#smallville

“I know, and I’m sorry, it’s just… work and Superman duties…” he began, his hands outstretched in a gesture that made you see red.

“Work? Don’t!” you laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “Don’t you dare hide behind that. It’s always work with you. Your work is more important than me, than us, than ever having a life that doesn’t revolve around the next crisis!”

He flinched, his shoulders slumping. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You are the most important thing in my life.”

“Then act like it!” you screamed, the words tearing from your throat. “But you can’t, can you? Because you’re not really here, Clark. You’re never really here. You’re always disappearing when things get real. You’re so busy saving everyone else, you’ve let everything between us die!”

His face was a mask of pain. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” you hissed, leaning forward, wanting to wound, to make him feel a fraction of the loneliness that had been eating you alive. “You know what the most pathetic part is? I used to think you were this incredible, strong man. Superman. But you’re not. You’re a coward. You’re too scared to let anyone truly in, too scared to commit to a real, messy, complicated life. You’d rather play the hero for strangers than be a partner to me.”

The words hung in the air, excruciatingly toxic and final. 

You saw him physically recoil, as if you’d struck him. The light in his warm blue eyes, the one that usually looked at you with such unwavering adoration, guttered and went out. 

His voice was quiet, hollow. “Is that really what you think of me?”

In your rage, in your all-consuming hurt, you doubled down. “It’s what I know. This is over, Clark. I can’t love a ghost. I can’t build a future with a man who is only ever half-present.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression shifting from pain to a devastating, resigned acceptance. He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he whispered. “If that’s what you want.”

He didn’t fight. He didn’t argue. He just turned, collected his coat, and walked out the door. The click of the latch was the loudest sound you had ever heard. 

The silence that followed was absolute. You slid down the wall, sobbing, the adrenaline of your fury evaporating, leaving only the chilling certainty that you had gone too far. You had wanted to hurt him, and you had succeeded beyond your wildest dreams. You had broken the kindest man you had ever known.

The first two weeks were a blur of grief and regret. 

You cried until you were sick. You drafted a hundred texts, apologies that ranged from pleading to desperate, but you never sent them. The things you had said were unforgivable. You knew that. You had called the most selfless person on the planet a coward. You had taken his greatest burden and used it as a weapon. 

How could he ever look at you the same way again?

By the third week, the tears dried up, replaced by an exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure. Then came the nausea. An all-day, rolling wave of it. 

You blamed it on stress, on grief, on the terrible diet you’d succumbed to. But when your period didn’t come, a cold, sharp dread began to pierce the numbness.

You bought a test, your hands shaking so badly you could barely open the box.

The two pink lines appeared in an instant. A definitive, life-altering plus sign.

Pregnant. Fuck.

Your knees gave way. You sat on the cold bathroom floor, staring at the little plastic stick, the world tilting on its axis. A baby. Clark’s baby. God, you wanted a family more than anything, with Clark especially, but not like this.

Despite the horrendous timing, there was one thing you knew above all.

He had to know.

You called him first. It went straight to voicemail. You texted him. 

Clark, we need to talk. It’s urgent.

No response. Hours turned into a day. You tried again. 

Please, Clark. It’s important. I’m sorry for everything I said, but this is much more important than our fight.

Still nothing.

Panic began to set in. You know that you said some harsh things but you didn’t think he would downright ignore you. Especially after saying multiple times that it was important. Clark always came when you said something was urgent.

You tried his apartment. You knocked until your knuckles were sore. No answer. A neighbor finally poked her head out. “He’s not there, honey. I think he went out of town. Said he had an assignment.”

An assignment. Of course. He’d run. 

You had hurt him so deeply he had fled the city, and he was clearly ignoring you. You thought about going to the Daily Planet, but your pride, and the memory of the horrible things you’d said, stopped you. How could you show up there, pregnant, after telling him he was a coward who couldn't commit? 

It would look like a trap, a manipulation.

You sighed and ultimately gave up. You had sent him over a hundred missed calls and at least fifty texts. If he was going to ignore you and the child he unknowingly created, so be it. At least you tried.

Your heart was heavy with the realization that Clark really wouldn’t be alongside you as you had this baby, but there was nothing more that could be done. So just like that, the weeks bled into months. 

The nausea subsided, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct that bloomed alongside your swelling belly. You moved to a new neighborhood in Metropolis, told your friends a sanitized version of the truth—that you and Clark had broken up and it was messy. 

You focused on your job, on doctor’s appointments, on preparing a nursery. The hope that Clark would somehow find out and come back slowly died, replaced by a simmering resentment. 

He had left you. He had ignored you when you’d reached out. He had chosen to abandon you both.

Not to mention how hard the pregnancy was on your body. You felt more side effects than most, something you chalked up to Clark’s Kryptonian DNA, something you wished you could curse him out for. 

The birth was also long and difficult, but thankfully your mom never left your side throughout the whole thing. You were more than grateful that her presence could replace where Clark’s was supposed to be.

As you finally gave that last push and saw your son for the first time, a tiny, perfect being with a shock of dark hair, you wept. You named him Jonathan, after Clark’s father. 

You and Clark talked about names briefly before, and even though you denied the name to Clark all those years ago, you did secretly love the name. This child was a part of Clark, the best part, and he would never know.

━━━━━━━

Life with Jonny ended up being the best part of your life, something you never knew you needed.

Jonny was a surprisingly easy baby, always calm, never really giving you too much of a hard time. Slightly shocking, considering his father was the exact opposite.

He was a happy, curious child, with a solemnity in his eyes that reminded you achingly of his father. You built a life for the two of you, a small, but fiercely protected world. You told Jonny some stories about his father, mainly of Superman, because gosh did that little boy love Superman. So you did your best to paint him as a brave, kind man who was away on very important work. 

It wasn’t a complete lie.

Eventually, the sharp edges of your anger at Clark softened into a dull, permanent ache. You missed him every day, not just as the father of your child, but as the man you had loved. The memory of your last fight was a scar that never fully healed, just a constant reminder of the words you could never take back.

Jonny grew quickly, and before you knew it, he was two and a half, and a whirlwind of happy energy and babbled sentences. 

It was then did your past come crashing back at you.

It was a sunny Saturday at Metropolis Park. Jon was determined to conquer the “big kid” slide, and you were spotting him, your heart in your throat as he clambered up the ladder with intense focus.

“I do it, Mama! I big!” he declared, puffing out his little chest.

“You are so big, my brave boy,” you laughed, your attention entirely on him.

You didn’t see the man approaching until he was almost upon you. He stopped dead in his tracks, his familiar frame casting a long shadow over the sandbox.

Your breath hitched. Time seemed to slow, then stop altogether.

Clark.

He was wearing a simple blue t-shirt and jeans, his glasses perched on his nose. He looked good, a bit older, the lines around his eyes a little deeper. He was holding a small notebook, presumably for a story. His gaze was fixed not on you, but on the small boy at the top of the slide.

Jonny, oblivious, gave a triumphant whoop and pushed off, sliding down with a gummy grin. He tumbled into the sand at the bottom and immediately popped up, running towards you. “I did it, Mama! Did you see?”

And then he saw Clark. He stopped, his head tilting in that curious, bird-like way he had. He stared at the tall stranger, his little brow furrowed.

Clark’s eyes flickered from Jonny to you, and back to Jonny. 

You saw the exact moment the pieces clicked into place. The dark hair. The shape of the eyes. The chin. The age. His face, usually so carefully composed, went through a rapid, devastating series of emotions: confusion, dawning comprehension, shock, and finally, a gut-wrenching, soul-shattering horror.

His notebook slipped from his nerveless fingers and landed in the sand.

“Is… is he…?” he whispered, his voice ragged.

You scooped Jon into your arms, holding him close more for your sake than his. “Yes,” you managed to say, your voice tight, your first time speaking to him in years. “Uh, Clark, this is Jonathan. Jonny, this is… an old friend of Mama’s.”

“Hi mama fwend.” Jonny, ever friendly, gave a shy wave, not quite able to pronounce his r’s yet.

Clark looked like he’d been physically struck. 

He took an unsteady step backward, his hand coming up to his chest as if to clutch his heart. The color had drained from his face. 

You studied his reaction closely, trying to gauge how he felt. This was the last possible way you ever wanted Clark to find out, but here you were.

“Jonathan,” he repeated the name, his eyes wide with comprehension. His eyes, wide with anguish, met yours. “Wh-why didn’t you tell me?”

The old, buried resentment surged to the surface, hot and sharp at his words. 

“I tried,” you said, your voice low and venomous. “I called. I texted. I came to your apartment. You were gone. You ignored me. You made it perfectly clear you wanted nothing to do with me.”

The realization of what he had done, the catastrophic misunderstanding, dawned on him with a force that seemed to buckle his knees. “I… I was in Smallville. I… I needed to get away after…” 

He couldn’t finish. He looked at Jonny, his son, a living, breathing child he had missed almost three years of. “When I came back, all the messages.... I thought… after what you said… I thought you meant it. I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

Tears welled in his eyes, magnified behind his glasses. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, the words thick with grief. “I didn’t know. Oh god, I didn’t know. I would’ve…. I-”

Jon, sensing the tension, buried his face in your neck. “Mama? Sad?”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you murmured, your own eyes stinging. The sight of Clark Kent, the strongest man in the world, looking utterly broken in a sandbox, was almost too much to bear.

You couldn't do this here, not with Jonny clinging to you, his small body a shield against a past that had just become terrifyingly present.

“I have to go,” you said, your voice tight as you adjusted Jonny on your hip. He was getting heavy in your arms, but not nearly as heavy as the weight in your heart.

Clark's head snapped up, panic flaring in his tear-filled eyes. “Go? Wait, please. We need to talk. We have to—”

“I know we do,” you interrupted, not unkindly, but with a firmness that left no room for argument. “But not here. Not like this.” You gestured vaguely at the playground, at the curious glances starting to be thrown their way. “I... I need some time to process this, Clark.”

He looked utterly lost, his gaze darting from your resolute face to Jonny, who was now peeking at him from over your shoulder. “Can I... can I see him? Soon?”

The eagerness in his voice was both expected and heartbreaking. 

Of course he would be eager. He was Clark. He was a father who had just discovered he had a son. You hadn't expected anything less, but the sheer intensity of it, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through you. This was happening too fast.

“You will,” you promised, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. “I just... I need to figure out how to explain this to him. And to myself. Please.”

You saw the protest forming on his lips, the desperate urge to fix everything right now, to bridge the two-and-a-half-year gap in an instant. But to your immense relief, he swallowed it. He nodded, a jerky, pained motion. “Okay. Okay. My number is the same.”

“I know,” you whispered. You did know. You'd had it memorized for years.

Without another word, you turned and began walking away from the sandbox towards your car. Jonny waved a tiny, clumsy hand over your shoulder. “Bye, mama fwend!”

You didn't look back. You couldn't. If you saw the devastation on Clark's face one more time, your own composure would shatter. You focused on the feel of Jonny's solid warmth against your chest, the sound of his quiet breathing, the reality of the life you had built alone.

The following days were a rush of painful logistics. Clark, once he’d recovered from the initial shock, was desperate, pleading. He wanted to be in Jonny’s life. He wanted to make it up to you. 

So, despite how you felt, like a healed wound opening up again, you agreed to supervised visits two weeks later. You were heartbroken, not an asshole. Over those two weeks, you warmed the idea up to Jonny, who really couldn’t tell what was going on, but hoped he’d appreciate it anyway.

The first visit was in a public place, mainly so that you wouldn’t crash out from being so on edge to do this co-parenting thing.

The Metropolis Botanical Gardens. You insisted on driving separately.

Clark was already there, waiting by the entrance, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked like he’d bought out the entire gift shop; a stuffed elephant was tucked under one arm, a balloon was tied to his wrist, and he held a small bag from a gourmet cookie shop.

Jonny, spotting the balloon, pointed excitedly and rushed towards it, only being pulled back by your firm grip on his hand. “Balloon! Mama, look!”

“Good job sweetheart, that is a balloon!”

Clark's face lit up at his boy's excitement. “Hi, Jonathan,” he said, his voice soft.

“This is Clark, sweetie,” you said, kneeling at Jonny’s eye-level, your tone carefully neutral. “Remember, mama's friend from the park?”

"Cookie fwend?" Jonny asked, his eyes locked on the bag.

Clark let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. “Yes. Cookie friend.”  He handed the bag to you, his fingers brushing yours. 

The walk through the gardens was stilted. Clark tried. He pointed out brightly colored flowers, getting down on one knee to show Jonny a particularly vibrant orchid. He told him the names, his voice a low, patient rumble. Jonny, initially shy, was soon holding Clark's hand, dragging him from one exhibit to the next.

You trailed behind them. It was a perfect picture: the tall, gentle man and the small, curious boy. And it made you furious. This should have been your life for the past two and a half years. You had been denied this. Jonny had been denied this.

“Look, Mama! Clark fly!” Jonny shouted, breaking you from your thoughts.

Your heart stopped. Clark had lifted Jonny onto his shoulders, but the boy was squealing with delight, his little hands patting Clark's head. “Up high!”

Clark met your gaze over Jonny's legs, his expression both joyful and apprehensive, worried he overstepped. “Is this okay?”

You looked at Jonny’s happy face and swallowed your emotions. “It's fine,” you said tightly, the words tasting like ash.

They spent the rest of the day like that, Jonny loving the new view and Clark never once stopping his rambling to him. Only when it was time to go, did Clark remove him from his spot on his shoulders. 

Jonny though, wasn’t ready to leave. “Mama, I wanna stay.”

“It’s time to go baby, we can come back another time.”

“No! I wanna stay and play!’ Jonny says back. “With Cw-ark.” 

You took a deep breath. Of course he would fight you on this. He was two, and he’d just had the most exciting day of his life with a human jungle gym who also supplied cookies. You bent down, your knees protesting, and tried to keep your voice even. “I know, sweetie. But the gardens are closing. We have to go home.”

“No!” Jonny’s lower lip trembled, his eyes filling with tears. He clutched at Clark’s leg, burying his face in the denim. “Stay with Clark!”

The words were a physical blow. You saw the conflict war on Clark’s face—the sheer, unadulterated joy at being wanted warring with the understanding that he was the cause of this meltdown, and of your obvious distress.

“Hey, I can try…” he began, his voice soft, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“We’re leaving,” you said, your voice firmer than you intended. You reached for Jonny’s hand. “Come on, Jonathan. Now.”

The use of his full name startled him. His wail cut through the tranquil garden air, sharp and piercing. He tightened his grip on Clark. “No! Stay with Clark!”

Now he wants to throw a tantrum. Perfect. You winced at the loud screams and tried to calm down in order to figure out how to pry him away from Clark.

Clark took notice of your stress and slowly, carefully, knelt down until he was at Jonny’s level. His hands were trembling. “Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t even name. “It’s okay. You have to listen to your Mama. But… but I’ll see you again very soon. I promise.”

Jonny just cried harder, his small body shaking with sobs. The sound was shredding what was left of your composure. This was the very reality you had tried to avoid. The confusion, the hurt, the messy, emotional fallout of Clark’s re-entry into your lives.

“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered, looking up at you, his expression one of pure agony. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

The apology, sincere as it was, ignited the last of your frayed nerves. “Just go, Clark,” you said, your voice low and tight as you finally managed to pry Jonny’s fingers from his jeans and scoop the screaming child into your arms. “He’ll be fine. Please. Just go.”

He nodded, rising to his feet. He took a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving his sobbing son. “Bye, Jonny,” Clark whispered, then turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The car ride home was a special kind of torture. 

Jonny cried himself to exhaustion in his car seat, his breath hitching in his sleep. You drove with white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, tears of frustration and grief streaming silently down your own face. 

You were angry at Clark for existing, angry at yourself for your anger, and heartbroken for your son who was caught in the middle of a storm he couldn’t possibly understand.

That night, after you’d tucked a sleeping, hiccupping Jonny into bed, you collapsed onto your own couch, utterly spent. The silence of the house was a mockery. You jumped when your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

It was Clark.

I am so sorry. I never wanted to upset him. Or you. I’ll give you all the space you need.

You stared at the message, sighing deeply. 

You didn’t reply that night. But two days later, you sent a text. You had to give this a real shot, and he hadn’t done anything wrong other than get Jonny ridiculously attached. Damn, his charm.

Feel free to come over for dinner tomorrow. 6 PM.

His reply was instantaneous.

I’ll be there.

You would probably regret it, but what else could you do? Everything had changed the day Clark saw you two at the park.

So, the following evening, Clark arrived precisely at six, holding a simple bunch of sunflowers, more cookies, and a look of cautious hope. Dinner was still strained, but the edge of panic was gone. You talked about neutral topics—the weather, your respective work. Jonny, still a little wary, watched Clark from the safety of your lap.

When it was time for bed, Clark looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. You took a deep breath and nodded. “You can help if you want.”

You watched from the doorway, as he tucked Jonny into his small bed, your arms crossed, but this time the anger was gone. Replaced by a weary, complicated ache. 

This was what you had wanted, right? This was what you had missed. Why'd it feel like this then?

Clark came out of the room a few moments later, and you both sat on the couch, opposite ends, and waited.

You spoke first.

“Look, Clark, I-”

“Wait, before you speak, let me just say this,” Clark interjected, his voice low and earnest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor as if gathering courage. “I know this is hard. I know it feels messy and confusing and… wrong, somehow. And I know that’s my fault.”

He finally looked up.

“For three years, you built a life. A good life. A safe, predictable, loving life for our son. And I just… crashed back into it. I’m a variable you didn’t account for. A complication. And I see the toll it’s taking on you, having to manage his feelings and mine, and I…” His voice broke. “I hate that I’m the source of your stress. After everything you’ve been through alone, the last thing you need is more weight to carry.”

Tears welled in your eyes but you didn't dare let them fall.

“I’m not asking for things to go back to how they were,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m just asking for a chance to earn a place in this life you built. However small. However slow. I want to be someone who makes your life easier, not harder. I want to be a partner in this, in raising our son, in whatever way you’ll let me. Even if that just means being the guy who does bedtime so you can have ten minutes to yourself.”

The last of your defenses crumbled. A sob escaped you, and you covered your face with your hands. In an instant, he was there, not touching you, but close, his presence a steady warmth.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out between tears. “I’m so angry and I don’t know how to stop.”

“Then don’t,” he whispered. “Be angry. I can take it. I deserve it. Just… don’t shut me out. Let me help you carry it.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. You saw the man you had fallen in love with all those years ago. You saw the pain you had caused him, and the pain his absence had caused you. It was a tangled, miserable knot.

“It’s not going to be easy,” you whispered.

“I don’t expect it to be.”

“I’m still so angry.”

“I know. And you have every right to be.”

You took a shaky breath. “We have to take it slow. For Jonny. For us.”

A flicker of hope, so fragile it made your heart ache, lit his features. “Slow is good. Slow I can do.”

The attempt to ‘get back together for the sake of the kid’ began in earnest after that. It was a well-intentioned disaster.

You tried to force the picture-perfect family narrative, and it felt like wearing a sweater that was two sizes too small—constricting and painfully obvious.

Clark started coming over for family dinners three times a week. The first one, he brought a casserole from his mother. It was delicious, but the air was so thick and you were so anxious you could barely swallow. You’d sit at the table, making conversation about your days while Jonny chattered happily, oblivious to the chasm between the two adults. Clark would help with the dishes, his shoulder brushing yours in the tiny kitchen, and you’d both flinch away as if scalded.

He tried to take you both to the planetarium. You sat in the dark, Jonny mesmerized by the stars above babbling mindlessly, while you and Clark sat in stiff silence, a full seat of space between you. It was a mockery of the dates you used to have, where he’d whisper fun facts about any and everything in your ear, his arm wrapped securely around you.

Each time Clark came over though, you couldn’t quite shake the ache of emotions that you couldn’t name, watching the two interact.

One evening, Clark arrived for dinner and Jonny’s bedtime, a part of the day that Jonny had really started to love. 

He tucked him into bed, reading him a story and when he was fast asleep, he finally stood and crept out, closing the door softly behind him. “He's perfect,” Clark whispered, his eyes shining.

You were particularly irritated that day, Jonny giving you a harder time than most all day, and then being perfectly fine once Clark showed up. So hearing that, naturally sent you over the edge.

“He is,” you agreed, crossing your arms. “He's been perfect every day for the last two and a half years.”

He flinched, your attitude clearly apparent. “Okay… I don’t-” Clark began but you interrupted him.

“Okay?”

Clark frowned, then huffed, clearly confused, “Did I do something wrong?”

The question, so genuinely confused, was the final straw. All the forced civility, the swallowed resentment, the performative family dinners—it all boiled over.

“Wrong?” you repeated, your voice dangerously quiet. “You want to know what’s wrong, Clark? This!” You gestured wildly between the two of you. “This… whatever this is! You, showing up for dinner like a guest. Us, making conversation while our son, our son, who you didn’t even know existed a month ago, looks back and forth between us like we’re a fascinating, broken TV show!”

His face fell, the cautious hope shattering. “Well, I’m trying. I’m trying to follow your lead. You said slow.”

“This isn’t slow, it’s fake!” you shot back, tears of frustration springing to your eyes. “It’s you playing house, and me letting you, because I feel guilty for being the one who was actually here! I did the night feedings, Clark. I held him through every fever. I taught him his ABCs. And now you get to waltz in with a casserole and a storybook and get the hero’s welcome? It’s not fair!”

The words hung in the air, ugly and true. You were finally saying it, putting a name to the feeling that was gnawing at you. 

Jealousy. 

The deep, festering jealousy that he got to be the fun, exciting new parent while you were the one who had done the hard, lonely work.

Clark stared at you, the hurt in his eyes shifting into something else. He hadn’t seen it from that angle.

“You think I’m trying to be the hero?” he asked, his voice hollow.

“What does it look like?” you cried. “You’re the fun one! The one who flies him around on your shoulders and brings him cookies! I’m the one who has to be the bad guy, who has to drag him away from you, who has to enforce the rules and the bedtimes.”

He was silent for a long moment, absorbing the blow. When he spoke again, his voice was raw. “You’re right. I… I don’t know how to ever make this right. I missed everything. His first steps, his first words… ”

“His first everything,” you confirmed, the bitterness still seeping through. “I did it alone, Clark. Because you weren’t there.”

“I would have been!” he insisted, getting frustrated now that this conversation was happening again. “If I had known, I would have moved heaven and earth. You have to believe that.”

“Do I?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You left. After our fight, you just… disappeared. That’s what you do when things get hard, isn’t it? You run. You proved my point. I was alone. I was sick, and scared, and I went through a pregnancy and a birth that nearly broke me, and you were in Smallville, licking your wounds because I hurt your feelings!”

He looked as if you’d slapped him, again. The truth of your words, even spoken in anger years ago, hung between you. He had run.

“I was wrong,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “About everything. The way I balanced my life… my fears… I was a coward. You were right. And my cowardice cost me the two most important people in my life.”

His admission didn’t bring the satisfaction you thought it would. It only made the ache worse. You were playing house, and both of you were terrible actors.

“Clark…”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to lose him again. I can’t lose you. I loved you, gosh, I still do. I never stopped. It was just-”

The words you had longed to hear for years now felt like a threat. 

“Don’t. You can’t just say that, Clark,” you said, interrupting him, your voice trembling. “You can’t just sweep in after three years and expect everything to be okay. You don’t get to love me. Not after you made me feel so alone when I needed you the most. This is all happening way too fast. This… this arrangement isn’t working anymore. It’s confusing for Jonny and it’s killing me.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“I’m saying maybe we need to formalize this. Visitation rights. A schedule. You can be his father, Clark. I would never keep him from you. But we can’t… we can’t keep pretending we’re a happy family.”

The hope in his eyes died. He nodded slowly, the movement heavy with defeat. “Okay,” he said, the same hollow, accepting word he’d used when he walked out the door years ago. “If that’s what you want.”

You flinched hearing those same words all over again. He probably didn’t even realize that those were the same words he said to you three years ago. It felt like a slap and a wake up call all at the same time. 

God, what were you doing? You couldn’t let history repeat itself, not when Jonny is involved this time. Clark stood to leave, his figure silhouetted in the doorway.

As he turned to go, you spoke, your voice small, finally voicing the words that ended your relationship all those years ago. “Clark, I know I called you a coward.”

He paused, not looking back.

“But I was one, too,” you admitted, the truth finally breaking free. “I was so hurt and so angry, and I said things I can never take back. And for that I am sorry. I let you go. I let you believe I didn’t want you. I built this whole life without you, and I convinced myself I was fine. But I wasn’t. I missed you every single day.”

Clark slowly turned around. There were tears streaming down his face, glistening in the dim nightlight. He didn’t say anything. He just walked back across the room and wrapped his arms around you. 

You immediately sobbed into his chest, years of loneliness, fear, and anger finally pouring out. He held you, his own body shaking with quiet tears.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You cried even harder.

You stood there for a long time, holding each other, with your sleeping son just doors down.

It certainly wasn't a magical fix, but it was a start. The pretense of a happy, instant family was stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest rubble of what was broken.

Clark didn't come over for a ‘family dinner’ that week. Instead, he asked if he could take Jonny to the park, just the two of them. You agreed, your heart a nervous flutter in your chest as you watched your son skip off, his small hand trustingly engulfed in his father's. When they returned, Jonny was buzzing with stories about how Clark had pushed him on the swing ‘all the way to the sky!’ and how they'd shared a soft pretzel. Clark's eyes met yours over Jonny's head and you were able to give each other a soft smile.

The formal visitation schedule you'd threatened became a quiet, mutual agreement. Tuesdays and Thursdays, Clark would pick Jonny up from daycare. Every other Saturday, he'd have him for the whole day. It was structured, predictable, and it gave you the one thing you'd been desperately missing: space to breathe.

It was easy to trust Clark with Jonny, it was harder to trust yourself to let go. 

But you both learned. Clark made mistakes. He once let Jonny have ice cream right before dinner, and you had to bite your tongue hard. He called you, panicked, when Jonny scraped his knee, and you talked him through cleaning and bandaging it, your voice calm and steady over the phone. It was the first time you felt like a team again.

As winter began to roll around, a harsh storm came too. The power flickered and went out in your neighborhood. Jonny, frightened by the booming thunder, was clinging to you, his little body trembling. You were trying to light candles with one hand while holding him with the other when a soft knock came at the door.

It was Clark. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his coat soaked. “I was nearby,” he said, which you knew was a lie. He'd probably heard Jonny's whimpers from across the city. “I thought you might need... I don't know. A flashlight? Moral support?”

You let him in, too relieved to question it. Jonny immediately reached for him. “Cwark! The sky is loud!”

Clark took him into his arms, his large hand cradling Jonny's head. “I know, buddy. It's just the clouds bumping into each other. It can't hurt you.” He sat on the floor with him, right there in the candlelit living room, and began to tell a silly, rambling story about a friendly thundercloud who was just looking for his lost lightning bolt. Jonny's tears stopped, replaced by wide, captivated eyes.

You watched them, your heart doing a slow, painful thaw. This wasn't the ‘fun’ parent showing off like you previously thought. This was a father comforting his son. This was Clark, using his innate gentleness to shield his child from fear. You couldn’t be upset with that.

The other changes came slowly after too. Clark started asking you questions—real questions. 

"What was his first word?" 

"What stories did you tell him when he couldn't sleep?" 

"What else scares him?"

“What’s his least favorite food?”

He listened, truly listened, to your answers, scribbling notes in a small, battered journal you'd never seen before, trying to learn everything he could about Jonny. Sometimes he would even sneak in questions about you too.

“How have you been today?”

“Do you still like this restaurant?”

“Do you need me to get you anything?”

“Do you still go out to the farmer’s market once a month?”

As un-slick as he was, you were secretly starting to enjoy that part too.

One afternoon, he showed up at your door with a bag of groceries. “Ma sent her famous chili recipe,” he said, looking hopeful. “I thought maybe I could make it here? So Jonny can try it. And... so you don't have to cook.”

You nodded and let him into the kitchen. He moved around with a familiar ease, chopping vegetables and humming softly. Jonny sat at the kitchen table, coloring, occasionally holding up his masterpiece for Clark's approval. 

The scene was so domestic, so warm, it made your chest ache. But this time, the ache wasn't from anger or loss. It was from the terrifying, hopeful realization that this could be real, that you wanted this. You wanted him.

Later, after Jonny was in bed and the dishes were done, you and Clark sat on the couch with cups of hot cocoa, bodies pressed close to one another. The silence between you was comfortable.

“You've done an incredible job with him. All by yourself. Thank you again for letting me be here.”

The praise settled deep in a part of you that had felt so inadequate for so long. This time you didn’t snap back and you couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face.

“I know I can't ever get those years back,” he continued, his voice thick. "But I want to spend every day from now on proving to you that I'm here. Not because of some schedule, but because this... this is where I belong. With him. With you. If you'll have me."

You looked at him then—really looked. You saw the man who had flown across the city in a storm to calm his son. The man who was patiently learning every detail of your lives. The man who had held you while you fell apart and didn't let go. 

The love you thought had been buried under years of hurt was still there waiting for a moment to reignite.

You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against his. He stilled, his breath catching. Then, Clark turned his hand, palm up, and laced his fingers through yours. His grip was warm, solid, real.

“I'm still scared,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

“Me too,” Clark confessed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “But I'm more scared of a life without you both in it.”

That was all it took. You leaned forward, your eyes fluttering closed, and pressed your lips to his. It was slow, tender, and full of three years of yearning. It tasted of salt from dried tears and the faint, sweet hint of cocoa. His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, his touch so reverent it made you want to weep all over again. When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, foreheads resting together.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words no longer a threat, but a promise. “I never stopped.”

“I love you, too, Clark,” you breathed, the truth of it washing over you like a warm wave. “I always will.”

From that night on, everything shifted. The visits weren't just visits anymore. Clark's presence in your home became as natural as breathing. 

Clark stayed for movie nights on the couch, his arm around you, Jonny curled up asleep between you. He was there for the messy Sunday mornings, making pancake batter from scratch while Jonny ‘helped,’ covering every surface in flour. He was there to unclog the drain you'd been battling for a week, and to hold your hair back when you caught a random stomach bug, his face etched with concern.

The love you rebuilt this time around was stronger. It was a choice you made every single day, to trust, to forgive, to move forward together.

The topic of moving in together came up naturally one evening as you were folding a mountain of laundry, Jonny's tiny socks mixed in with Clark's flannels.

“This place is getting a little small for the three of us,” you mentioned offhandedly, pairing one of Jonny's socks with a blue one that had a rocket ship on it.

Clark looked up from folding a towel, his eyes soft. “My lease is up next month.”

You met his gaze, a silent question passing between you. “There's a three-bedroom for rent two blocks over,” you said softly. “It has a pretty big backyard.”

The smile that spread across his face was like the sun breaking through the clouds. “A backyard,” he repeated, as if it were the most magical word he'd ever heard. “Jonny would love that.”

And that was that. You all moved in together into the new place.

His books appeared on your shelves, his toothbrush in the holder next to yours and Jonny’s. The designated mugs were joined by a small, blue plastic one with a picture of Superman on it. Your small, fiercely protected world expanded to comfortably, perfectly, fit him.

One Saturday morning, a few months after he'd officially moved in, you were all in the kitchen. Clark was manning the stove, flipping pancakes with intense focus. Jonny was in his high chair, talking happily and banging a spoon on the tray.

You were pouring orange juice, watching them, your heart so full you thought it might burst. This was it. This was the future you'd once believed in.

Clark slid a perfectly golden pancake onto a plate and turned to bring it to Jonny. "Alright, buddy, breakfast is—"

“Thank you, daddy!” Jonny chirped, clear as a bell, reaching his chubby hands out for the plate. 

The world stopped.

Clark froze mid-step, the plate hovering in the air. 

His eyes, wide and disbelieving, shot to you, then back to Jonny. The word echoed in the sudden silence of the kitchen. He was so used to hearing the struggled ‘Cwark’ from Jonny, but this, this was everything.

He slowly placed the plate on Jonny's tray, his hands trembling. He knelt down, bringing himself to Jonny's eye level, his voice a choked whisper. “What did you say, buddy?”

Jonny, already stuffing pancake into his mouth, just grinned, a smear of syrup on his cheek. "Thank you for the pancakes, daddy!"

A sob ripped from Clark's throat. He buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking. You were at his side in an instant, your hand on his back, your own vision blurry with tears.

“Hey,” you murmured, rubbing circles on his back. “Hey, it's okay.”

He looked up at you, his face streaked with tears, “When... when did he learn that?” he choked out.

You smiled through your own tears, cupping his face. “We've been practicing,” you admitted softly. “For a few weeks now. I told him that you were his daddy, his very own superhero, and that whenever he felt ready, he could call you that.”

Clark stared at you, the magnitude of it all and then pulled you into a crushing hug, then a soft kiss, his body still trembling. “Thank you,” he wept into your hair. “Thank you.”

You held him, this strong man, brought to his knees by a single word from his son. In that moment, surrounded by the smell of pancakes and syrup, with Jonny's happy words and Clark’s loving embrace, every moment leading up to this felt worth it.

And as Clark finally pulled back, wiping his eyes and looking at you with a love so deep it felt like coming home, you knew, without a doubt, that your future was finally, completely, and wonderfully whole.

━━━━━━━

Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark. 

And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one. 

It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?

You and Clark worked from the beginning.

He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.

—͙͘͡★—

“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…

“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout. 

Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”

You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”

Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”

With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”

“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.

He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off. 

All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…

“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”

“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”

“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.

You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”

“What, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted. 

Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”

“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”

“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”

By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname. 

—͙͘͡★—

It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless. 

You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight. 

You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest. 

It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter. 

He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin. 

Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…

—͙͘͡★—

“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”

Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought. 

You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.

You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out. 

“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”

“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”

“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely. 

“I love you,” you countered. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”

“Maybe.”

“What would I be?” 

“My girlfriend.”

“And you’d be my boyfriend,”

“Hopefully.”

“And you want that?”

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t think I'm fat?”

“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”

“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”

“That’s fine,” a kiss.

“I might get needy,”

“Mm, please do…” a nip.

Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”

“So do I.”

“I vote in every election,” 

“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.

“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”

“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”

“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”

“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”

“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”

“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”

“Oh, god… yes.”

“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”

—͙͘͡★—

So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face. 

It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips. 

Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:

—͙͘͡★—

You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.

Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?

And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks. 

“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”

His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway. 

You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”

You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”

—͙͘͡★—

No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library. 

He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”

Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair. 

Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too. 

He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up. 

It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.