he was actually going to walk with you. Instead he sweeps you up in his arms and shoots up into the sky. You scream the whole way, hands scrabbling for purchase against his suit, finally settling for an arm around his shoulder. You're shaken and shivering when he finally stops moving.

“Shit, sorry.” 

You grumble into his broad chest at the cheeky apology. 

“Just thought you'd want to see the city how I see it.”

When you finally screw up the courage to take a look, your lips part in a gasp. The entirety of Metropolis is laid out in front of you. Lit in gold from all of the lights, you're grinning from ear-to-ear as you peer out over the city.

“It's gorgeous!” There's a pleased smirk on his face. “I can't believe you get to see the city like this!”

“Yeah,” He grins, something soft. “I didn't fall in love with the city until the first time I saw this view.”

“I can see why,” You gasp, witnessing how soft your colossal city looks in the moonlight, how it seems like a world filled with such promise.

“Let's get you home.” There's a blush on his cheeks as he swoops you down, following your murmured instructions like he knows every inch of the city.

You feel a little bit like a princess when he sets you lightly down on the doorstep. He's still floating in the air, the navy blue suit he's wearing clinging to every muscle. Now more than ever something feels familiar about him. He stays outside your door watching with the same smirk on his face, his head cocked to the side like he's waiting to hear your deadbolt slide home.

You're a little giddy when he flies away, and you curl into your bed like you're in a dream. You sleep well, for the most part, not half as traumatized as you expected to be after being held hostage at gunpoint. At least, until you jolt up in bed, your hair a mess around you and growl, “Garcia!” 

He'd disappeared when the police came to the shelter with their bullhorns and their posturing. You'd smelled the same sharp ozone-tinged scent in the air when he'd disappeared and when Superman shot into the room. But there is more too. The shape of his face, the way he smiled, the almost compulsive way he pushed his hair off his face. He acts just like Garcia does, too.

What is the likelihood your first encounter with Metropolis' own Superman would give you insight into his alter-ego? After all, nobody would suspect that quiet, bespectacled, sweet Mickey Garcia, a photographer for the Daily Planet, is Superman. Nobody, it's obvious, but you. Forget your conspiracy board on LexCorp and their shady dealings. Right now, an exclusive interview with Superman seems like just the ticket to rocket you into fame.

But you can’t let on that you know. You spend the day typing up a lackluster article on the shelter opening, your eyes peering over your computer every time you hear footsteps coming your way. The people walking past you never stop by, not even to chat. You're practically sprinting for the door when you see Garcia, chunky headphones around his neck.

“Hey, Garcia!” 

He turns and looks oddly surprised to see you. 

“You got a sec?”

“Y-yeah, of course.” 

His stutter is adorable. You have to remind yourself he is Superman. 

“I wanted to take a look at the pictures you shot yesterday. Obviously the opening wasn't what we expected, but it should be an interesting public interest piece anyway.”

When he's sitting in the chair next to yours, fingers flying over your keyboard as he shows you all of the photos he took as well as a few of the aftermath, you're questioning your gut instinct even more. How is it possible he got pictures of the police helping people, interviewing you, if he was Superman? 

It's nice, working with someone who smiles at you instead of spitting insults out behind your back.

“This looks great.”

There's a smile on your face as you look at the finished article. 

“Yeah, not bad for an article about a shelter opening turned into a hostage situation, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

You turn, and rest your arm on his forearm. You let your reporting instinct take the driver’s seat. When he's relaxed, maybe you'll get some answers out of him.

“I completely forgot to ask! How are you holding up after yesterday? You know what Perry always says, ‘We're a family here at the Planet!’. I was terrified when those gunmen burst in.”

You prattle on and on, seeing his face change, almost fall, when you mention Superman. 

“You know, he's awfully handsome, Superman is. He took me home, made sure I was alright.”

You grin, wickedly, though you know for sure nobody here in Metropolis knows you well enough to tell.

“And then he blushed.”

All of your suspicions are proved true when Mikey Garcia blushes the same way Superman did.

“You know something? Superman blushed just like that when he was showing me Metropolis how he sees it.”

There's panic in his eyes now. You're just fast enough to block him at the door, arm flung out to stop him from walking past you.

“So…. How long have you been Superman, Mickey Garcia?”

Taglist:

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