#two journalists...as in they keep journals...

There's a specific kind of loneliness that exists exclusively in university boys who project their fear of intimacy onto women and ruin their perceptions of love solely to keep their fragile egos away from slipping through their fingertips and breaking down like blades of glass. 

Not because they're incapable of being loved. I'd say the situation is quite the opposite, actually. People like them are usually loved too loudly, too quickly. They become socially unavoidable before they become emotionally available— having mastered the art of making people feel personally seen while remaining uniquely difficult to access in return.

And maybe, that's where the actual problem begins.

Charm is easier to preform than vulnerability, attention is more addicting when you've never experienced a form of raw intimacy, and a real conversation probably feels worse than a pair of red, glossy lips. 

Every generation repackages the same socially gifted boy with commitment issues and calls him different names, swearing this one is different than the last.

But surprise, it's not.

This year's version just happens to wear leather jackets and lip rings to nine a.m lectures while also somehow possessing actual analytical skills in addition to social ones— perhaps the most alarming thing about Jeon Jungkook is that he isn't a business major. 

Because boys like Jeon Jungkook learn early that if they remain entertaining enough, nobody will notice how carefully they avoid stillness; as though silence might physically harm them. Does an engineering major make him interesting? Maybe. But does it fuel his hedonistic lifestyle? Not exactly. 

The bass is thudding loud enough to make the kitchen cabinets tremble with every beat, palpitating through the frat house in uneven waves. Alcohol that's cheap enough to poison you on an empty stomach spills over sticky counter tops, and the room reeks with the smell of warm beer mixed with something disgustingly similar to your ex boyfriend's cologne— you're going to throw up.

But you don't. Because, well, you can't. 

So you keep holding a cup of cranberry vodka in your hand despite accommodating a strong dislike for the drink, you keep your smile warm and flirty even though deeply missing the comfort of your bed and wanting nothing more than to rewatch Mamma Mia for the third time this month. And you keep bobbing your head along to the music even though you swear any house beat without proper lyrics would be enough to kill a fly. 

You keep your chin high and your posture straight because you need this. You need something tangible. A reaction, anything capable of sitting inside your palm until you can carry it home and pour into words later. Because you've already wasted at least three hours of your precious friday night here and you are not leaving unless you find something worth pocketing.

Luckily for you, said Jeon Jungkook is standing at the center of it all. 

His back is pressed against the kitchen counter as a girl keeps on kissing him as if the birth and death of her universe lies somewhere between his lips. Her fists are tangled in the collar of his leather jacket, tugging his body closer and closer into her smaller frame like distance is completely unnecessary, like she needs his body to melt and mold with hers to embody the entirety of proximity itself.

A familiar voice shouts his name from the living room, but Jungkook doesn't budge until someone else reaches over to steal the drink straight out of his hand, laughing into her mouth unapologetically.

He pulls away just enough to see whoever it is that's calling him, hands firming up on the girl's waist to stabilize himself. "Give me thirty seconds!" He shouts back casually.

The response is immediate. "You said that twenty minutes ago!"

"Then clearly I'm busy."

The girl in front of him rolls her eyes, hands loosening on his collar before dropping down to his chest. "You're an asshole."

"Mhm, you think?" He asks with a smirk playing on his lips, looking down at her. 

"Do you ever take a break or is your case of over sexuality a medical condition?" Mingyu complains, drinking the beer he has just taken from Jungkook's hand as their shoulders bump into each other.

Jungkook finally pulls away fully, shifting closer to Mingyu. "You're obsessed with me." 

Mingyu scoffs. "Unfortunate for Seoul's female population."

"Guys," Yugyeom interrupts, looking up from his phone with a sudden delight on his face, as if the light from his phone's screen has traveled and bloomed again behind his pupils. "Wave posted." 

The reaction arrives in less than a second, because Wave had long stopped being just another anonymous campus blog sometime during sophomore year. It became something students enthusiastically refreshed during lectures, sent feverish screenshots to group chats at ungodly hours. Because everyone somehow grew to love Wave— until they became the subject of it.

Jungkook closes his eyes briefly, sparing a fraction of a second to recollect the exasperation in his heartbeat, inhaling slowly. "I swear if this psychopath wrote about me again—" 

Yugyeom's grin widens. "Bad news, superstar." 

"For fuck's sake." Jungkook mutters, snatching the phone away from Yugyeom's hand while Mingyu's laugh echos loudly from besides.

The familiar layout of wave flashes straight into his eyes, light blue and dreamy and so fucking pretty for a blog this cruel. Well, cruel would be an exaggeration, if you weren't Jeon Jungkook.

"Oh my god." Mingyu gasps. "Second paragraph is crazy." 

"Crazy accurate." Jaehyun corrects, reaching over Jungkook's shoulder to keep reading.

"This person needs psychiatric help." He says flatly.

"Mhm." Jaehyun hums, taking a sip of his drink. "You say that because you secretly agree with everything." 

Okay, you see, that's the problem with Wave. 

The issue had never really been the concept itself, because Wave has always been undeniably good. Jungkook can survive a day or two of public embarrassment. God knows he has spent the last two years of university building an almost concerning amount of immunity to people's uncalled opinions. The problem is that whoever it is that's sitting behind that stupid light blue website is unsettlingly gifted at noticing things they absolutely shouldn't. The tiny, quiet things people lock somewhere safe beneath their hearts and reveal only when they trust someone with their lives. 

It suffocates him sometimes, not that he'd ever say it like that.

"I'd rather die than agree with this hypocrite." He says instead.

Jaehyun nods dismissively. "Right."

The girl beside Jungkook leans over his shoulder, eyes laced with curiosity. "Wait, keep reading." 

"Use your damn phone." He shuts her off immediately, handing the phone back to Yugyeom.

Yugyeom grabs his phone in one hand while he shakes Jungkook's shoulder dramatically with the other. "Did you do something to this writer we don't know of?"

"Why are you acting like i personally asked to be publicly humiliated?" 

Mingyu shrugs. "Because you clearly enjoy it a little.

"I actually don't." Jungkook argues. 

Majority of the people around him dissolve slowly, disappearing into the crowd to find their own group of friends to gossip on the article that just got posted, leaving Jungkook with his own group of friends who unfortunately do not make up the IQ of a normal person even when merged together.

"Hey," Jungkook says like he suddenly remembered something so crucial, angling his body towards Jaehyun. "Have you seen Mark?" 

Jaehyun's brows pull together. "Thought he was coming later."

"He texted me like an hour ago." 

"Your secret little rendezvous?" Yugyeom asks knowingly, wiggling his eyebrows.

Jungkook scoffs lightly, rolling his eyes. "Shut the fuck up."

Mingyu gasps dramatically. "You're cheating on us with the music major?"

"None of you are funny." Jungkook says, shaking his head once before letting his gaze drift around the kitchen while Mingyu and Yugyeom start arguing about something else entirely.

Then he spots you.

Oh. 

Jungkook knows you. Okay, he doesn't exactly know you, but he knows of you. Through Mark, through Yugyeom, through this and through that but never truly by heart.

You, with a face carefully designed by gods, standing there mindlessly as if you aren't the textbook definition of beauty itself. You, who'd without a doubt get his cock rock solid in mere seconds by rolling your eyes and laughing at how dumb he is. You, who'd pretend to not be fazed by him while very obviously blessing him with flirty smiles and inviting eyes.

You would be…mildly inconvenient for him.

"Why are you staring at her like that?" Jaehyun asks from besides him. 

Jungkook tears his eyes away immediately. "You're seeing things."

Mingyu laughs loudly, chiming in a beat later. "You literally are." 

"Shut up." 

"You don't even know her like that." Yugyeom adds, grinning. 

"I know enough." 

Jaehyun lifts his brows accusingly. "That is?"

Jungkook opens his mouth, but closes it again in no time. Because somehow saying prettiest girl on campus who'd drop him to his knees by casually using words he has to mentally spell twice feels a little excessive for a girl he's never had a proper conversation with in his life. 

"Mark's friends with her, right?" He asks instead. 

Jaehyun nods slowly, a little suspicious. "Yeah." 

"Cool." Jungkook replies. And before any of his friends can say another word, he's pushing himself away from the counter and walking towards you. 

Mingyu gasps dramatically behind him. "Oh my god, he's approaching." 

"Act natural!" Yugyeom shouts over the music. 

Jungkook scoffs in exasperation, but he doesn't turn around, walking towards you as he flips them off by waving a hand behind. 

You notice him coming over almost immediately. Because Jeon Jungkook isn't exactly one to go unnoticed by many, and that sadly seems to cover you too. There is something annoyingly conspicuous about him, visible even in places that are so crowded you lose your friend within the bare minute of getting there. 

Maybe it's the broad shoulders, maybe it's the tattoos and the lip rings that usually wink at you before even he gets the chance to, or maybe it's the fact that everybody seems to orbit around him with a push and pull so heavy it feels like he's the center of gravity itself.

It's probably the shoulders. 

Miyeon, your gorgeous best friend, notices him too as his steps get closer and closer to where you are standing. Her lips twitch knowingly around the rim of her cup. "Well," She murmurs into her drink. "This should be interesting." 

Jungkook stops right in front of you before you can reply to your friend. "Hey." He greets easily. And annoyingly enough, his voice sounds exactly the way the rest of him looks.

You tilt your head slightly, half empty cup swaying between your fingers. "Hey yourself."

Jungkook blinks once before letting out a breathy laugh. "Oh, this is already going badly for me." 

Miyeon snorts into her drink, but you quickly nudge her arm before she says something she shouldn't. "I'm looking for Mark." Jungkook continues, gaze shifting back towards you. "Have you seen him?" 

"You're looking for Mark?" You repeat, cocking a brow. 

And for some reason, Jungkook's smile widens. "We were supposed to meet." 

The answer catches you a little off-guard. Not because Jungkook knowing Mark is strange. It's not, everybody knows Mark. But because there is something in the way he says it. He's saying it seriously, with intention. Like whatever they're meeting about actually matters to him and that's not something you can coherently place somewhere solid in your head.

"You sound committed to that." You say before you can stop yourself.

Jungkook squints his eyes. "I can commit to things."

You take a sip of your drink, taking your time with the action as your brows raise with something laced with accusation. "You sure?"

Jungkook's eyes widen just slightly as Miyeon turns away, trying to hide her laughter. But she cackles anyway. "That's crazy." He says, a loose grin forming on his face. "You know absolutely nothing about me." 

"You don't exactly strike me as somebody mysterious." 

"Yeah?" He breathes. "What do i strike you as?"

You roll your eyes, poking the inside of your cheek with your tongue. And whatever that happens in Jungkook's chest— it's deeply unfortunate. 

This is exactly his type, horrifically so. Pretty has never been an issue for Jungkook, he has been surrounded with pretty all his life. Pretty and mean, on the other hand, is apparently where the problem in his pants begin. 

But before either of you can continue, Jungkook's name is yelled from across the room. "There you are!" Mingyu shouts, throwing an arm around Jungkook's shoulders after he makes his way towards you. "Some girl is throwing up on Jaehyun's shoes because you disappeared." 

Jungkook closes eyes briefly, inhaling a long breath. "See? What's commitment if not that?" 

You laugh despite yourself, loud and real and so fucking pretty Jungkook thinks he might've forgotten how to breathe properly. 

"I'll tell Mark you were looking for him." You say. 

"Appreciate it." He says before stepping backward towards the kitchen, then pauses suddenly. "By the way," He starts, causing you to raise a brow. "You're prettier than your articles sound." 

Your expression freezes for a beat, lips parted and head still tilted. A lazy smirk dances on Jungkook's features before disappearing back into the crowd behind Mingyu, leaving you standing there with your drink still halfway raised. 

Miyeon slowly turns towards you. "What the fuck was that about?" 

Your eyes linger on the hallway Jungkook disappeared into, gaze floating like you've just wandered into an ocean with no trace of the start and end. Because no, you don't have an idea on whatever the fuck that was either.

Your phone buzzes before your thoughts can swallow you up any further.

namjoon: still awake?

Your eyes flick between the small digital clock on the corner and the text in the middle of your screen before your fingers move over the keyboard.

you: i'm at yugyeom's party

namjoon: you posted during a frat party?

You roll your eyes even though he can't see you, though you're sure he feels it behind the screen.

you: it was queued

namjoon: ah

namjoon: coffee at mine?

namjoon: you can sleep over

You lift your head at something Miyeon says, nodding your head without really listening to what she's talking about. You tuck your bottom lip into your teeth, weighting your options before deciding to give in.

you: wow, the honor

you: on my way

The city feels different after midnight.

Maybe not quieter, because noise never really dies down on friday nights. People like to laugh, dance, live. Because modern time doesn't really allow love anymore. Because people spare friday nights for themselves and keep it tucked somewhere they know it belongs. Because people yearn to belong and time doesn't like to stretch and bend around desire. It just moves. 

The city feels softer, as if somebody reached over and mellowed the space so that everyone could find a place for themselves. At least, that's exactly the way you feel when your uber drops you off outside of Namjoon's apartment building twenty minutes after you leave Yugyeom's place. The clock is ticking past two in the morning, and by the time you make your way upstairs, your feet are aching and your social battery has officially ran out.

When the door opens, Namjoon greets you with that same old warmth you've had memorized for nearly four years— almost the entirety of your college years. He gives you a hug before disappearing back into the hallway, informing you of how the coffee is almost done. 

His place is dim except for the kitchen, where a warm light spills in and drapes over the entire apartment in a yellow hue. It always smells the same here. Not in a weird way, not at all. Just very…specific. It smells like books that have already been read at least twice and expensive coffee beans that are too niche for you to have any understanding of— because to the normal person, they all just taste the same.

Definitely not to Namjoon. 

You slip your heels off by the door, following him into the kitchen after dropping your purse somewhere on the couch. "Do you want to lose all the sleep left in your system?" You ask, gaze dragging over the empty coffee mugs on the counter. 

Namjoon stands in the kitchen with his back turned to you, dressed comfortably in some gray sweatpants and a dark colored hoodie. His glasses sit low on his nose, hair falling onto his forehead in messy strands. "I'm writing something." He says, a soft smile forming on his face as he pours in the hot liquid carefully. "How was the party?"

You climb onto the counter, plopping your body onto the marble as your legs dangle above the height. You unashamedly stare at him for a moment, taking in the sweats and the glasses and the fact that he somehow still looks put together despite the hour. Because Namjoon looks a little unfair like this— annoyingly intelligent and completely at home.

"It was loud." 

Namjoon hums, handing you the mug. "The alcohol was terrible, i spent the whole night trying to keep Miyeon away from Yugyeom, and someone cried in the bathroom after throwing up on the floor."

"Sounds typical to me." 

You take a sip of the coffee, then groan immediately because it's still too hot to drink, before setting it down with exaggerated annoyance dancing on your face. You trail behind him into the living room, pulling your legs beneath yourself as you sink into the couch while he settles right next to you with his laptop balanced over one knee.

"You're actually writing." You say, eyeing him over the rim of your mug.

"I told you." Namjoon says, giving you a brief glance before he turns his attention back onto the screen. 

Your eyes absentmindedly drift towards the screen of his laptop, floating over the margins that are filled with notes, sections that are highlighted, pages filled with comments and edits that are all very Namjoon. And for a second, for the entirety of a thousand milliseconds that feel way longer than it actually is, your own laptop sitting abandoned inside the void of your apartment suddenly feels eccentrically heavier. 

"My advisor hates me." 

Namjoon doesn't look up. "Did he say that?"

You sink lower into the couch, sipping your coffee slowly without forgetting to blow onto it. You can not burn your mouth again, not a chance. "No, but he looked disappointed." 

Namjoon sighs. "I know it sucks and you want to strangle him to the depths of death, but he just has high expectations from you."

You groan dramatically. "It's so annoying." 

Namjoon hums, nodding along as his eyes scan through the screen. "How's the thesis going?" 

That's when you gift him the pleasure of absolute silence. Because unfortunately, deeply unfortunately, somewhere along the way, your thesis and Wave started bleeding a little too much into each other and now everything feels way too personal and disgustingly intimate. 

Not entirely, of course. Wave is still just a tool for you to learn and observe without tracing everything back to yourself. But lately, it has started to feel a little less objective and a little more on the edge. 

You didn't lose the hang of it, not really. You're still the same girl writing with the same devotion for the same purpose. Just…there has been small slips here and there, noticeable only to people who know you well enough to search for them. 

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. "It's progressing." 

Namjoon's eyes drift towards you, and your gaze lifts until it catches his own in the air. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You ask when he stares at you for a second too long. 

"You don't sound too truthful." 

You scoff, then roll your eyes before grabbing the nearest pillow and throwing it in his face. But being the man he is, Namjoon catches it without looking. Damn him. 

"You write about Jungkook a lot." He says suddenly. 

You shrug. "He's easy material." 

"You've written about him four times by now."

You pause, squinting your eyes as every piece of writing you've ever published in the last two years flashes through your eyes. Because there is no fucking way you've written about that tattooed excuse of sex on legs for four entire times. "Four?" 

"Four." He repeats. 

You drop your shoulders in defeat. "You're very unlikeable tonight." 

"I'm just providing you with my opinions." He says, typing while speaking. "You can't ask for help if you aren't going to take my advice." 

You pull your knees closer against your chest. "I don't ask for your opinions." 

"You called me crying over an econ elective last year." 

You sit up immediately, placing the mug onto the coffee table. "Okay, first of all, it wasn't entirely like that—" 

"I distinctly remember you saying, and i quote, what do i do now, Joon, my future is over." He states dramatically, voice disgustingly sweet and high pitched as he mocks you.

You stare at him, frozen and absolutely horrified. "I was vulnerable." 

Namjoon hums, and you let yourself fall backwards dramatically against the couch cushions, throwing an arm over your face as if that's enough to physically protect yourself from embarrassment and humiliation. 

It doesn't, of course. Because nothing ever really preserves you from embarrassment when it's Kim Namjoon you're talking about.

A comfortable silence settles into the living room, allowing you drown yourself inside the small indicators of life around you. You can hear his keyboard clicking softly as he keeps working on something you have no idea about, the occasional scratch of the ceramic mug against the wood table, the faint jazz pieces playing from the speakers hidden somewhere further inside the apartment. And just as you were about to part your lips and make a comment on how his furniture is so outdated, he beats you to it.

"Oh." 

Your arm slowly lowers from your face, eyes squinting and peaking above it. "What?" 

"Are you still helping Mark with that project?" 

Oh yourself.

Everything in you physically stills, slowly and painfully, like dread is begging to be felt properly until your bones ache and sizzle with the weight of it. Because you— catastrophically, miserably, terribly; had forgotten all about it. Not in a small, oops, i should probably text him back way either. No, you had forgotten in a way that bordered on a severe case of friendship betrayal and negligence. 

You close your eyes, inhaling a long breath. "Hypothetically speaking…" 

Namjoon finally looks up. "You forgot, didn't you?"

You did, and of course he notices. Because if Kim Namjoon has spent four years studying journalism, he has spent six studying you.

Namjoon had become one of those people that had entered your life quietly yet stayed just as loudly, making himself impossible to imagine a life without in absolutely no time. Just like wine or Wave or the concerning amount of mediocre sex you've been having since your last boyfriend. 

You had met him during the first few weeks of your freshman year when he was already a junior and head editor of the university journal. Back then, he existed in your head less as a person and more as a terrifying academic urban legend you'd never admit looking up to. But you didn't have to admit it out loud, because even the older students spoke about him with an obnoxious amount of respect.

You hated him. 

But obviously, that didn't last long. As you kept sharing nights filled with stories, words and worlds no one knew existed besides the two of you, he started to matter. He'd remembered your exam dates, bought you coffee during finals, edited your essays at three in the morning. He'd answer your phone calls involving emotional breakdowns over electives and boys and broken sink pipes, then solve whatever crisis you were having in little to no time. 

So naturally, somewhere along the way, your editor had turned into an older brother and became annoyingly good at reading you— so much that you're sure he keeps a version of you that's all bare and vulnerable somewhere hidden in his furthest drawers.

Because he knows you. Good enough to notice the tiny moments where Wave feels a little too personal. To notice the way that sometimes, your thesis blurs into the rest of your life and you get caught up in the gravity of it all, so much that the project you'd promised to help with weeks ago somehow slips away from your mind despite Mark being one of your dearest friends. 

Because Namjoon doesn't forget, and Mark will definitely kill you if you don't show up at his studio with breakfast and two cups coffee by tomorrow morning. 

Musicians who are brave enough to lay their souls open between rhymes and harmonies have always felt intimate.

Music is vulnerable, always has been. Everyone knows that. But there is something utterly naked and personal beyond the in reach vulnerability of it all. 

It's the little things.

The version of them that existed on a random Tuesday in October, the argument they never really recovered from yet still shaped them into whoever they are today. The person they almost loved, the one they did love…They leave pieces of themselves behind between late nights and early mornings, and it never matters whether it's accidental or not. Because everything they touch transitions into something that carries their traces and that's enough to feel their souls on top of your own.

And, i think, that truly sums up Mark Lee as a person. 

Because Mark has always felt like someone composed of the little things. He'd attach songs to memories you won't realize matters until months later, respond to texts even if it wakes him up from his sweetest dreams. He'd turn feelings into poems and records then archive them in anything that's permanent. 

In college, people tend to think popularity belongs to the loudest person in the room. But despite being loved through the depths of the ocean until the very end of Milky Way, Mark Lee has never really been loud.

Just unforgettable. 

Three days later, you find yourself standing outside of Mark's studio with two iced coffees in one hand and a kind of resentment that's loud yet entirely unserious in the other. Because Mark has spent the last forty eight hours guilt tripping you through frantic phone calls and dramatic text messages. And you, for some reason, can not for the life of you bring yourself accept the fact that you've forgotten your promise and properly apologize.

At least you got the coffees. 

You push the studio door open without knocking, because Mark has never once respected your privacy and therefore doesn't exactly deserve it in return. As the door falls unleashed and sunlight spills until it drapes over you in a golden glow, there are a few things you expect. A Justin Bieber song Justin Bieber himself has probably forgotten about, unfinished coffees and half empty beer bottles scattered around the room, maybe even his ex girlfriend lounging somewhere in the corner because you're almost entirely certain Mark would slip straight back into her heart if she ever left it even slightly open. 

But Jeon Jungkook is not one of them.

He's sitting besides the mixing desk, leaned back comfortably in his chair wearing a black hoodie with headphones hanging around his neck, one leg bouncing lazily beneath the table while he scrolls through something on his phone.

He looks up from the screen when the weight of your presence becomes impossible to ignore. He blinks once, twice, then smiles. 

Shit, he has dimples.

"Well," Jungkook says slowly, leaning back further into the chair as he drags his eyes over you. "This just got better than i expected." 

Your reply comes immediately. "No." 

Jungkook blinks, eyes widening just slightly. "I…didn't even say anything." 

"You thought of it." 

He cocks a brow. "Thought of what?" 

You roll your eyes, dropping your purse onto the table before leaning your hip against it. "You know what." You say, and he silently stares at you for a second longer before the corner of his mouth starts twitching. 

This doesn't make sense. Not at all. 

Because certain people feel attached to certain places long before they step into them. Mark belongs in studios and beneath the stars and somewhere right in the middle of your heart. Namjoon belongs beneath the warmth of yellow kitchen lights and homes that silence everything else until it's quieter than the rest of the world. Miyeon belongs anywhere between flowers and pretty cafes that somehow never match up to her beauty. 

And Jungkook…Jungkook belongs beneath flashing lights that paint his features in colors that would look good on nobody but him. He belongs in crowded spaces and with girls who lean in a little too close whenever he speaks. He belongs anywhere loud and alive.

Just not here. Because music feels too intimate for him somehow. 

"You know." He says after a moment, still smiling. "I thought there was a chance i imagined you." 

You let out a low chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest after placing the coffees onto the table. "That's a little dramatic." 

"I'm being dead serious." 

"Well, you approached me." You say, tilting your head slightly, letting your eyes drift over him before they return back to his face. "And you don't seem to have that strong of an imagination."

"You're mean."

You groan playfully, leaning your hip against the armrest of his chair. "That's so not true." 

A small smirk plays out on his lips. "Good thing i like my girls with a little attitude." 

Pardon? Your girls?

"You're being very brave today." 

Jungkook stares at you for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek in a way that's not rude, just playful enough to carry traces of something cocky beneath it. He lets the silence melt and sit right in the middle of your bodies for a beat too long, then speaks.

"You're flirting with me right now." 

Your head snaps towards him immediately, and you almost choke on your own saliva. Not because you're shocked. How can you be when he has built a whole persona on candied words and pretty girls and an ego that's definitely bigger than what's between his legs. It's because he says it so easily, and you hate that. 

So no, absolutely not. You, flirting with Jungkook? No way in hell. 

You narrow your eyes. "No, I'm not." 

"Mhm." He hums, swinging left and right in his seat with a growing grin on his face. 

Okay, no. That's enough. You're not doing this any longer. You don't want Jeon fucking Jungkook to think he has a chance at having you naked and open and wide on his stupid iron man mattress. You don't want to demonstrate the size of his cock with your hands when Miyeon asks on girls night, and you most definitely don't want Mark walking in on you bickering like two horny teenagers with the self control of fucking rabbits in heat. 

So you change the subject. 

"You sing?" Brilliant. 

And peculiarly, his smile softens a little at your question. Not drastically, not enough for the entire room to shift and bend around him until it's his breath only you're drowning inside. But it's enough. Enough for you to notice the way something gentler briefly peeks through before hiding again. And you, for some reason, find yourself reaching over and folding it carefully to hide somewhere safe amongst all the other precious details people accidentally leave behind. Somewhere only you carry the map of and know how to find again. 

Jungkook glances up. "Sometimes." 

Sometimes. 

It's funny how he says it, like it matters too much that his tongue can not carry the weight of it, so he just shrugs it off like it's anything. Sometimes, he says. As if Mark would ever involve someone who does it just whenever. As if Mark would ever reach for something that's sitting right in middle of his soul and hand out a piece of it to just anyone. 

"You look judgemental." He adds.

You shrug. "I'm just surprised." 

Jungkook's eyebrows lift at your answer, like he knows there is another thought sitting beneath it, quietly waiting for the permission to exit. But before he can get the chance to ask about it further, the studio door suddenly swings open. 

Mark walks into the room with an amount of rush that should be concerning for this time of the morning. His hair is messy, bag is tucked beneath his arm and an iced americano is trying to balance clumsily between his fingers as he tries finding a place to squeeze himself in.

"Okay, first of all. Traffic should be considered the worse case of masochism the human kind has done to itself." Mark rambles, barely waiting for the door to close behind him before speaking, words tumbling out of his mouth in consecutive complaints. 

"And you," He kicks the door shut with his foot before continuing, pointing a finger at you. "After forty eight hours of emotional neglect, show up with iced lattes? I don't drink lattes. That's for pussies who don't understand coffee." 

You roll your eyes. "I do something nice and you still complain." 

"You completely forgot me and brought coffee out of guilt."

You pause, looking down at the table before speaking again. "It's still coffee."

Jungkook laughs quietly besides you before Mark cuts in again. "Okay, so basically," He breathes, gesturing around the room. "This is my senior project, the one I told you about three weeks ago and you forgot because you apparently don't care about me anymore. It's a short film of my album with a narrative concept." He turns to Jungkook. "He's singing." 

Your eyes drift around in silence, taking in the headphones and the sheets filled with lyrics and the fucking sometimes he threw at you as if it meant nothing.

"And you," Mark angles his body towards you. "Are helping with the writing." 

"Mark," You argue, because what can you possibly be writing? Music? You don't do music. You write people, you write anything between stories and analysis but not music.

"Don't Mark me right now. You agreed to this weeks ago." He says as he rolls his eyes, chugging down his coffee. "The story. You're writing the narrative and the emotional structure, obviously."

Oh. Right. 

Because of course Mark wouldn't just make music. No, he has always been incapable of touching one art form without dragging five others to it. Because Mark Lee is a man of passion and he won't do anything without making it entirely his. 

"Apparently you said music without context feels lonely to Yoongi's trap arrangement last week." Jungkook says without really looking at you, swinging mindlessly in his chair. 

Your head snaps towards him. "How do you know that?"

Jungkook blinks once, like he hadn't expected to say that out loud yet did anyway. His eyes flicker between you and Mark before he collects himself back together and shrugs casually. "Mark talks about you." 

That's…annoyingly sweet of him. 

"You talk about me?" You coo with a voice disgustingly candied, head tilted as you reach for Mark's arm. 

"Oh my god." Mark groans dramatically, but he doesn't pull his arm away. "No, because Jungkook, don't let her fool you. She acts all nice and sweet then suddenly you're buying her food and driving her to places." 

You open your mouth immediately, ready to defend yourself. You turn towards Jungkook, response already on the tip of your tongue, ready to be spilled— only to stop.

Because Jungkook is already looking at you. Not in a weird way, not in the way boys usually look at pretty girls when they think nobody is noticing. Just…gentle. His smile is still there, only now it has grown and molded into something smaller. The kind that doesn't really ask for attention, the kind that simply stays there because it wants to. His eyes feel softer too, like's he's really listening, sitting through the spaces of your presence until he feels it permanently engraved into his mind.

It feels a little precarious. 

And perhaps the most annoying thing about Jungkook is that the disappointment never really arrives.

Because eventually, the conversation shifts and folds itself until time starts passing in a kind of haziness where it melts into something thinner. Mark disappears into one of his passionate spirals regarding symbolism and the basics of music theory and you somehow find a way to contribute just as passionately despite not exactly having the qualifications to do so. 

That's normal. That doesn't surprise you, it has happened enough times to not be the slightest of a deal. But Jungkook, Jungkook surprises you. 

Maybe not dramatically, maybe not in ways worth writing Wave articles about. It's the little things, tiny things that somehow fill in the entire space and make their way into the dearest corners of your heart. 

Like how he listens with his entire body, the way he turns towards whoever it is that's speaking and stays there, like he genuinely thinks people deserve to be heard all the way through. The way he never interrupts Mark despite the fact that Mark tends to over explain things as if he himself personally invented art and human emotion. The way he nods along quietly, asks questions at exactly the right moments without ever interjecting anyone and reaches over to hand you your drink when you start looking for it. 

And somewhere in the middle of the complexity of it all, Jungkook sings. 

Mark points towards the recording booth in the middle of his nth rant today, and Jungkook pushes himself up from the couch besides you with a small sigh before disappearing behind the glass doors of the booth. And for some reason, your eyes follow him through each passing second, because simply standing behind a microphone with overhead headphones should not look this different on somebody. 

Because suddenly, he's stripped out of everything you've subconsciously built for him. And for some stupid, sick, twisted reason, Jungkook looks ridiculously hot like this. 

He adjusts the headphones over his ears before leaning towards the microphone slightly, eyes lowering as Mark presses something on the screen. 

His voice happens a beat of two after the music starts, and it happens big. Like waves crashing into rocks, like starts falling down the sky, like spring melting into summer and summer clashing against fall. 

It's stupid. 

He's not bad, god, you wish he was bad. No, not at all. Because Jungkook sings exactly the way the listens. Softly, fully, like he throws himself into it before realizing he's doing it. Like somewhere in the middle of every rhyme and every note and every breath, there are pieces of him patiently waiting to be discovered. 

You understand why Mark chose him. 

Jungkook drops beside you onto the couch with a tired groan after Mark decides he's poured enough of his soul for today, and you find your eyes grazing over him as he scrolls through something on his phone. 

"You're staring." Jungkook says, not even looking up from his phone.

You blink. Fuck. "Excuse me?" 

He hums, lips twitching beyond his control. "Mhm." 

You angle your body a little more towards him. "I literally wasn't." 

He nods, still not looking at you, but he's still smiling. 

You stare at his profile for a little longer as Mark works over the keyboard in silence, then find the words escaping your mouth before you can hold them in. "You sound different when you sing." You say quietly. 

Jungkook stills a little. Just a tiny, little falter that happens in his body. His eyes lift slowly from the screen, then catch yours before speaking. "Different?" He asks.

You shrug immediately, trying to fold the conversation into something drastically more casual. "Just less annoying." 

Jungkook laughs, shoulders shaking beside you. "Less annoying." He repeats, grin growing. 

You roll your eyes immediately. "Don't let it get to your head." 

"You know," He says after letting a beat pass, and you turn your head back towards him. "You say very mean things for someone who can't seem to stop staring." 

Your brows lift in offense. "I do not stare." 

He blinks. "You do." 

You scoff. "You're delusional." 

Jungkook hums softly. "Earlier, when Mark was talking—" 

You don't let him speak. At least, you try. "No."

"And then when i was recording—" 

"Jeon." 

He's fully smiling now, like he's getting the most ridiculous amount enjoyment he possibly can get from this. You stare at him in silence, lips parted and expression faltered. Jungkook stares right back at you, that stupid smile never really leaving from his lips. And for some sick and twisted reason, your stomach does a tiny little flip that irritates you through the entirety of your skin and bones. 

Then, as if god has finally acknowledged the depths of your suffering, Mark cuts in exactly at the right time. "Oh my god." He gasps. 

Jungkook blinks from next to you, gaze drifting onto him. "What?" 

Mark doesn't respond for a moment, and that's deeply concerning for a man who'd speak even at the verge of death.

You slowly sit up. "Mark?" 

His frozen state continues for a beat longer before he suddenly springs up from his chair. "No no no." 

"What's wrong?" Jungkook asks as his brows pull together, leaning onto his knees. 

"I," Mark starts, looking down at his feet before he slowly, dreadfully searches for your eyes. "I'm late." 

Jungkook scrunches his nose. "You're late for what?"

Your eyes widen when the realization slowly stretches then breaks through you. "Oh my god." You breathe dramatically. 

"Stop saying oh my god!" Jungkook snaps, thoroughly lost. 

Mark closes his eyes, taking in a long, guilty breath. "I'm supposed to be meeting up with Yerin." 

Jungkook's phone falls onto the couch. "You're meeting your ex?"

"You're late to meeting your ex." You correct. "And you're wearing that?"

Mark looks down, eyes taking in the gray sweatpants and the black hoodie he has worn so much it's practically another color now. "Oh my god." 

He quickly gathers up his belongings, then slings his bag over his shoulder before making his way to the door. He's able to take approximately three steps before he suddenly stops, and slowly, very slowly, turns to you.

"Can i take your car?" 

You blink a few times before responding. "Absolutely not." 

"Please," He begs, bending above his knees with impatience. "Please, I'll do anything. Imagine if she thinks i stood her up. She's going to leave me for good this time and I'll be left to crumble and die in my own sorrow." 

After two or five separate sequences of long inhales and deep consideration, you give in. "If you scratch it, I'll kill you."

He runs over to you fast. "Thank you, thank you. Oh my god, i love you." 

"Okay, okay. Stop." Before you even get the chance to return his hug, he's already grabbing your keys and shoving it into his bag. Jungkook stares from besides you silently until the very last second of Mark's departure, then bursts into laughter the moment the door closes shut. 

"Stop." 

"I'm trying." Jungkook says between fractions of laughter. 

You sigh. "No you're not." 

"I'm literally trying my hardest." 

Liar.

Because now, he's laughing properly and somehow it's the prettiest thing you've heard all week, minus his singing— which is a whole another problem of its own— and you feel yourself physically falter at the sound of it. 

You stare at him for a minute longer before eventually drifting your eyes towards the studio doors instead. It's irritating how you're now painfully aware of everything else all over again. Spring air brushing softly against your skin through the window, the distant sound of laughter and conversation somewhere across campus, the way Jungkook is seated close enough that if you shift half an inch closer your shoulders would probably brush. 

"So," Jungkook has finally, and thankfully, stopped laughing. Though the smile is still sitting there loosely. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys, swinging them around his finger. "Guess I'm driving you home." 

You were about to mindlessly give into defeat when suddenly, you remember one, tiny little detail. 

Jungkook doesn't have a car.

You breathe slowly. "You ride that stupid motorcycle." 

His brows lift immediately. "That stupid motorcycle?" 

Your lips part, then close again when he cuts you off, lips twitching cockily. "You remember."

You scoff loudly. "You spent like twenty minutes talking about it." 

"Mhm." 

"And your personality is unfortunately very loud." 

"Mhm." He hums, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans as he mindlessly collects his things. "You remember." He repeats with a growing grin.

"Stop saying that." You complain, following him behind through the door. 

And ten minutes later, you hate yourself. 

Genuinely.

Because now, you're standing outside beneath spring air and bright streetlights while Jungkook straddles his motorcycle like this isn't singlehandedly the worst thing that has ever happened to you. 

Because suddenly you're surrounded by things you've never considered before. Like leather jackets and silver rings and tattooed biceps you want to suffocate and die inside. 

You don't tell him that, of course. 

He glances at you over his shoulder before slipping on his helmet. "You coming?" 

There is a moment where he is met with a complete, utter silence. Because, first of all, you've never been on a motorcycle before. And second of all, there is a very physical, very obvious problem with motorcycles. 

Where the fuck are your hands supposed to go? 

Jungkook watches the way something between conflict and irritation flashes across your features, expression faltering slowly. He pauses along with you, then smiles knowingly. "You've never been on one." 

And the way he says it is absolutely stupid. Because he doesn't ask, it's not a question. He has somehow read you devastatingly well and has made a statement about it. One that is entirely correct. 

"I have not." 

"And you're scared." 

Excuse you? 

You blink. "Scared?" 

Jungkook says nothing, then places both of his legs on the sides of the vehicle as he patiently waits for you. You stare at him for long enough, then with the amount of dignity one can preserve in situations involving pussy clenching tattoos and massive biceps, you walk over. 

"Need help?" Jungkook asks as you struggle deciding how to position yourself. 

You shake your head immediately. "No." 

Lies.

Because an entire thirty seconds later, you're still trying to figure out how people get on these things without publicly humiliating themselves. 

"You know," He starts carefully, voice softer now." "I can help."

You look up slowly. "How?" 

"Come here." 

Your eyebrows pull together. "What kind of instruction is that?" 

He sighs softly, calling your name. And for some stupid reason, the way your name rolls and falls out of his mouth does something irritating to your nervous system. 

You hate that. 

Because suddenly, the air feels warmer than it did thirty minutes ago. Because suddenly, he is patiently looking at you with those pretty brown eyes of his and the space between you feels so small that the lack of distance physically blows your breath away. 

He holds a hand out towards you. "Come here." He repeats. 

You stare at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. And for reasons you will absolutely be denying later, you place your hand in his.

Jungkook's fingers close around yours immediately. Warm, firm and unreasonably effortless, as if he doesn't even think about the action twice. 

He gently guides you forward and suddenly you're standing between his arms for one devastating second too long as he explains something about where to place your foot and how to balance and honestly—

Honestly, you don't hear a single fucking word. 

Because Jungkook is standing too close. Because his voice is low and his presence is warm. Because somewhere above you, he quietly lets out that sweet laugh again and you think that's the exact moment you realize this might be becoming a bigger problem than you ever thought. 

"You listening?" He asks. 

No, you're not. Not even a little.

Some men are just plain irritating.

The kind of men who make you think you're special after two dates. The kind of men who act as if their love and desire for you is past the lethal dose, long sitting far away from what's acceptable after taking you out for one drink. 

They start remembering your birthday, then your coffee order, and then the stories you tell absentmindedly. They pay attention in all the ways that matter until suddenly, they don't. 

They start disappearing slowly. Late responses transition into cancelled dates and cancelled dates drag over white lies and empty promises. And before you know it— they're gone. 

Some people become memories and some people insist on staying as habits. Unfortunately for Kim Yugyeom, habits are significantly harder to quit.

Campus looks a little prettier at night, with string lights tangled carelessly around trees to soften the sharp corners of concrete sidewalks and buildings that usually look painfully monotone and disgustingly gray beneath daylight. Music that's floating around blends into laughter and conversations until everything feels like it's dipped into something warmer, casting the green scenery in a dimly golden hue.

People become prettier at night too. Like darkness reaches over to soften and hide all the sharp edges daylight stubbornly insists on exposing. You think it has something to do with poor lighting and the desire to dress each other up in a way that's aligned with our own fucked up fantasies, but that doesn't change the fact that you'd much rather time stops at nine in the evening instead of morning.

Miyeon walks beside you with a cup of vodka and something fruity in her hand, complaining passionately about one of her professors as if he has something personal against her and is failing her out of spite. When, in reality, she has been way too caught up in toxic ex boyfriend drama and seasonal depression.

Anyone who says spring depression is not real is lying. Because your best friend has been going through one for the entirety of march and april and may and you're not sure if it'll pass by july.

But it's fine. You love her and Mark loves her and you're sure she will be fine. Yeah, maybe Yugyeom is six feet tall with a face carefully structured by the higher powers above us. But he's utterly stupid and completely undeserving of the crazy stupid love provided by your gorgeous best friend.

"No because explain to me why participation counts in my grade." Miyeon complains beside you, taking another sip of her drink as if she has the attendance and exam results to cover up the mess caused by her miserable participation grade. 

You blink. "Because participating matters?" 

Miyeon stops walking like you've offended her beyond all measure, then turns to you very slowly. "The institution has corrupted you." 

You let out a laugh immediately, shoulder bumping against hers as the crowd thickens around you. "Maybe your GPA is a little important and passing isn't always enough." You add with a playful smile. 

"You've changed." 

"Okay." You drag out the word until she physically can not hear anything after the o.

"Namjoon did this to you. You were fun and sexy until junior year and now you're a disgusting hard copy of that man." 

You scoff. "Leave Namjoon out of this." 

Instead of responding to you, Miyeon narrows her eyes through the crowd before you can properly defend both yourself and Namjoon's imaginary honor. Your eyes follow her line of sight without thinking too much of it, and you still just a second after Miyeon does. 

Because standing near one of the food trucks with drinks sat carelessly in their hands are Mingyu and Jaehyun. But that's not the point, Mingyu and Jaehyun are fine, you've actually shared that infamous econ elective with Jaehyun during junior year and he surprisingly turned out to be sweet and worth a couple hours of your precious time. 

Jungkook, on the other hand, is not ideal. But not ideal is also fine, you can bear with non ideal to an extent. What's thoroughly, completely, utterly impossible, is Yugyeom.

God truly does not love you. 

Miyeon physically freezes besides you. And, I repeat, she doesn't subtly falter. She stills. 

Then, Jungkook looks up at exactly the wrong moment, finding your eyes and catching them in air before anyone else gets the chance to steal them away. His eyebrows lift slightly in amusement before a smile slowly spreads across his face, and it feels a little concerning the way he does it. Because Jungkook smiles like he means it. Like the smile happens to him before he can realize and reconsider. 

His line of sight is followed before any of you can do anything about it. It starts with Mingyu, then Jaehyun. Which is fine, because we've already established that Mingyu and Jaehyun are harmless. 

But Yugyeom? Not even close. 

"Oh no." Mingyu says the moment he spots you. And honestly? Very fair reaction. 

Because unfortunately, Kim Yugyeom has always had an exceptional talent for creating versions of Miyeon you hate. 

Jaehyun lifts his drink awkwardly. "Hi?" Very brave of him. Very brave.

Miyeon smiles immediately, too animated and too polite, before you can even think of interfering and softening the impact of it all. 

"Hi Jaehyun." She says, tone too normal despite the situation.

"Miyeon," Yugyeom greets, voice casual and light like her name belongs naturally inside his mouth. Fucking hypocrite.

"You cut your hair." 

No.

No, you're not doing this right now. Absolutely not. Because, okay, first of all, what kind of thing is that to say to your ex girlfriend of two whole years? And the worse part of it all? Miyeon cut her hair three months ago. Three, entire, months.

Yugyeom blinks one whole minute after the words leave his mouth when no one responds to him, like the sentence leaves his mouth and arrives back to him sixty seconds later. But it's already late for realization. Too fucking late. 

A long silence passes, and you feel it physically sizzle and slice right through the surface of your skin. "Right." Miyeon mutters a beat later, and you close your eyes with a long, suffering inhale. 

Somewhere in the middle of the discomfort settling over everybody like a layer of second skin, you catch movement from the corner of your eye as if the situation isn't terrible enough. 

Jungkook, of course, is already looking at you. Because he seems to have made it into a habit. 

Miyeon laughs beside you. "Three months, by the way." 

Yugyeom falters. "What?" 

"My hair," She starts, letting her eyes drag over him. "I cut it three months ago." 

It's a little funny now. You know, the entirety of the situation. You do everything in your power to not stare at the two of them, gaze drifting around your surroundings instead. And it turns out that you, as of right now, are not the smartest person in the room. Because across from you, Mingyu suddenly becomes deeply interested in the swirl of his drink, and Jaehyun seems to be counting the birds in the sky. Jungkook? That, you don't know. Because you're sure he's still looking at you and that's the second thing your eyes are trying to avoid. 

"Right." Yugyeom says again, like saying right enough times might eventually make the situation right, even though it won't. Because none of you are stupid— well, except for Yugyeom himself, it seems. 

Then, Mingyu suddenly claps his hands once, and the sound echoes so much louder than he intended it to. "Okay!" He exclaims with an amount of enthusiasm that should genuinely award him an Emmy. "Amazing! Love this energy. It's so deeply casual." 

Miyeon laughs again, a little softer than the one she let escape minutes ago. It's not enough to bounce and spill and take over the atmosphere the way it usually does. But for now, it's enough to let you breathe.

"Sorry," She says through another laugh, shaking her head. "No because, you're unbelievable." 

Yugyeom squints. "What did i even do?" 

You scoff. Obviously, that's not surprising. Kim Yugyeom deserves a hundred more of those. But Mingyu and Jaehyun scoff along with you. And, oh, Jungkook too. 

Maybe society has hope after all. 

That's when you stop keeping up with their conversation, because their steps slowly get closer and closer to each other and farther and farther away from you until the volume of their voices lower down enough and exist only for the two of them.

Not that you're complaining. Not at all. You're thoroughly relieved and you do not want to hear another word of this pointless conversation.

Mingyu leans over and lowers his height next to you. "How traumatized are we?" 

You laugh, relaxing a little. "A solid eight out of ten." 

He places a hand over his chest dramatically. "Thank god." He exhales. "For a second i thought i was alone in this." 

You laugh again, and peculiarly, somewhere in the middle of cheap drinks and Mingyu defending his dignity like his life depends on it, your shoulders begin dropping one by one.

Everything softens after that.

Mingyu gets distracted after spotting somebody from one of his classes and suddenly starts passionately discussing basketball statistics with Jaehyun. Miyeon and Yugyeom slowly become figurines in your peripheral vision— still there, still existing, but further now. And somehow, Jungkook ends up right besides you. 

Maybe not intentionally, maybe not obviously— but he does. It happens in that natural way he seems to be very adamant on keeping recently. 

You become aware of him in pieces. The warmth of his shoulder besides yours, the sound of his laugh whenever Mingyu says something ridiculous, the traces of alcohol and masculine cologne in his scent whenever wind shifts in your direction…Tiny, stupid things people leave behind accidentally.

And unfortunately, you've spent your entire life collecting them. 

"You're less guarded tonight." 

You blink, then turn around slowly, eyes locking with Jungkook who is looking at you over the rim of his drink, a smile sitting loosely against his mouth.

"I'm always like this." 

Jungkook lets something between a breathy laugh and a scoff through his lips. "Liar." 

You roll your eyes. "You think you've got me all figured out." 

He shrugs. "I just pay attention to you sometimes."

Fucking flirt. 

You're only half listening to Mingyu's latest spiral on getting cheated on with a girl when Jungkook's phone vibrates against the grass. Jungkook glances down, picks the phone up, then groans when he reads whatever text that has been sent to him.

"What?" You ask.

"Mark," 

Your brows pull together in confusion. "What did he do?" 

Jungkook lets his head fall back slightly. "He forgot the hard drive at the studio." 

Jungkook stares at his phone for a beat longer, exhales, then turns towards you. "Come with me." 

And he is met with silence. Because for a moment, for a long, dreadful sixty seconds, silence surrounds you too. Music still continues behind you but it feels distant now. People laugh, lights glow, but all of it feels very far away. Solely because of the way he says it.

Because Jungkook doesn't ask. No do you want to come? No you can if you want. He just tells you to come with him as if he already knows the answer. 

You narrow your eyes, trying to play it off. "Is that confidence i'm seizing?"

"No." He says, smile growing into something gentler. "I think it's hope." 

Oh.

Jungkook pushes himself up from the grass, then extends his hand towards you. Not dramatically, not enough to create a whole deal out of it, but enough for your eyes to drop down to it automatically then back to him as if a hundred different scenarios have just flashed across your mind. 

You take his hand. 

By the time you reach the studio, you're a little warm. Not because of walking, not because of the weather, but because of something you absolutely can not say out loud. 

Jungkook pushes the door open, then lets you walk in first. Warm light spills through the room and reaches straight into your pupils the moment you step in, and you physically have to tap your thigh twice to recollect yourself back together. 

Space feels a little different when it's just the two of you. 

Jungkook walks ahead towards the mixing desk, still looking through his phone. "Mark said he left his hard drive somewhere." 

You hum, eyes drifting around. But it all feels absent, a little pointless. Because you're painfully aware of the tiny things all over again. Jungkook pushing his sleeves up, the way strands of hair falls into his eyes, how the sound of his voice fills in the empty room…

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's exhaustion, or maybe it's the way spring nights make people a little delirious. Stupid pollens.

You let a quiet breath escape and turn away before your brain decides to become any more humiliating than it already has tonight. "How does a music major forget a hard drive?" You ask, voice bouncing a little too loudly through the empty studio.

Jungkook shrugs. "It's Mark." 

Fair.

You snort quietly and drift towards the couch instead, letting yourself drop against the cushions while Jungkook continues opening drawers and moving papers around an unnecessary amount of concentration. 

For a minute, for the short time being, neither of you says anything. And maybe that's your first mistake. Because lately, silence with Jungkook has become as dangerous as vodka on an empty stomach.

Your eyes lift before you can stop them. That's definitely your second mistake. 

Because Jungkook had pushed his sleeves higher at some point and now his forearms are exposed beneath the dim lights of the studio and you miserably need those long, tattooed fingers curling inside your pussy. 

He crouches beside the desk, pushing his hair back before another strand immediately falls over his forehead again. "Found it." He says, and your head snaps back up.

Jungkook, unfortunately, is already looking at you. Not at the hard drive, not at the desk, just you. And for a second, neither of you says anything. Because maybe this is one of those moments where silence becomes too delicate for words. Moments that sit so carefully between people that speaking feels like touching glass with bare hands.

Your stomach tightens embarrassingly beneath your ribs as Jungkook's eyes drag all over you before they settle and stay on your face. He takes a step closer, then another, and then speaks softly. "What?"

Your brows pull together despite yourself. "What what?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You keep staring." He says, voice lower now. 

"And you don't?" You reply, voice barely above a whisper as you rise up to your feet. 

"I do." Jungkook replies. There is barely an inch between your bodies now, his breath hot and heavy on your skin. "But i don't lie about it, pretty girl." 

Your entire body stiffens at that. But it's not the pretty girl, not at all. It's the way he says it. Because Jungkook doesn't rush you, he never does. He doesn't smirk, doesn't tease. Just stays there looking and waiting. Like he is giving you room, like stepping away is still an option. 

And the worst part is, you don't want to step away. 

Silence stretches and stretches until it begins feeling alive. His eyes drop down to your lips, then lifts back up. For one devastating second, Jungkook looks at you like he is trying to memorize something. Like he's collecting little things too. 

His hand lifts, thumb softly tracing over the line of your jaw. "I've been patient for so long." He speaks over your lips. "And i know you feel it too. But i need to hear your words if you really want this to happen." 

Your breath catches and flips over halfway through your throat, chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. "Jungkook," 

"Tell me," He starts, thumb stopping by the bottom of your lip. "If you want me as bad as i want you. Because— fuck, I've been good, i've been patient but i'm terribly desperate and i need to know if you are too."

"Please," You try, but you've already stopped thinking altogether. 

"Please what, baby? I need you to use your words."

"Kiss me." You fit the entire weight of those words in a tiny little breath and Jungkook's lips are on yours in an instant. 

The kiss starts out slow, his lips moving against yours gently as if he is savoring every ounce of its taste on the farthest corners of his tongue. Your hands find the nape of his neck, pulling and pressing him closer until distance can't bear existing anymore. 

Jungkook's hands drop down to your waist, tugging you closer so that your hips clash against his. You whimper into his mouth, and he swallows it without wasting a single second. 

Because Jungkook has been waiting.

This isn't what the does, not at all. Jungkook has never been a patient man. Not with desire, not with girls. He takes and gets taken in blinks and fractions and seconds— easy, casual, weightless. 

But you, you've turned into something devastatingly different. Because for weeks now Jungkook has been wanting without touching, looking without taking— ever since you laughed and rolled your eyes prettily at Yugyeom's party that night. He has spent nights thinking about your lips, mornings replaying the sound of your laugh and entire conversations searching for traces of hidden meanings beneath your words like a man slowly losing his goddamn mind. 

Jungkook doesn't wait. He doesn't ache over girls. He doesn't sit awake late at night remembering the way they looked at him beneath dim studio lights or think about the possibility of their hands touching his. But with you— fuck. 

With you, he has become unbearably aware of himself. You've made him patient in the cruelest way possible. Because now he notices everything and god, the pretending has been killing him. 

And now you're kissing him back as if you've been just as gone. And that thought alone is enough to fold and mold his brain into something disgustingly mushy and achingly dizzy.

"More," You moan between kisses, body practically begging for his touch. 

Jungkook's stomach flips upside down. "Yeah? Want more, pretty? Want me to touch you?" He squeezes the plump meat of your ass through your jeans, and your hips jerk into his with the feeling. 

His hands roam all over your body before stopping right at the hem of your top. His fingers fiddle with the fabric before he pulls away to look at you properly, and you give him your consent dressed up as a weak nod. 

Jungkook pulls your tank top over your head, eyes stuck on the way your boobs bounce beneath the lace of your bra with the movement. He physically, loudly, groans at the sight before plastering wet, open mouthed kisses on the soft skin. Your head falls back in pleasure, hands tangling in his soft locks. Jungkook pushes his head further into your tits before he reaches over your back and unclasps your bra in one swift motion. 

Your ass hits the armrest of the leather couch when he lowers himself to take a nipple into his mouth, fingers toying with the other. You moan in short, consecutive whimpers as his tongue laps and flickers over the hardened nub, the wetness in your panties growing and growing. 

His cups your pussy over the your jeans, fingers pressing into your core over the fabric. The pressure is utterly mind blowing because the course denim stretches and digs into you further, causing you to cry out in pleasure. 

"Touch me properly, Jungkook." You force out, desperate to feel him on your bare skin. 

Jungkook scoffs between kisses. "Greedy, aren't you?" 

He unbuttons your jeans, fondling with the zipper for a beat too long before he can unzip and get you out of it. 

He pushes your panties aside with two fingers before sliding them into you. Your cunt sucks him in immediately, already way too wet and way too impatient for any form of foreplay. 

Jungkook tilts his head to look at the way his fingers are slipping in and out of you. "Shit, pretty. Look at that. You're gripping me." 

"Jungkook," You cry out, hands curling around his biceps for support. "Need— need your cock, please." 

He lifts his eyes up to look at your face properly, then sketches and carves every line of your expression onto the deepest corners of his heart. 

He slowly pulls out his fingers, then draws circles on your swollen clit before pulling away to take off his own clothes. His shirt flies away first, and you can't help but gawk at the bare sight of his chest. Arms, shoulders, abs— you're lucky if you don't cum right then and there. 

He gives you a small, knowing chuckle before unbuckling his belt, tossing the jeans somewhere across the room along with his boxers. Your lips are parted beyond your knowledge, eyes stuck on the hardened sight of his length. 

You've never seen a cock as pretty as that.

You're not sure if you'd ever even thought a cock was pretty— because usually, to you, they're far from that. But Jungkook, god, Jungkook is so fucking pretty with a tip so pink you think you want to suckle on it like a lollipop and a length so massive you desperately want it to choke you. 

You wouldn't be mad if your cause of death had suffocated on cock written on it all uppercase in bold letters. 

And Jungkook just laughs. He fucking laughs. 

"Don't worry, pretty. It's all yours." He says, kissing your lips once more before motioning to turn over. "Now turn around and bend over for me." He adds, pushing your back lightly so that you're completely bent over with both hands gripping on the armrest of the couch. 

Jungkook drags his tip across your folds, spreading your slick all over your cunt before he slowly pushes it in. You feel his tip first, letting you adjust to the stretch as he sucks in a sharp breath at the warmth of your walls. You moan loudly when he presses half of his cock into you, fingers firming around the cushion. 

"Oh god," You breathe, uncontrollably pushing your ass higher into the air. He slams in the rest of his length at your movement, and your back arches even deeper. "Fuck, Jungkook. You're so— so big. I can't."

"You can, princess. I know you can. You'll take every inch like a good girl. Gonna make me proud, aren't you?" 

He completely slides out out slowly, and before you can whine at the emptiness Jungkook slams himself back in. You moan loudly, head empty and thoroughly dizzy. 

Jungkook starts fucking into you, one had gripping firmly onto your waist as the other toys with your nipple from the back. He is filling you up so good you're going to lose your goddamn mind. You feel so full, stretched and stuffed to the fucking brim. Your walls suck him in desperately, walls clenching and tightening around his fat cock as he pounds into you recklessly.

"Yes, fuck. Wanna be good for you." You mutter messily as his thrusts get deeper and deeper, cock twitching inside your wetness. 

"I'm close." You breathe. 

"I've got you." He says, and you hate how assuring the words sound. 

You let yourself go just as he starts playing with your clit from behind, stimulating you as you milk your juices around his cock. He helps you ride out your high, chest pressing onto your back as he plasters small, reassuring kisses on your shoulder.

You feel physically nauseous at the domesticity. 

"Switch with me." You say after coming down from your orgasm, straightening as his cock slides out of you.

Jungkook's body falters, brows pulling together. "What?"

You roll your eyes, pulling away. "Sit, Jungkook." 

Jungkook somehow obeys without another word, dropping his body onto the couch beneath you. You hold his shoulders from above, placing your legs at both sides of his hips before reaching for his cock. 

Jungkook's breath stutters when you take him into your hand, pumping him a few times before aligning him with your entrance. You slowly sink down onto his length, and you both moan simultaneously when you take every inch of his dick into your pussy. 

"Shit," He moans, your name dancing prettily on his tongue. "You're so hot." 

His fingertips dig into the soft skin of your hips, head thrown back lazily as he moans through parted lips. You bounce on his dick with every ounce of energy that's left in you, thighs aching as he twitches inside your walls. 

Jungkook lifts his head a little to properly take in the sight of your bouncing tits, nearing his high. 

"Where do you want me?" He asks, voice low and breathy. Your stomach churns at the question, nails scratching his broad shoulders. 

"You can cum inside." 

He's going to die. He is going to fucking die but at least he'll die a proud man with his cum stuffed inside you. 

And just as Jungkook was about to close his eyes and release inside you, your phone rings.

His lips part to say something, but you beat him to it. "Just shut it off." 

Jungkook's hand weakly finds your phone, pressing the close button twice without looking at it. Of course he doesn't look, he'd be insane to drift his eyes away from the way your soft, perky tits are bouncing up and down in his own hold. But the ecstasy lasts so long as fifteen seconds until your phone rings again.

Jungkook flips it over this time. The name on your phone's screen flashes right through his eyes and he feels his heart stumble and drop straight into the rock bottom of his stomach

joon <3

You leaned into Lois’ desk with a cup of tea, arms crossed, watching her and Clark discuss Superman’s latest encounter with the Hammer of Boravia. “I don’t even think that guy is from Boravia,” Lois commented.

“What makes you think that?” Clark asked, spinning his chair around to face her. “His name is literally the Hammer of Boravia.”

“I doubt his parents named him that, Clark,” you stated, taking a sip.

“You know,” he began, loosening his necktie, “Superman thinks he was faking his accent.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Superman said that?”

“Yeah,” he smirked, fixing his glasses. “I interviewed him right after.”

“You know,” you quoted him, setting the cup down, “it’s funny how you keep getting all these interviews with Superman.”

“I don’t think there’s anything funny about good journalism,” he countered and circled back around to face his desk.

You fantasized about throwing your cup at his thick skull. It infuriated you that Clark could get away with so much without any consequences. He was perpetually late to work, couldn’t spell a four-syllable word to save his life, and always knocked things over on your desk when he rushed by. But none of that mattered to anyone when he had a direct hotline to a superhero. Sometimes you wondered why you even bothered trying.

“Relax, guys,” Lois held up her hands. “It’s only nine in the morning. We have all day for you two to go at it.”

You rolled your eyes and walked back to your desk. There was much work to do in the aftermath of Superman’s unsanctioned arrival in Boravia. You just knew that you would be working past your scheduled hours tonight.

You were an hour into your research when your Editor-in-Chief stormed out of his office and onto the bullpen. “Everyone,” he called out, "I have an announcement to make!”

Everyone paused and turned around to face him. “I’m going to be hiring a Senior Reporter of Investigations. Lois is doing a fantastic job,” Perry said, glancing at her, “but she can’t do it alone.”

“The job is, of course, open to external applicants,” he continued, “but I’d like to hire from within.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark stiffen. You scoffed at the idea of him thinking he would be well-suited for the role.

“There will be no interviews for the internal candidates,” he continued. “The decision will be based on the candidate's performance from now till Christmas. May the best man win.”

Or woman, you smirked.

.

.

.

You and Jimmy spoke to each other in a hushed tone as you made your way to the local pub at nine o’clock.

You desperately needed a drink after the gruelling day at work. “You definitely have a shot, too,” you told Jimmy, waiting for the pedestrian sign to come on.

“I don’t want it,” he replied, shaking his head. “Sounds like too much work. You, on the other hand, love to work. You’ll make a great senior reporter.”

You grinned as you both crossed the road and entered the restaurant. Clark and Lois were already inside, chatting away. You scowled at the sight of him. He was probably asking her to put in a good word for him with Perry. Your suspicions became true once you were within earshot. “—you know I would be great for it,” Clark said, sipping on his milkshake.

“Hey,” you greeted Lois, slipping into the booth across from her.

Jimmy took a seat next to you, playfully slapping Clark on the arm. “Already campaigning?”

He shrugged, sheepishly. “Just fishing for some advice from the great Lois Lane.”

Lois waved him off, chuckling. Jimmy hailed a server down to the table for you two to order. He asked for an Old Fashion, which Clark appeared to approve of. You ordered your usual: seasoned fries with tequila in some cherry coke.

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” Clark commented once the server departed from your side.

You grabbed a tater tot off Lois’ plate and threw it in your mouth. “You know when I’m your boss,” you started, chewing away, “I’m gonna’ replace the espresso machine in the break room with a cherry coke fountain.”

“Oh, but you’re forgetting one thing,” he replied, slurping loudly, “you’re never going to be my boss because Perry hates you.”

“No, he doesn’t!” you cried, turning to Jimmy for reassurance.

“Clark’s being a jerk,” he said. “Perry doesn’t just hate you, he hates everyone besides Lois.”

You elbowed him on the shoulder, irritated that he was playing along. “And me,” Clark smirked. “But don’t worry, when I’m your boss, I’ll make sure that you are given many opportunities to earn brownie points with Perry. I know you’re into that.”

“When I’m your boss,” you hissed, fists clenching under the table, “I’m going to make you come into work an hour before everyone else.”

“When I’m your boss,” he countered, slamming his glass down on the table, “I’ll work you so hard that you’ll practically be living out of the Daily Planet!”

“The joke's on you, I already do that!”

Both Clark and you were red in the face by the time the server came back with your orders. You snatched the drink off the table, bypassed the straw, and began chugging the contents. You didn’t miss the face that Clark made at your action.

What is your fucking problem! you screamed on the inside.

You hadn’t stopped frowning since you had sat down. Clark hadn’t given you a moment of peace since you had begun working at the Daily Planet. You hated him deeply. Sure, he was easy on the eyes, and even his hideous oversized clothes couldn’t hide that impressive, colossal size of his, yet you just couldn’t understand why your coworkers fawned over him.

He was mean, rude, and plain disrespectful. He reminded you of those mean boys back in elementary school who would pull at your pigtails for fun with a nasty look on their faces.

You watched him from across the table. Anger bubbled in your stomach at the sight of him chatting away with your friends, seemingly unbothered by your interaction.

Yeah, you decided in that moment, I am going to win this hating game between us.

.

.

.

The four of you spent the next two hours at the bar before parting.

You trudged to the bus stop, trying not to trip over your own feet. You swayed a little as the drinks began hitting your head. Upon your arrival, you noticed that the bus stand was empty. You slipped your hand in your purse to pull your phone out to check the time, but when your hand found nothing, you yanked the bag off your arm to check inside. The only things you saw within were your wallet, house keys, and a leftover sandwich.

Shit, I must have forgotten it in the pub.

You left out a frustrated groan and turned back around. This day couldn’t get any worse, you thought. You trekked back as the wind picked up. You suddenly remembered the special weather advisory out for tonight; a windstorm was about to hit Metropolis close to midnight. You sped up, eager to reach home, and soon the pub’s entrance came into view.

You were about to rush inside when you heard a loud noise coming from the alley next to the bar, followed by two men shouting. Curious, you altered your course to take a look; even intoxication couldn’t get the investigative journalist out of you. Hiding behind a dumpster, you peeked out and saw a familiar face.

Clark was cornered against a chain-link fence by a man holding a knife. “You can’t hurt me, sir,” you heard him say, “and I really don’t want to hurt you.”

You almost didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded stern, and that was surprising. He didn’t even speak to you in that manner. “Shut the fuck up and give me that phone!” the man spat, stepping closer.

Your stomach tightened. You knew Clark couldn’t survive a knife-fight; that man walked into door frames despite trying not to on a daily basis. You had to do something. Before your liquid courage could slip away, you heaved the closest thing you could find— a broken chair leg off the garbage can— and charged at the man.

“Hey, buddy!” you called out. “Eyes up here!”

The man spun around just as you brought down the wooden scrap against his shoulder. He cried out, stunned, and that gave Clark enough time to snatch the knife out of his hand and throw it over the fence. The man staggered, eyeing you with rage. Realizing that he was outnumbered and freshly out of weapons, he shoved you to the ground. “Bitch!”

You landed on the concrete, your arms painfully breaking your fall. Clark made an attempt to grab the man, but he took off running. You groaned, struggling to get up as pain radiated up your limbs.

Clark rushed to you on the ground. “Why did you do that?” he exclaimed, eyes blown wide. ‘ “I was trying to help,” you grunted, pushing yourself up with your elbows. “He was going to stab you.”

He wrapped his large hand around your upper arms and helped you stand. “I had it under control.”

You scoffed, stumbling. “Yeah, right.”

He caught you again. “You could have gotten hurt,” he argued, jaw clenching. “Who do you think you are? Superman?”

You slapped his hand off you. “I’m so sorry for saving you, Clark,” you spat, limping away from him. “Next time I’ll just leave you alone to die!”

He strode up to you in seconds. “You’re hurt,” he said. “Let me see.”

The wind picked up, painfully brushing against the scrapes and cuts littering your arms. He seized your wrist, gently. You turned to yell at him to let go, but the look in his face made you freeze. His normally bright blue eyes were icy cold, nostrils flared, and a slight tremor ran down his body. You realized that he was angry. “A-Are you seriously upset with me for saving your life?” you stuttered in disbelief.

“You could have gotten seriously hurt,” he repeated, eyebrows furrowing.

“Why the fuck do you even care?” you asked, scowling.

When he didn’t answer and just stood there, seething in place, you rolled your eyes. You yanked your hand back and moved ahead. “Whatever.”

You had walked a few meters away when he called out, “I have your phone!”

You spun on your heels, pushing past the affliction. “Give it back, Kent!”

“No,” he shook his head, sauntering your way.

Your frown deepened. “What do you mean by ‘no’?”

“‘No,’ as in a negative response,” he clarified, condescendingly. “As in, ‘No, I’m not going to give it back unless you let me see how badly you’re hurt’.”

Your jaw went slack. Your head spun, and it wasn’t because of the alcohol swimming in your belly. You just couldn’t understand why Clark was being so persistent in not leaving you alone. Maybe he was finally realizing what an asshole he had been to you all these months, or maybe he was just embarrassed that you had to come save him like a damsel in distress. “Fine,” you hissed, sticking your arms out. “Have a look!”

He stepped into you, quickly. You scent of his pleasant aftershave invaded your nose. He took your hand in his and turned it around to see where the concrete had cut you. His fingers slipped up, and his thumb traced the skin underneath a scrape that ran diagonally. “This needs to be disinfected,” he whispered under his breath.

Your mouth went dry. “It will be,” you croaked, licking your lips, “as soon as I get home, but I can only do that if I have my phone.”

He nodded, still not moving away. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He peeled off his coat and draped it over your shoulder. “What are you doing?” you asked, jerking underneath the material.

“I’m getting you home, cherry coke.”

“Absolutely not,” you stated, shrugging his fabric off, “I can get home by myself.”

He pulled the collars of his coat together, pinning you in place. “You can hardly walk, and the bus stop is at least fifteen minutes away from here,” he said, bending down to meet your eyes. “What are you going to do if that man is waiting for you around the corner?”

You gulped. You hadn’t thought of that. “I can fight him,” you mumbled, shrugging again.

“Yeah, you probably can,” he sighed, his warm breath fogging his glasses. “I don’t want you, though.”

“Why?”

His hands tightened around the fabric, swaying you forward. “Because you saved me,” he answered. “And as stupid as that was, I am very thankful. I don’t want to see you getting hurt for it.”

Your cheeks grew warm in the cold. Clark Kent apparently had a heart, and you weren’t sure if you liked that revelation; it made your hating game harder.

“So let me repay you,” he continued, “Let me walk you to the bus stop, give you your phone back, and then we’ll be even.”

Those waves of pain hitting your ankle made the idea sound appealing. Repentantly, you nodded. Clark swept down and hooked his arm behind the back of your knee and hoisted you up. You yelped in surprise, clinging to him for support. “Don’t start,” he warned before you could object.

If someone had told you earlier in the day that your night would end with you being carried away by Clark, you would have laughed yourself to death. This makes no sense, you thought. You had spent every waking moment basking in the heat of your resentment of him, and this moment made you numb. You recalled your argument in the pub to ground yourself in that feeling again. You weren’t going to let one kind gesture sweep you off your feet.

Your head dropped down to your lap, and all you could focus on was how easily Clark supported you in his arms. He didn’t appear to be breaking a sweat. A chill ran down your spine, and you told yourself it was the gusts of wind making you shiver and not him.

The stop came into sight with the bus already waiting for you. Clark carried you until the steps leading up to the vehicle were almost under you. He set you down carefully, and the pain in your ankle returned as your feet touched the ground. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Get home safe.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. You stepped onto the bus and then paused. You turned your head and asked, “My phone?”

“Inside pocket,” he answered, slipping his wallet out.

You watched him pay for your fare as you moved to take his coat off. He stopped you. “Keep it. It’s cold outside.”

Without another word, you walked inside. You refused to look out at him as the bus’s engine came to life, but you knew he was waiting on the sidewalk. The bus had pulled away from the curb and onto the street when you finally allowed yourself to look out the window. The street behind you was desolate except for a flash of red and blue zooming across the sky.

.

.

.

That night, you dreamt of Superman.

Rain thundered down on your room’s windows in the wee hours. You were laying down in bed, cuddling a pillow as a movie played on the television. You heard movement behind you, and then the mattress dipped under you. His hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his hard torso.

His nose buried itself into your hair, breathing in your scent. You hummed, sagging against him. His hand moved up to cup your breast over your shirt as your eyes fluttered shut. “When I’m your boss,” a familiar voice whispered, slipping your nipple between fingers and squeezing, “I’m going to work you so hard, cherry coke.”

Your eyes shot open. You whipped your head around. Clark lay behind you, head resting on an arm folded over a pillow, smiling lazily.

You woke up in the dark with a thundering heart. You were alone in your apartment with only the sounds of your laboured breaths echoing through the space. You reached under the covers, slick with sweat, yanked Clark’s coat off from over your legs, and threw it across your room in the dark.

.

.

.

The next morning, Clark brought you a cup of coffee.

You eyed it suspiciously, resting on your desk. You clicked the back of your pen, glancing back and forth between the cup and him. Remnants of your dream last night played in your head, heating up your face. “Why are you bringing me coffee, Kent?”

“I heard it boosts subordinates’ morale when management brings in treats,” he grinned. “I thought about bringing some cherry coke instead, but I couldn’t bring myself to stoop that low.”

Your jaw clenched. He was still mistaken that Perry would promote him. You reached behind your chair and swung his coat out from under your back. “I’ll trade you,” you huffed, holding it out to him.

He accepted it without much issue. You heard the door swing open, and Perry strode in. His gaze landed on you as he crossed the floor. “Great! I was looking for you two.”

You scrambled to your feet. “Yes, Mr. White?”

“You are going to be interviewing Lex Luthor,” he shared, “and Clark is going to help you prepare for it. You will need his expertise in dealing with a high-profile figure. Luthor has declined all prior requests for an interview until now. I don’t know what changed his mind, and frankly, I don’t care.”

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. This was exactly what you needed to show your boss that you were the best candidate for the role.

“Why her?” you heard Clark inquire.

“Luthor has been soft-launching an anti-Superman campaign, and I’ll be damned if I let any other paper sit down with him,” he continued, ignoring him. “You will interview him at the New York Correspondent’s Dinner this Friday. Luthor requested that we send someone ‘pleasing on the eyes,’ and normally I’d ask Lois, but since she’s working on the Luthor Corp’ expose, that wouldn’t end well. Bottom line, don’t embarrass yourself, the paper, or me, kid.”

Your ears were ringing. The universe had just presented you the perfect opportunity: an interview to rival Clark’s own. “Yes, sir,” you replied, enthusiastically bobbing your head. “You can count on me.”

Perry nodded curtly and disappeared back into his office.

Lois whistled. “Hell yeah, darling!”

You mimed a silent scream at her, jumping in place. You spun around, grabbed your laptop and the coffee off your desk, and rushed past Clark. “Let’s go to the conference room, Kent.”

He followed at your heels to an inhabited room one floor up. You set your things down on the long table and sat on the seat closest to the door. He slipped into the empty seat next to you.

You buzzed with energy as you opened your device and opened a new document. “Are you seriously this excited for Lex Luthor?” Clark asked, glaring at you.

“Duh,” you made a face. “Why? Are only you allowed to do impactful things here?”

“Lex Luthor is a real jerk,” he frowned, displeased. “Aren’t you bothered by the fact that he asked for someone hot to interview him?”

You smirked. “Are you calling me hot?”

He ran a hand over his face and exhaled into his palm. “I just find it surprising that you’re all right with Perry sending you in as a honey pot.”

“Don’t lecture me on sexism, Clark,” you scowled, deeply. “I’m not stupid. I have dealt with that shit my entire life. I know exactly why Perry picked me, and no, I’m not ‘all right’ with it, but I’m going to make the best out of every chance I get. I’m tired of seeing others get opportunities that should be mine. ”

Clark watched you, lips turned downward. “Others?”

“You,” you answered, plainly. “Do you think Cat, or Lois, or I would last a week here if we started showing up late at work? If we began handing in final drafts with improper grammar? If we—”

“You are this upset over Perry being soft on me, cherry coke?” he asked, tilting his head.

Pure rage began to bubble in your stomach. “Soft,” you hissed, “is an understatement. He is lenient beyond what’s acceptable.”

“And you hate me for that?”

“Clark,” you spoke through clenched teeth, slamming your hands down on the table. “I hate that you are inconsiderate of other people’s time. I hate that you don’t let any opportunity to go by to undermine me. And I hate that there are no consequences for your actions.”

He had the audacity to appear offended. “You have no idea what my life is like,” he spat. “I deal with things beyond your imagination. You have all these nonsense assumptions about me, and have turned me into this bad guy in your head—”

“I know exactly what you’re up to! And don’t act like you don’t benefit from—”

“Let me finish!” he raised his voice. “I—”

“Did you just fucking yell at me?” you cried out, baffled.

“Don’t cuss!” he exclaimed. “I don’t like—”

“I don’t give a shit whether you like it or not, Kent—”

A knock interrupted your screaming match. The door creaked open, and Jimmy’s head popped in through the gap. “We can hear you both downstairs,” he shared apologetically.

Your head dropped your head in your lap, embarrassed. “Sorry,” you heard Clark say. “My fault. We’ll keep it down.”

The door closed, and you both sat in silence. The clock on the wall ticked away, and you counted the seconds and found them in sync with your thudding heartbeat.

Get it under control, you told yourself. Don’t let your anger overpower you.

You sighed and then looked back at your screen. “This is really important to me, Clark,” you said, forcing a polite smile. “I’m asking you, in the name of journalistic pursuit, to work with me. Can we call a truce and get started on this interview?”

You waited for his reply, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. “Yeah,” he answered, some painfully quiet moments later. “I can do that.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Relieved, you smile. “Great. Let’s start.”

.

.

.

Perry sprinted out of his office to you as you clipped your earring in.

“Change of plans,” he huffed, stopping at your desk. “You’re not going to ask him the questions you submitted.”

The news of Superman being evil incarnate had just been released by Luthor Corporation, creating a frenzy at the Daily Planet. You stood up and gathered your belongings: a tape recorder, a notepad, pens, and your invitation to the charity dinner. “I-I know, Mr. White. I will focus on the recording instead,” you told him, shoving them into your purse.

“I have emailed you some notes,” he said, walking with you to the elevator, “if you stick to them, things should go well.”

“Yes, of course,” you replied, pressing the button to call the cart up. “I will do that.”

You were absolutely not going to do that. You knew that you had one chance to make an impression, and you weren’t going to do it by playing it safe.

The elevator came up and you stepped inside. “Good luck, kid,” Perry wished and then spun around. “SOMEONE GET ME CLARK KENT!”

The doors slid closed as you observed Jimmy scramble to pick up the phone resting on his desk. After begrudgingly working with you on the interview for days, he didn’t show up on zero hour. In fact, no one had heard from him ever since the world had heard of Superman’s supposed harem.

Maybe he’s sad that the world thinks Superman’s a monster?

You made a face at the thought of feeling bad for Clark Kent as you smoothed a hand over your silk dress. You just knew that when Perry got him on the phone, they’d have a nice chat and smooth everything over. It would be as if he had never abandoned work to begin with.

The elevator pinged and opened itself up to the main floor. You stepped outside and walked up to a car that the Daily Planet had arranged for you. You slipped inside, and the driver pulled into traffic immediately.

A pit had begun forming in your stomach. Trying not to focus on it, you pulled out your phone from your bag and began reading through Perry’s notes. They were good. Great, even. It just bothered you that he didn’t think you could do this without being micromanaged by him or Clark as a proxy.

You turned your phone off and tossed it away. It bounced off the seat and landed inside the door pocket on the other side. You groaned, reaching over to retrieve it. Your fingers caught a stack of folded papers, and you pulled them out. You saw that you were holding a copy of the Daily Planet’s newspaper.

The headline read: THE MAKINGS OF OUR NEWEST SUPERHERO.

Followed by the words, ‘by Clark Kent’. You scoffed. Even leading up to one of the most pivotal moments of your career, he somehow managed to haunt you.

You imagined your name on the front page instead. You had to nail this. You had to do good. So good that everyone at work would think twice before speaking down to you—

Why aren’t you here, Clark?

The car skidded to a stop, and you looked out the window. You had arrived at the venue of for the New York Correspondent’s Dinner. You thanked the driver and took a deep breath to ready yourself to step out. Before you could reach for the door handle, someone yanked it open from the outside.

A face framed with two familiar dimples poked in. “Hey, cherry coke.”

.

.

.

You stepped out of the car, and Clark offered you his arm.

You didn’t have time to adjust to his unexpected arrival before he began leading you up the stairs to the venue. Clark had dressed up to the nines. You were amazed that he even owned a tuxedo.

You wondered if you had accidentally manifested him tonight. Next time I’ll ask for a million dollars, you thought.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, handing the invite to a staff member at the entrance.

“Couldn’t miss your big day,” he answered, looking ahead. “I’m her plus one. Clark Kent from the Daily Planet.”

The staff member nodded and pulled the velvet rope aside to let you both through. “Why didn’t you come into work? Were you with Superman today?”

“Are you supposed to be interviewing me or Lex Luthor?”

You grabbed onto his arm tighter. “I’m being serious,” you said. “Are you okay?”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Yeah,” he shrugged. “Just a little under the weather.”

You knew he was lying, but you didn’t push further. The heat on Superman probably wasn’t sitting well with him. You both walked inside, and your eyes immediately landed on Lex Luthor speaking to some men across a crowd of people. He towered a foot above everyone else, just like Clark. Your stomach tightened at the sight. There was something strange about that man. His presence didn’t make you feel warm all over like Clark’s did.

You bit the inside of your cheek. That was twice within seconds that you had compared someone to Clark Kent. You shook your head to clear any thoughts of the field reporter.

You need to lock in, you told yourself.

You squeezed Clark’s arm and stepped away from him to make your way toward Lex. You saw him see you approach from the corner of his eye, but he made no attempt to cut his conversation short with the men surrounding him. You patiently waited, the back of your neck heating up, for him to finish before speaking. “Hello, Mr. Luthor,” you greeted, before anyone else, you claimed his attention.

He raised an eyebrow. “You are?”

You gave him your name. “Ah,” he recalled. “You’re that reporter from the Daily Planet.”

He snapped his fingers, and a waiter rushed to his side. He ordered you both a drink without asking whether you’d even like one to begin with. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, flatly, “I don’t think I have time today for an interview. We can reschedule at my earliest convenience.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You had to come up with something quick to hook him in. You knew that you wouldn’t be getting another opportunity in this lifetime. “Oh,” you blinked, furrowing your eyebrows. “I was really hoping to get your opinion on the Superman tape released earlier today.”

Lex’s left eye twitched at your words. You fought back a smirk; you knew you had him then. He cleared his throat. “What would you like to know, miss?”

“I guess,” you started, curling a strand of hair behind your ear, “I wanted to know what your first impression was after finding the video?”

“I will admit that I was scared,” he answered, lips turning downward, “about learning that alien’s true mission.”

You nodded animatedly, trying to mimic empathy. “I’m sure many agree with you today. But what about all the kind acts Superman has performed over the years? The countless lives he has saved?” you inquired, shifting in place. “I mean, just today, he saved a squirrel from being crushed under debris. Some would argue that those acts define his true character rather than the orders given by his parents.”

Lex’s frown deepened. Behind his bald head, you saw Clark move into your line of vision a few feet away. He gave you a reassuring nod.

“I believe he is grooming us,” Lex responded, picking up a drink off the tray the waiter had returned with, “lulling us into complacency so he can dominate without resistance.”

You struggled to keep your face neutral. You collected your own glass and held it so tightly that you were afraid it was going to crack in your grip. “And why would he—”

“He is forging a path for his super-powered descendants to rule the Earth,” he continued, cutting you off. “Who knows how many children he has growing in his harem?”

Hatred rolled off the man in waves. Your forehead began to dampen at the change in his tone, yet you couldn’t help but challenge him. “You’re positive that the video is authentic and not some deepfake?”

“Twenty-eight of the world's top linguists have confirmed the translation,” he spoke through clenched teeth, “and thirty of the top forensic computer techs have confirmed the validity of the footage itself. Unfortunately, and much to your dismay, I’m sure, the video is real. But do tell me, miss, are you by any chance a fan of Superman?”

You froze, not expecting him to turn the tables. You had hoped he’d be self-obsessed enough to rant on. “I think he is doing some important work,” you answered, gulping a mouthful of your drink. “I always thought of Superman as a kind man, and I respect the work he does. He stands for hope and helping those in need. When I look at his actions, his choices, I find it very hard to rebuke him simply because his parents were horrible people.”

“Aliens,” Lex corrected sharply. “They were aliens. And that makes Superman not a man, but also an alien, sent from Krypton to rule over us humans with no mercy. It’s disappointing to see we are too busy fawning over a creature catapulted onto this planet to recognize that his strength illuminates how weak we all really are.”

A lump began to form in your throat. You could see that you had angered him. This was not how you had planned for this conversation to go. A woman in a gorgeous purple floor-length gown stepped into Lex, curling an arm around his torso. “Lex,” she called out, “Are you done? This party is very boring.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled his arm away from the woman to reach inside his coat pocket. He pulled out a card in between his fingers and handed it to you. “Feel free to reach me if you’d like an in-depth interview at a later time. I’d love to correct that opinion of yours regarding Superman.”

You took the card from him, his fingers brushing yours. You thanked him profusely as he walked away. Once alone, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your eyes began to water. You recalled your encounter with Lex Luthor, replaying each mistake you had made on a loop. You had missed your chance.

.

.

.

Clark caught you crossing through the crowd just as the first tears fell.

You had crashed right into his broad chest with your head hanging low. He grabbed onto your arms to steady you straight as you wobbled on your heels. “What’s wrong, cherry coke?” he asked, distressed.

“I-I,” you stuttered, “I made a mistake, C-Clark. I didn’t turn my tape recorder on, and I didn’t stick to the questions Perry sent. I ruined it!”

“That’s okay,” he reassured, slipping his hand down to the small of your back. “You’re okay. Let’s step outside for a bit, yeah?”

You let him guide you up the stairs to the empty terrace. Cold air bit your bare arms as you made your way closer to the railing. Your sobs echoed through the space. “I-I panicked b-because he wanted to cancel t-the interview, and I r-ruined everything,” you hiccuped and bit the back of your hand to stop the tremors. “He was s-so angry—I felt it.”

Clark did the last thing you expected him to do— he wrapped his large hand around your wrist and pulled you into a hug. “I heard everything,” he said, resting his chin on top of your head. “You challenged him and that was brave. A man like Lex Luthor needs that. He is so used to being surrounded by yes-men that I bet meeting you was a breath of fresh air. He gave you his card, didn’t he?”

You inhaled deeply. The scent of his familiar cologne settled your nerves. “I know that you can remember every word that left his mouth without relying on a tape recorder,” he continued. “And if he wants to see you again, then you didn’t put him off that badly. Have some faith in yourself, cherry coke.”

You nodded, shaking in his embrace. His gentle words carved a space for himself within your heart. You tried to remember all those times you had argued, but their memory was already fading. “Although you probably shouldn’t see him again,” you heard him say.

You leaned back to look at him. His hands moved up to cup your cheeks, and his thumbs wiped the tears streaming down. “Why?”

Clark didn’t answer you. His gaze shifted back and forth between your eyes, lips, and neck. He dropped his hand and stepped away from you. “I don’t know,” he sighed, spinning around. “He just gives me the creeps.”

He strode to the railing and leaned against it. You sniffled and gingerly walked up to him. “Do you not like him because he’s mean to Superman?” you asked, stopping a few paces behind him. “Have you spoken to him recently? Is he doing all right?”

Clark stared off into the distance for a few moments. “No,” he answered sombrely. “He’s not doing well. He just found out that his own existence is a lie, that his parents sent him down to kill people, and that the whole world hates him. You know the DOJ has a warrant out for his arrest? He’s all alone now— even the Justice Gang won’t back him up.”

You didn’t know what to say. You had been so caught up in preparing for your interview that you had tuned everyone out. Except Clark. You were hyper aware of his presence and absence in every room you stepped in, and you despised that.

Before you could think your actions through, you closed the gap between you two. Your heart thundered in your chest so loudly that you knew he could hear it. “I don’t hate him,” you whispered in his back, your nose brushing against the dark fabric of his coat.

You felt him tense. “No,” he croaked. “You just hate me.”

You let out a laboured breath, your chest pressing into his back. “You just make me so angry,” you confessed, glad that he couldn’t see you. “Why can’t you be this nice all the time?”

Clark didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for your hand and brought it across his torso so you were hugging him from the back. “I thought about what you said to me in the conference room,” he said, his voice dropping. “You were right, Perry is soft on me—”

“No,” you started. “Clark I—”

He squeezed your hand tighter. “Let me finish, please. I have prepared a little speech.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, sorry. Go on.”

“You were right,” he repeated, exhaling. “Perry is soft on me, and it’s not fair. I can see that you work harder than anyone, but it’s not recognized. It’s almost like the paper doesn’t feel the need to recognize your or Cat’s accomplishments because they have satisfied their quota with Lois. There is something horribly wrong with how things are set up in our workplace, and it wasn’t correct of me to pretend otherwise. You were correct about me benefiting from it. You know what Perry said when I finally answered his call tonight? Nothing! Just told me to get a hold of Superman and that he’ll see me on Monday. If you had done that, he would have chewed you out for hours.”

You chewed on your lip, unsure of what to say again. You had always wondered about what it would look like when Clark acknowledged things for what they truly were, but in this moment, you were drawing blanks.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he sighed, rubbing circles on the back of your hand. “I realize now that the way I have been speaking to you has been awful. You were right about that, too. My choices and actions make me who I am— and I haven’t been doing a great job lately. You don’t deserve to be put down by anyone, least of all me. I can’t tell you why I behaved like that, I-I’m not sure anymore. All I know if that I regret it.”

It was nighttime, but you were sure the birds were singing. You wrapped your other arm around him and he turned around to face you in your embrace. Your lips stretched into a grin. “You know what this sounds like, right?”

“Sounds like I’m apologizing for being an ass,” he stated, smiling.

You gasped. “Clark, you just said a bad word!”

“I guess I’m a changed man,” he shrugged, curling your hair behind your ear. “Can this new man suggest calling off the hating game between?”

You pouted. “It’s no fun just playing by myself,” you sighed, leaning into him. “Yeah, we can make our truce permanent.”

“Great,” he grinned, making his dimples shine through. “Can I suggest one more thing?”

“Yeah.”

He lowered his face closer to your own. Your stomach tightened, and goosebumps littered up your arms. The world quieted around you two. “Clark,” you whispered.

His hand slipped to cup the nape of your neck to angle your mouth up to his. Your head was spinning. You thought back to your dream the other night and the way his hands had roamed over your skin.

“I have been thinking about you a lot since the day I spilled coffee down your shirt,” he revealed, grazing his lips against yours.

“That was the first time you saw me,” you recalled.

He had soaked your white blouse dark within minutes of you walking into the Daily Planet. That was where the game had started for you. “Probably,” he let out a shaky breath as you clung onto the sleeves of his coat. “But who’s counting?”

You moved up to his mouth just as a surge in noise from the floor below caught your attention, breaking the charge in the air. You glanced down at Clark’s wrist, hovering above your heaving chest, and read the time on his watch. “They are starting the speeches,” you realized.

You groaned, resting your forehead on his shoulder. “Shit, okay,” you mumbled, looking back up at him. “We should go downstairs.”

He didn’t make any attempts to hide his disappointment. “Monday,” he promised. “We will pick this right back up on Monday.”

.

.

.

When you woke up the next morning, you thought you had imagined the whole encounter.

You had always hoped that you would eventually reach a point of indifference with Clark, but that day never came. As much as you tried to ignore it, something had changed between you two, like an atomic-level shift in the air right before lightning hits.

You just knew the next time you came into work, Jimmy and Lois would immediately pick up on it. Your phone buzzed under your pillow, and you reached for it blindly. Clark had sent you a text message.

Clark Kent Daily Planet: [photo]

You had received a photo of a ragged-looking dog. You tilted your head to the side in confusion; Clark had never mentioned being a pet owner before.

You: You have a dog? Clark Kent Daily Planet: It’s more of a foster situation. His name is Krypto. You: Hi, Krypto!!

You caught yourself grinning. Things were definitely different now. Your phone buzzed again.

Clark Kent Daily Planet: I can’t wait to see you on Monday. You: What’s happening on Monday? Clark Kent Daily Planet: You know precisely what’s going to happen, cherry coke.

He was right. You did know, and you couldn’t be more excited. The tide had definitely changed. Your phone buzzed again.

.

.

.

When Monday came around, you almost skipped into work.

Lois and Jimmy immediately asked you about your interview with Lex Luthor. You described the disastrous events, omitting all encounters involving Clark. “Have you started writing the article?” Lois asked.

You slumped in your chair. “Not yet,” you answered. “I’m not sure if I even want to.”

“What does that mean?” Jimmy inquired, leaning his hip into the corner of your desk.

“Lex was really tough on Superman,” you explained, “and I’m not sure if I want to add on to the dumpster fire he’s dealing with by publishing my article.”

Lois frowned. “You know Perry won’t like that, right? Are you sure you want to do this while he’s looking for someone to promote?”

You sighed. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I was going to talk to him about— has anyone seen Clark?”

“He’s been with Perry for the last hour,” Jimmy said. “He showed up an hour early. Can you believe that?”

You kept your face neutral to hide your approval of him taking the whole ‘changed man’ thing seriously. You stood up. “I’m just gonna’ go talk to them about this.”

You crossed the bullpen to Perry’s office. You held up your hand to knock, but froze at the voices coming through the door. “—you can’t just say that to her,” you heard Clark say.

“I told you a month ago that the position was yours,” Perry replied. “Why should I pretend otherwise?”

Your heart dropped down to your stomach and began thundering. Nausea built up in your throat. He knew. Clark knew that Perry had already given him the role, and he let you bend yourself backwards to try to prove yourself anyway.

“Because she is a good journalist,” Clark stated. “She deserves a chance.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he scoffed, “but you interview Superman and she writes about animal shelters seeking donations. I don’t understand your sudden change of heart. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see you both get along, but I’m not running a charity here.”

Tears sprang in your eyes. You felt like a moron for believing that things could ever be good between the two of you. Clark began to speak again, but you knocked on the door. All conversation inside the room immediately ceased.

“Come in,” Perry called out.

You yanked the door open and stepped inside. Perry stood in front of his desk with his arms crossed, with Clark next to him. Your eyes met, and you saw the moment he realized that you had heard everything.

You cleared your throat, blinking the tears away. “I wanted to let you know, sir,” you croaked, not looking at Clark any longer, “that I won’t be writing an article about my interview with Lex Luthor.”

Perry’s arms fell to his side. He started to speak, but you cut him off.

“—and that I quit”

.

.

.

You rushed to your desk, wrenching your name tag off your neck.

Fuck this. Fuck everything. Fuck the Daily Planet. Fuck Perry White. Fuck Clark!

Lois eyed you in shock as you threw it on the table and grabbed your work bag, slinging it over your shoulder. Clark was at your heels, calling out your name, as you dashed to the elevator. You called the cart up and quickly stepped inside. You punched the button for the main floor and spun around, rage flooding your veins.

Just as the door was about to slide shut, a hand shot in to stop it. Clark pulled it back and stepped in, wearing a painful expression. You let out a bitter laugh. “You have a lot of nerve, coming after me.”

He moved inside and let the doors close behind him. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he pleaded, eyes blown wide. “You have to believe me.”

“Believe you?” you echoed, scoffing. “I don’t trust a single thing that comes out of your lying mouth.”

He shook his head, stepping close to you. You held up your hands, pausing his stride. Your vision began blurring, and you decided that you weren’t above letting this man see you cry. You didn’t care. There was no need to hide your hurt anymore because this was the last time you’d ever speak to him. “You knew,” you spat. “You knew and you didn’t say a single thing. How could you do that? I would have never deceived you like that. I have never!”

He snatched your wrists, scorching you with his touch. “I wanted to tell you,” he blurted, breath hitching. “I wanted to tell you so bad. I just never found the right time.”

You yanked your arms out of his grip. “Really?” you asked, lips tugging down, “We work together day and night, and you want me to accept that you simply couldn’t find the ‘right time’?”

“No, no, no,” Clark repeated, grabbing onto his hair. “Cherry coke—”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” you yelled, throwing your bag on the floor.

He hit the emergency stop button on the elevator panel, and the cart skidded to a halt. “I won’t take the promotion,” he said, quickly. “Please don’t quit, okay? Just tell me what to do to fix this, and I will do it.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” you hissed. “In fact, I don’t need anything from you. Just leave me alone!”

His eyebrows furrowed. “No,” he spoke softly, “not that. Anything but that.”

You took in a laboured breath, composing yourself. “I heard what Perry said about me, and I’m not going to stay in a place designed to keep me down,” you started. “I just won’t do it. You can have your Daily Planet and relish in the limelight with your exclusive interviews, but I will always remember you as a man who stepped on others to get ahead.”

I will remember you as the man who broke my heart.

He looked like you had slapped him. “T-that’s not who I am,” he stuttered, head dropping down. “I-I’m not a bad man.”

“No,” you frowned, “you are just the guy who does fake interviews of himself to get a promotion.”

His head jerked up, and his jaw fell open. “You knew?”

You scoffed again. “Of course, I did. I’m not an idiot.”

You had figured out months ago that Clark Kent was Superman. It wasn’t hard. Despite what senior management thought, you were a great journalist. You had never said anything because you believed that his work was important; a courtesy that he didn’t think to return to you. That was the main reason behind your decision against publishing Lex Luthor’s comments about the superhero.

It was also what made the whole thing more frustrating. Clark already had his own thing by being the most powerful creature to walk Earth. But that just wasn’t enough for him. He just had to take the one thing you cared about as well.

You could almost see the cogs in his brain turning at your revelation. “Why didn’t you ever . . . ”

“Because, unlike you, I have integrity,” you answered, coldly. “Don’t worry, I still won’t say anything. I also happen to be good at keeping secrets.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the intercom buzzed. “Everything all right?”

You picked up your bag off the floor and slung it over your shoulder. “Yeah,” you said, clearing your throat. “Just bumped into the button. Mind letting us through?”

The elevator buzzed back to life and began lowering you to the lobby. Clark stood there, frozen in time, as the door pinged open. You moved around him.

“I never want to see you again,” you told him, walking out.

.

.

.

The week following your resignation was quiet.

Lois and Jimmy met you after work every evening. You exchanged office gossip with the events leading up to your departure from the Daily Planet. Lois shared that she and Jimmy had ripped Clark a new one and that he looked like a lost, sad puppy at the office these days. Perry, on the other hand, was distressed because some journalists had threatened to unionize after the recent unfolding of events.

Good, you thought, they both deserve it!

Tonight, you found yourself staying in. You couldn’t keep yourself distracted forever. Sure, you were still healing from a broken heart, but that didn’t mean the world stopped spinning. The shadow of unemployment hung over you, heavy.

You were sitting down on a counter stool in your kitchen, stirring your hot chocolate with one hand and scrolling through LinkedIn with the other, when the reflection in your screen caught your attention. You jerked your head back to see a man in red and blue hovering outside your sixth-floor apartment balcony. “Holy shit!”

Superman offered you a sheepish wave through the glass. He glided over the railing and landed on the balcony with a small thud. “Sorry for scaring you,” Clark said, sliding the door open.

You regretted not locking your balcony doors. There was no need for I before. You didn’t think anyone could climb up that high to break into your home. Obviously, you hadn’t accounted for Superman to be the one making an attempt. “What are you doing here?” you demanded, shooting up to your feet.

“I know you don’t want to see me again,” he replied, moving through your living room, “but I just had to talk to you.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. “Ever notice how you completely ignore other people’s wishes and do what you want anyway?” you asked, scowling.

“Bad habit,” he answered, sitting down on your sofa. “I will work on it. Can we speak?”

You huffed in disbelief. You thought you would never see each other again, but here he was, dressed up in his Superman suit, sitting in your home.

Guess the cat’s out of the bag now, you thought.

“You have five minutes before I call the police,” you told him, taking a seat on the other side.

A coffee table separated you two, but even that felt too close. “Noted,” he said.

He reached into his collar and pulled out a neatly tucked-away yellow paper. “I wrote some notes down,” he explained, unfolding it.

“That’s extremely strange,” you remarked, crossing one leg over the other.

“I don’t want to mess up— have you started timing me already?

You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. “You have four minutes and thirty five seconds, now thirty-four. . . thirty-three. . .”

“Okay, okay!” he exclaimed, and then turned his attention down to the thin paper in his large hands. “I wanted to start off by apologizing. I was wrong. I should have told you as soon as Perry let me know that he was going to promote me as a senior journalist.”

Your jaw tightened. “Then why didn’t you?” you questioned, taking a sip of your drink.

“Honestly?” he glanced up. “I was afraid. I didn’t want you getting angry with me.”

You blinked, confused. “Since when have you ever cared about making me upset?”

“I have always cared about you, cherry coke,” he stated. “How could you not know that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Clark,” you started, sarcastically, “maybe the message got lost between all the betrayal?”

Clark sighed and looked back down at his notes. “You have to believe me when I say that I wanted to tell you so bad. Every day we worked on that Lex Luthor interview, I came close to telling you the truth,” he read. “But then I saw you passionately you were working, and I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to crush your spirits.”

You wanted to hurl your cup at him. “You are such an idiot,” you frowned. “I would have given it my all regardless of the decision. That’s just the kind of person I am. What hurt me was being deceived and believing that I had a chance to begin with.”

“I know that now,” he admitted sombrely. “I was being a coward.”

“You not saying anything was a thousand times worse,” you continued. “Me hearing your conversation with Perry was a million times worse.”

He nodded. You took a sip to steady yourself. “I handed in my formal resignation, by the way.”

“Was it because of me?” he asked, in a small voice.

“Partially,” you admitted, hiding your face behind the cup.

“I will quit,” he stated, putting the paper down on his lap, “if that’s what it takes to make things better between us.”

“No, you will not,” you replied, sternly. “Don’t misunderstand. Your contribution to my decision was minuscule at best. I don’t want to work at the Daily Planet anymore because of the disrespect. I’m making that choice for myself. You don’t need to lose sleep over it. I will find work somewhere else. You, on the other hand, need a secret identity to help you with all that Superman stuff.

He exhaled deeply and ran his hands over his face. “How did you even figure it out?”

“It wasn’t that difficult, Clark,” you answered, setting the cup down on the table. “You only do field work when Superman is involved, yet no one has ever seen you together. You show up late to work anytime a meta-villain attacks Metropolis. Your dog is literally named Kyrpto. Plus, when you take your glasses off, you look exactly like Superman.”

He peeked at you from between his fingers. “Okay, when you put it like that, I just sound like an idiot.”

You gasp, mortified. “You just said a bad word!”

“Yeah. I seem to be doing many bad things lately,” he whispered to himself. “How come you never said anything?

“I did think about it. Especially on days you really pissed me off. I guess . . . I understood why you had to hide,” you shrugged. “Although it made my head spin at times. You were so kind to strangers, yet so awful to me. I just didn’t get why. For a solid month, I thought you were Superman’s evil twin.”

Clark let out a dry laugh. He looked up at the ceiling, staring at the chandelier bathing you both in yellow. “When you started as an intern at the Daily Planet,” he spoke, eyes growing distant, “you were obsessed with finding out Superman’s identity. Do you remember?

You nodded, twiddling your thumbs above your thighs.

“It freaked me out, really bad,” he confessed, blue eyes growing distant. “You once suggested in a team meeting that Superman may be Texan based on his accent, and I almost had a panic attack. I thought back then that if I was tough on you, I could discourage you from pursuing anything related to him. In hindsight, I understand that it was a dumb idea.”

You recalled the times he would shoot down your ideas about Superman during your time at the Daily Planet. “Are you being serious?”

“That’s the whole reason why I started interviewing myself as Superman to begin with,” he explained. “I believed you would let it go if he started speaking to another journalist, so I made interviews with Superman an exclusively Clark-Kent thing. It worked, and you never brought it up again.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, and your back arched off the cushion. “Are you seriously telling me you were being mean to me because you thought I was so good at my job that I would figure out you were Superman?”

“Yeah,” Clark admitted. “And I was right, you did figure it out. I still regret it, immensely.”

You felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water in your face. You had always wondered when the hating game had started for him, but you could never have guessed the truth.

“This past week,” he continued, “I have been reflecting on everything I have done. I am so, so sorry, cherry coke. If I had only known, I wouldn’t have done any of that. I would have been a better friend to you. I would have . . . ”

“Would have what?”

He dipped his head down to finally look at you again. “You know exactly what.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I really don’t. I don’t think anyone truly knows what goes on your head.”

He paused for a moment before speaking. “You have no idea how hard it was for me to put on that act. And now I can’t stop thinking about how awful I was to you. I was trying to protect myself, but I went about it the wrong way and hurt someone I care about. I would do everything differently now.”

You felt your pulse throbbing in your neck. “Different how?” you insisted.

“I would have been honest about my feelings,” Clark answered, a remorseful smile playing on his lips. “I would have spoken to you kindly. I would have brought you coffee every morning. I would have asked you out to dinner months ago. And I would have definitely kissed you on that terrace, cherry coke.”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks growing farm. “You can’t say things like that.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I wanted to anyway.”

Your mind couldn’t keep up with all the thoughts rushing in; you needed him out of your home.

He likes me. He was awful to me. He likes me. He made me feel so small. He likes me. He needs a reality check. Yes, but he likes me.

You sprang up and began pacing through your living room. “I need time to think,” you told him, marching back and forth.

He made no attempts to move. “Take all the time you need.”

You spun around on your heels to face him on the sofa. “Why would you tell me these things?” you cried, throwing your hands up. “This is b-bad timing . . . I need to focus. I need to be able to work on my job applications. Do you know I am working on six written pieces that ‘highlight my journalistic prowess’ right now?”

“I can help you with that!” Clark beamed at you. “You can submit an interview with Superman.”

You froze mid-step. “Are you being serious?”

“Sure,” he answered, voice getting higher.

You gulped. An interview with Superman would help get help against the gallows of unemployment. You desperately wanted Clark out, but Metropolis was an expensive city to afford. The spike in your home insurance after the Hammer of Boravia’s attack was enough to make you shudder. You grew distraught by the second.

Maybe think next time before you rage quit, you scolded yourself.

You took in a deep breath. “Okay, fine,” you decided against your better judgment. “If you’re sure you want to do this, I’m down.”

Clark grinned. “Let’s do it, cherry coke.”

.

.

.

You rummaged through your purse to find your tape recorder; it had remained undisturbed since your encounter with Lex Luthor.

You turned it on and set it on the coffee table, and returned back to your seat. You cleared your throat and began speaking. “It’s August twenty-eight, twenty-twenty-five, eighteen-hundred hours, I’m sitting here with Superman.”

Clark rolled his shoulder back and sat up straighter. “Hello,” he greeted, his voice changing.

“Welcome.”

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I’m pleased to be here.”

You reached to shut the recorder off. “This is weird,” you remarked.

He slumped back down. “I’m not weird-ed out at all. I want you to interview me.”

You ran a hand through your hair, frustration budding inside. “I feel like I’m acting,” you sighed, “pretending like I don’t know who you are.”

“You should sit a little closer,” he suggested, “maybe that will help.”

You rolled your eyes, but moved to sit on the other edge of the coffee table with the recorder in your hand. His thighs spread apart slightly to make room for your legs in between. You made a conscious effort not to stare at them. “Let’s try this again,” you said, turning on the recorder. “So, Superman—”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“— recently it was reported you flew to Boravia’s airspace and threatened President Ghurkos to stop the invasion of the nation of Jarhanpur.”

“Yes,” he replied, head tilting to the side.

“And you did this without speaking to anyone in the national or international defense organizations beforehand,” you stated, leaning forward to stare him in the eyes. “Is that accurate?”

He blinked. “Umm.”

His large fingers pressed the pause button on the recorder in your palm. “I thought this was going to be an overall profile.”

You frowned. “We never discussed that.”

“This just seems a little dark, don’t you think?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“You thought I was going to write a 'puff' piece,” you scoffed, “after everything that’s happened?”

“No, no, no,” Clark said, quickly. “It just felt a little . . . attack-y?”

“Attack-y?

He held his hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying you meant it that way.”

Your scowl deepened. “You think that even the most harmless question from me is dangerous.”

“Harmless?” he echoed, raising a brow. “There’s nothing harmless about you, cherry coke. You just accused me of defying international treaties.”

“Because you did defy them,” you deadpanned.

Clark licked his lip. “I think you should come sit a little closer so I can explain to you how I helped save people’s lives,” he suggested, and pulled you toward him.

You moved to take a seat next to him, but he tugged you onto his lap. You landed sideways over his thighs. “W-What are you doing?” you inquired, shocked at your position.

“Just trying to hear you better,” he answered smoothly.

Painfully aware of the lack of professionalism, you turned the recorder back on with shaky hands. “So Superman,” you began, voice wavering, “we were just speaking about you defying international protocols.

He had the audacity to look surprised. “This is a ‘hit piece’.”

“What?” you exclaimed, attempting to stand up.

Clark held you easily in place by your arms. “You’re doing a hit piece on me,” he remarked.

“I’m not!” you cried out, squirming in his lap. “I’m simply asking questions that anyone would ask.”

“Okay,” he replied, a playful smile playing on his lips. “That’s fine. You can ask me anything you’d like. I’m an open book, baby.”

You turn the recorder back off. “This is on the record, Clark! I don’t want people finding out that Superman and I—”

“Are you doing what exactly?” he interrupted, repositioning you over him. “We haven’t even done anything . . . yet.

You sat on his large thighs, one leg folded on each side. “Are you messing with me right now?” you questioned, chest rapidly falling up and down.

“Not even in the slightest,” he replied, pulling you into him. “I’m just suggesting that you let me kiss you, and then we can get back to the interview. I’m finding it hard to focus on anything other than you right now.”

You blinked. Your head was spinning so fast that you wondered if you were still intoxicated from last night. This was the exact opposite of getting him out of your apartment. At this rate, he would be setting up camp in your living room by the next hour.

“Clark,” you whispered.

He called out your name, eyelids growing heavy. “Let me kiss you. Please.”

You tried to ground yourself in the memories of your numerous quarrels, but they were fading once again. “Clark,” you repeated.

His hands trailed up your shorts and rested at the fold where your hips met your thighs. “Cherry coke.”

“This is a bad idea,” you croaked, fingers moving up the fabric of his suit to rest over the red and yellow emblem. “We are enemies. The hating game is back on, remember?”

“Not a chance,” he said, rubbing circles with his thumbs. “It ended for me a long time ago.”

Oh. Oh. You were melting in real time. Your mind was devoid of all thoughts except the burning sensation of his touch. You gulped. “Okay.”

His dimples poked through his cheek as his mouth stretched into a grin. “Okay.”

Your heart drummed loudly as his lips dipped to meet yours. He pressed a chaste kiss on your lips, but that alone was enough to ignite a fire within your bones. Your lips parted almost instinctively. When his tongue licked in your mouth, you lost all self-control.

The kiss grew messier instantaneously, with his saliva mixing with yours. His hands grabbed at the flesh of your butt, making you gasp and arch into his chest. “Yeah,” you heard him say when you both broke for air. “I’m not letting you go.”

His lips trailed down to your neck, peppering kisses down to the hollow of your throat and then back up to your jaw on the other side. This was much better than what you felt in your dream. Your imagination couldn’t even come up with the real thing.

His warmth made your systems go haywire. You moved your hands to his combed-back hair, and you clutched the strands to make your mouths meet again and again.

You didn’t know when, but his fingers had found their way under the hem of your shirt. You jolted at the sensation. He tore his mouth away and leaned back to look at you. “What’s wrong?” he asked, searching your face for any signs of discomfort.

“Feels good,” you whispered, tugging his face closer. “You feel really good.”

You kissed him, and your hips rolled down on their own accord. His hands began to move you over his crotch purposefully, and you were sure your pyjama shorts were soaked by now. You let out a silent prayer that his suit was waterproof as you lifted off his lap. His hands were quick to hold on to your waist. “Where are you going?”

You exhaled, squirming in his grip. “I . . . ”

“Don’t leave, cherry coke,” he pleaded, big eyes blinking.

You looked down at him below you. His hair was dishevelled, and his lips were swollen red with your kisses. The sight made your heart soar. You smiled at him, eyes forming crescents.

Yeah, I’m going to give in to his bullshit.

.

.

.

You both stumbled into your room, lips connected.

Your hands moved across the length of his shoulders and down his chest. Clark’s arms circled your waist to crush you into him. “How do I get this off?” you demanded against his mouth, tugging at the tight collar around his neck.

“There’s a tab,” he spoke between kisses, “under the cape. Pull it down.”

You followed his instructions, and the suit sagged around him enough for it to slump down. He wrenched the material off him and slipped out of it with the ease of someone who had done it many times. You watched him, eyes blown wide, as he stripped down to his boxers. You licked your lips in anticipation; even through the dark fabric, you could make out the sheer size of him.

Clark dropped down to his knees in front of you. He lifted the hem of your shirt, and his lips found your stomach. You held on to his shoulders to balance yourself as he kissed the expanse of your belly. “I need you to know,” he spoke from under your shirt, “that I don’t do casual. I can’t, especially not with you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I know, Clark.”

He peeked out from under the fabric, bright blue eyes meeting yours. “I’m going to still do the interview even if we don’t do this,” he breathed, deeply. “You can say no, and it won’t change a thing.”

You nodded, enthusiastically, to urge him on. “I get that. I still want to.”

He stood up. “I just don’t want us to just hate-fuck and never see each other again.”

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed, leaning back in surprise. “Don’t cuss, Clark! It’s weirding me out. And stop giving me disclaimers! I am fully aware of what we are getting ourselves into. You have got to trust me when I say that I want this too, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” he grinned, nudging his forehead against yours. “Go sit down.”

You walked backwards with him until your thighs hit the softness of your mattress. You sat down as he knelt before you again. His fingertips slid under the elastic of your shorts and panties, and he slithered them down smoothly. “You have no idea how many times I have dreamt of this,” he told you, earnestly.

He took hold of your knees and spread them apart. The cold air hit your bare cunt, making you shiver. You couldn’t believe that you were sitting pants-less in front of Clark of all people. A tremor ran through your body.

He tugged you forward so that your hips hung off the edge of the bed. “You've got to show me what you like. I wanna’ make you feel so good.”

Your throat went dry. “Mm-hmm.”

You looked away just as his tongue licks a fat strip up from your soaking hole to the clit. Electricity shot up your spine at the sensation, making your legs jerk close. Clark’s grip tightened over your kneecaps to keep you in place. There was no winning against his strength, especially when your thighs were shaking.

He slipped a hand down to your pussy and used his fingers to pull your folds apart. He began following each lick with a kiss. You quickly glanced back at him to see his gaze fixated on you. The sight made you bite the back of your hand to stop yourself from crying out loud. “I want to hear you,” he spoke into your pussy. “Please let me hear you.”

The vibration made you toss your head back into the mattress. He opened his mouth wider and started sucking on your clit. You let out a moan that echoed through your bedroom walls. Your toes curled so hard that you were afraid your foot would begin cramping.

He let go of your clit with a plop and looked up. “Good?” he asked, mouth glistening.

You nodded frantically.

He dove back in. He stiffened the tip of his tongue to circle your clit. Your hand shot out to grab his dark curls. You didn’t know if you wanted to push his face further into your cunt or move his mouth away from you entirely. You felt him grin into you as you made your decision and turned his head toward the spot that made you melt.

He obliged, concentrating on the side of your clit that made you squirm. The shyness from your end disappeared soon after as Clark started to messily make out with your pussy. The slurping sounds were obscene enough to make your back arch up. You cried out in pleasure. Your hips seemed to have a mind of their own with the way they gyrated up to meet his mouth again and again and again.

Clark broke away from you, panting. “I need to stretch you out,” he stated, shaking himself. “Can I, cherry coke?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak just yet. “Mm-hmm.”

He moved his thick middle finger down to your hole. Slowly, he pushed through the initial resistance until he was down to his knuckles. You seized at the intrusion, and he pressed his free arm over your stomach to pin you down. “Tell me what feels good,” he exhaled, determination shining in his eyes. “Show me where.”

Your cunt clamped down on him every time he moved his digit in and out. “Here?” he inquired, curling it up.

You brought your palms up to cover your face. His fingers found the spongy bit inside that you were never able to reach before. “You gotta’ talk to me, cherry coke. I like the sound of your voice. Right here?”

You gave in, heart thundering beneath your ribs. “Right there! Right fucking there!”

His fingers dug into the flesh of your stomach as pressure built up in your spine. “Remember when you gave me back my coat?” he asked, rubbing against the spot.

“Yeah,” you answered through your fingers.

“It smelled like that jasmine perfume you always wear,” he reminisced, picking up pace. “It got me so hard. I jerked off to it every night until the smell faded— had to retire it from my wardrobe entirely. Did you know that jasmine is my favourite flower?”

The visual of him tugging at his cock with his nose buried in the coat made a sob tear out from your throat. “Fuck!”

“Yeah,” he whispered, eyes dazed. “I’m going to, don’t worry. Just have to make some space first.”

His mouth came down on you again as his fingers pumped in and out. Every time he pulled away, his mouth would suck around your clit. “More, please!” you cried out, grabbing his locks tightly again. “I need more!”

Without any delay, he slid his index finger inside of you while still licking away. You felt so full with his fingers alone, you couldn’t imagine what his cock inside of you would feel like. Tremors ran through your body as your pleasure rapidly reached a crescendo. Your eyes rolled back as your orgasm tore through you. Ecstasy rolled through you in waves, making your limbs tight in one moment and then relaxed in the next.

You laid on your bed, staring at the ceiling as you panted. Your ears were ringing. Clark moved up into your line of vision, eyebrows furrowed. You spoke, but he had a hard time hearing you. He brought his ear closer to you, and you whispered, “I think you killed me.”

His glossy lips stretched into a smile. “Was I that good?”

“So good that I can’t feel my legs,” you replied. “Didn’t think you could do that, Kent.”

He pecked your lips. “Still want me around?”

You sighed, heart hurting at his persistent concern. “I’m not angry with you anymore, Clark,” you shared, brushing back his curls. “We’ll talk about everything after we’re done.”

“Done?” he echoed, leaning into your touch.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I still have to suck you off. You still have to fuck me silly.”

.

.

.

He froze, jaw falling open. You push him off you, so he is standing. You manoeuvred onto your knees; your legs still feeling too jelly to stand on your own. “You don’t have,” he gulped as you tugged his boxers down.

You nuzzled your nose into his crotch. “I wanna’ make you feel good too. Please let me?”

“Gosh, when you speak l-like that,” he sighed, broad shoulders dropping down, “I can’t think. A-All right.”

Your fingers hooked into the elastic of his boxers and pulled them down. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to reach out to touch you or not. His huge cock slapped against his bare belly. “Whoa.”

You wished you had thought more about Clark’s penis before. If you had, you could have practised to fit it into your mouth. To say he was huge would be an understatement. His cock was thick at the base, too broad to fully wrap your small hand around, and adorned with a bulbous head only a little thinner. It truly was the perfect shade of reddish pink. Your mouth watered at the challenge.

“I wasn’t kidding about stretching you out,” Clark frowned with concern. “I don’t want to hurt you. L-Let me make you cum once more.”

You shook your head, adjusting your weight on your knees. “I’ll cum around your cock later, don’t worry.”

His eyes widened at your words. Before his mind could conjure any other thing that could possibly go wrong, you began peppering kisses along the shaft.

Clark shook at the contact, making you smile. You took as much of him as your hand could hold and slowly pumped him. His hands shot to grab your shoulders to distance himself from you, but you tightened your fingers around him in disapproval. “You can take it.”

You swiped your thumb along the head. His cock grew bigger in your grip. He swallowed and reached to push up the glasses he wasn’t wearing. “Please,” he whispered, licking his lips.

You gather the wetness pooling at his tip and smear it along the length. “You’re gonna’ make my jaw hurt, Clark,” you mused, looking up at him through your lashes.

He groaned. You lowered your head to his cock and slipped it into your warm mouth. You licked a long stripe from his perineum to the head. His body jolted, and his eyes fluttered shut at the sensation. “Watch me,” you said, holding him in your mouth.

He glanced at you in time to see your cheeks constrict around him. His hands slipped in your hair as his head fell back. You bobbed your head up and down, eyeing his prominent Adam’s apple from below. He tasted a little salty, mixed with something otherworldly you couldn’t quite discern.

You hummed in content. A thin sheet of sweat had formed over his body; he was truly a sight to behold. You pooled spit in your mouth and placed a palm flat against his taught stomach to help you pick up speed. His fingers grabbed onto your strands tighter. Your free hand clenched his left thigh as you worked him deeper into you. “Don’t ch-choke,” he grunted, eyes glistening.

I want to.

Much to your dismay, he was still holding back. If your mouth wasn’t stuffed full of him, you would have frowned. Instead, you move your hands to cup his ass to guide him in and out in between your lips. You wanted him to show you a glimpse of the strength you knew he possessed. You needed him to hold you in place and fuck your mouth.

A moan escaped him. He rocked his hips once, twice, thrice, and then pulled you away by your hair. “No,” you cried out in protest, “I wanted you to cum on my face!”

He exhaled harshly and crushed your lips against him in a messy kiss. You clung to him as he moved you back, climbing onto the mattress himself. He peeled off your shirt and then your bra from your torso as his tongue swept through your mouth. Once, you were just as bare as he; he gently shoved you down, making your head bounce on a gathering of soft pillows.

He hovered over you, panting wildly. You knew in that moment that the only place he would be cumming was inside of your pussy.

.

.

.

The air around you grew hotter as Clark climbed in between your legs.

He bent down to press his forehead against yours. “I have always wanted to feel something like this,” he exhaled, pupils blown wide.

You felt your heart double in size under your ribs at his words. You circled your arms around his neck. “Me too, Clark.”

“With you,” he clarified. “I have only ever wanted this with you. You make my head spin, cherry coke.”

Your eyes glistened as well. You cupped his cheeks and kissed him. Above, a light bulb shatters, bathing you both in darkness. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “My bad. This happens when I get too . . . excited.”

You giggled, running a hand through his curls. He trailed a hand down your neck and to your chest. He captured a nipple in between his fingers and gave it a tug. You hissed at the sensation. He lowered his head and wrapped his lips around it. Your spine tightened, and you arched up to him as he sucked at it.

Your toes curled. “Fuck,” you groan, squirming.

He let go of your swollen nipple with a pop and moved to the other. “I like it when you swear,” he smiled around your nub, dimples shining through. “It’s very punk rock.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again. His words cut through the tension. You felt at ease with him, like you two had done this many times before.

He reached down to grab his cock, and you spread your legs wider to make space for him. His leaking tip prodded at your centre. “I’ll go slow,” Clark promised, sincerely. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows to observe and nod. You watch, breaths quickening, as his leaky head pressed firmly at your opening. He met a little resistance and glanced up to search your face for any signs of discomfort. When he didn’t find any, he inched in further. You collapsed back into the pillows as he slowly stretched you open on his dick.

He filled you to the brim soon after, almost like he was always supposed to be in there. He paused, buried inside of you to the hilt. You felt the mattress dip around your head, and his head pops into your line of vision. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you responded, meekly.

“Feeling good?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

The pressure inside you felt so tight that you couldn’t flex around him even if you wanted to. Your eyes grew wet as you tried to decipher if the feeling of him stretching you wide was too much or just right. “You’re huge, Clark,” you gasped, hands limp at your side. “Feels like you’re still in my throat.”

His cheeks redden at your words. “If you say things like that,” he bit his lower lip, “I won’t last long.”

You bit back your own smile. “I don’t want you to,” you confessed, holding his gaze. “I want you to fuck me into the mattress and then cum inside.”

He groaned in defeat and dropped his head into the crook of your neck. You jerked as his hips shifted, feeding his cock into you. “Shit!”

Clark moved again, and your arms flew to hold onto his shoulders. You hung on to him as he tentatively began to rock into you, getting you comfortable with his size. Your soft groans echoed through the room in sync with his rolls.

You moved your legs over his to tangle your limbs just as he snapped his hips forward, impaling you on the mattress. You cried out his name, nails digging crescents into his pale skin. His lips suck the spot on your throat that made you shiver. “I have wanted this for so long,” he gasped in your hair. “I can’t believe I’m finally inside you.”

Your eyes clenched shut, letting the tears drip down your cheek. “Every time we argued,” he continued, voice muffled, “every time you called me out, all I could think about was bending you over my desk and pulling your skirt down. Did you know that? Did you know that I was dying to be inside you?”

Your cheeks were scorching. Your heart battered in your chest hearing him speak like that. “Clark!”

He cupped the back of your knee and folded you like a straw at the hips. The sounds of your skin slapping together grow louder as he finds a new rhythm that makes you clench around him. “Tell me you needed this,” he demanded, leaning back to meet your eyes. “Needed this as much as I did?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, weekly shoving his chest. “Yes! Yes!”

“You just needed me to fill you up like this,” he continued, pounding you into the mattress. “I can do that. I can keep you full forever. No more fighting, okay, cherry coke? We can talk things out just like this.”

At this moment, Clark could ask you for anything, and you would agree to it. You’re lost in the feeling of his weight pressing down on you. You simply nodded, enthusiastically.

He leaned back on his knees, and you cried out at the loss. He grabbed your waist in his large hands to lift you up and began pulling you into his cock. Your belly grew warm. You squinted in the dark to see him staring at the bulge moving in your stomach.

You realized he was using his X-ray vision on you. “Gosh,” he gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. “I can see myself inside you.”

He adjusted himself, finding the spongy bit inside once again. “Right there,” he spoke to himself. “Gonna’ get you right there, baby.”

You groaned, legs wringing. He glanced back up at you. “You look so beautiful like this. If I had known, I would have done this sooner. I wanna’ watch you forever.”

Your back arced at a painful angle, but you pushed through the ache. Clark’s rambling was hurling you into the light, and you were so close. “Squeezing me so tight,” he grunted, driving into you harder. “We were made to be together.”

You took hold of the inky curls at the base of his neck. “Don’t stop! Do not stop!”

His lips stretched into a grin. If someone had told you a month ago that Clark Kent would be buried so deep in your pussy that you’d be feeling him in your throat, you would have laughed in their face. But there he was, inching you closer to bliss by the second.

His thumb found your clit and began rutting into you. “Clark,” you wheezed as he rubbed it. “I’m—”

Your vision went white. Your pussy clenched around him as waves of pleasure erupted from the base of your spine and out to your extremities. You cried out, shaking underneath him. Your vision blurred as the orgasm wiped your head clean.

Clark didn’t stop, cock still working into you. Your pussy grew sensitive when his rhythm grew sloppier. Groans began pouring from Clark’s mouth as he gathered you into his arms to thrust into you quick and shallow. Your stomach tightened at the sight of him losing himself inside you. You wished to engrave the image of his heavy-lidded eyes and slack jaw into your mind forever.

He let out a groan, heavy balls tightening against your ass, and flooded your cunt. He rocked into gently, riding out his orgasm. You felt impossible full as his cum leaked out of your pussy and dripped down the crevice between your cheeks.

Clark didn’t pull out. He cupped the back of your head and kissed you. You melted into his mouth, limbs still tingling. He manoeuvred you around so that he laid flat on the mattress with you on top of him.

His hands smoothed down your spine, and his lips pressed on top of your shoulders. “Are you okay?” he asked, breathless.

Your cunt pulsing around him as aftershocks of your orgasm worked their way through you made you groan. You nodded against his chest, breathing laboured.

“Please look at me,” he said, hooking a finger under your chin to lift your face up to him. “Did I hurt you, cherry coke?”

This was beyond anything you could have ever conceived. You couldn’t recall any discomfort you didn’t welcome wholeheartedly. “No,” you croaked, blinking at him. “You just made my brain all jelly.”

His lips stretched into a smile. He playfully nuzzled you, arms tugging you closer. You both settled in together, wrapped in each other's embrace, basking in the aftermath.

“Does this mean we are dating?” Clark asked in a small voice, breaking the silence.

You laughed into his torso. Only Clark Kent could be intelligent enough to keep up a secret identity, yet still be clueless when it came to romance. “Yeah,” you reassured him. “We are, Superman.”

You both stayed like that, joined together at the hip, until sleep took over. When you stirred up hours later, daylight was breaking over the horizon through your bedroom window. Clark’s eyes were closed, but his thumbs were rubbing circles on your back. He was just as hard as you last remembered.

𝘏𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺. You knew taking this job was a mistake before you even sat down at the table. The whole elevator ride up to the topmost floor of Vought Tower, you debated heading back down and typing your resignation. The very sexism you'd been trying to avoid since graduating from NYU's journalism program seems to have followed you into the workforce. You're not naive enough to think you'll never deal with impossible men, but you hoped your first assignment wouldn't be so transparently superficial.

Soldier Boy likes his reporters pretty, your boss said. Take one for the team, ask a few questions about his newest movie, make him feel special, and I'll give you the front page.

You replied that you didn't want the front page, not for a celebrity puff piece, to which he replied with a thinly veiled threat to your job. So, you put on your least flattering outfit out of spite, clinging to androgyny like a shield, and called a cab to the Tower, close to the end of the day, so as to ensure you could drink your sorrows after.

You don't know what's waiting for you in the Supe's conference room, but you're surprised anyway. He's taller than you expected, for one. And instead of wearing his suit or some movie prop ensemble, he's in a Mets jersey and blue jeans. His eyes, you realize, are impossibly green.

Thankfully, he opens his mouth before you can get starstruck. "I was promised legs for a mile and an ass you could bounce a quarter off," Soldier Boy remarks.

As it turns out, he's just as vile as you expected. You recoil, eyebrows shooting up. "I'm a journalist, not a hooker."

"Shame," he replies. "Pretty face."

You clear your throat. "Let's just keep this professional, yeah?"

He snorts. "You're no fun, are you?"

"I'm not interested in games."

"That's a shame. I know a good one."

"I'm here to listen to you prattle on about your stupid little movie until I get a soundbite. We're promoting. That's it."

"So you're not a fan."

"Astute observation."

He scoffs. "Well, I can think of a hundred things more interesting than a silly movie."

"Now that we can agree on."

"Ouch," he replies, hand to heart. "Aren't you a piece of work?"

"Pot, kettle."

"And feisty too. I like that." He throws in a wink, and you wish you were a supe, so you could shove him out the window. It probably wouldn't kill him, but it would make you feel better.

You can't hold back anymore. He's staring at you like a piece of meat or a car he wants to buy, and it's enough to tempt you into a homicidal rage. You need to squash his flirting now. Job be damned. "Do you honestly believe the sole function of every woman on planet earth is to stroke your giant ego and your tiny dick?"

Soldier Boy's lips purse. You struck a nerve. Point for you. "On the record? Nothing tiny about it."

"You're unbelievable."

He chuckles like you've said something funny, leaning back in his chair. "You know, I can't figure you out."

You scoff. "This was a waste of time."

"Sit."

The lowering of his voice, the authoritative bark of an order, gets you to oblige him. Maybe it's not too late for a quote or two. You're brainstorming excuses to your boss as he narrows his eyes and skims you over.

"You think I can't hear your heart beating a thousand miles an hour? You aren't scared of me. No, your body seems to like arguing with me. It agrees with you. Makes those pretty cheeks so pink, doesn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Never play poker, sweetheart, you'd give yourself away before you ever won a dollar."

"Thank you for your time, Soldier Boy." You rise to your feet, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, the molten lust in your core. He's the kind of extraterrestrial handsome that makes your brain forget he's a crap human being, and you're a professional, not a schoolgirl with a crush.

"Ben," he corrects you. "If I'm gonna make you squirm until you admit I got you going, you call me Ben."

"I admit nothing." But your voice wavers, betraying you. You're not convinced, because he's looking at you like you're the most important thing in the world. Hungry, longing. Poised to drink you like a glass of fine champagne. You imagine he's seen a lot of beautiful women, and he gets them moon-eyed because he makes them feel special.

You gather your things in a huff, realizing you need to get out before he bends you over the conference table.

"So if I reach between those pretty legs of yours, you'll be dry as a bone?" He steps closer, framing you against a wall. "Huh, sweetheart?"

"Don't touch me," you say, without conviction.

"Why? You gonna stop me?" Ben steps closer, pinning you like a butterfly. Something beautiful he wants to keep.

Your eyelashes flutter as you blink furiously up at him. "I... Ben..."

"Like the way you say my name. All breathy and needy. Ben," he mocks you. "I bet you've watched my movies, haven't you? Are you a fan?"

You've seen them. Research purposes. They have nothing to do with his dashing good looks. You know what he's really like: a scoundrel in the gossip tabloids, a party boy, an asshole in the backrooms. And yet, all of a sudden you can't remember why you didn't want to do this interview.

You kiss him. You can't help yourself from slamming your mouth into his, lips tangling before his tongue slips inside and paints you in new shades of pleasure. He tastes like whiskey and spearmint gum, and the heat of his lips dragging over yours sears you down to your toes. He undoes your trousers with a singular flick of his fingers, and when they pool around your ankles, he lifts you into his arms, tosses you down on the boardroom table, and spreads your thighs.

His mouth finds you through your panties, suckling on your clit, tracing your folds through your damp panties and ruining the fabric with his tongue. You gasp for air, tugging at the golden strands at the crown of his head. Just when you're about to come, one high heel dangling precariously off your foot, the other lost in the shuffle, you realize anyone could walk in at any moment, and ruin your credibility.

"Wait," you gasp. "Someone could—"

"No one will. This is a private meeting, and they know better than to ever disrupt a private meeting," he assures you, and the undertone in his voice sends a thrill down your spine, a reminder that he's the darling of Vought, the leader of Payback. He's practically a god.

But he's all man when he undoes his jeans, his cock springing free, and buries himself balls-deep in you without a condom. You're grateful for your implant when he rolls his hips, kissing your cervix with his thick length. The pleasure that washes over you turns your brain to mush, and suddenly, you don't care that this is a terrible, doomed idea.

You cling to him as he shakes the table with every thrust, angling himself just right. You come undone once, and he strokes your clit through it, pounding into you hard enough to make you see stars. He touches you until you're coming again, gushing around his cock. He fills you up with hot ropes of his milky release, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip as he pulls out, tucking himself into his jeans.

You're ruined, sweating and gasping, and he's the picture of ease. Stupid supe stamina.

"So," he says. "What do you need for your article?"

𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺. Of course, you happen to be at the same party. It's a VIP event, a shark tank you're chumming the waters of. You don't know why you made it onto the guest list, but you're not complaining, because you get to wear a Press badge like a professional and get insider scoops on Vought's dynasty. Most journalists would kill for a job like this.

You're two free flutes of champagne into the event, and you feel like an impostor. You also feel like sneaking a flask of rum in was a terrible idea, because you're veering a little too close to drunk territory. How else could you get through this?

You splurged on a fine dress for the occasion, fancy high-heels and updo included. You wear your badge and smile with all of your pearly white teeth, batting your eyelashes too, for good measure. It's easy to catch stories when you're roaming about the crowd, listening to rumors about Black Noir branching out into technology research and Countess's latest diva meltdown.

You find Ben when the champagne settles, face flushed with heat. You're standing near the window, looking out at the Upper East Side. You feel him looming over you before you smell his cologne.

His lips graze your ear. "I was hoping you'd show up."

"So I should thank you for the invitation?"

"Who am I to deny you the chance to practice good manners?"

You roll your eyes, turning to face him. "You're trouble."

"I know."

"Maybe I should run a story about you and Countess," you suggest. "Since she's your girlfriend and all."

He scoffs. "PR is good for a PR relationship, but I thought you were writing more important things these days. Exposés and all that. Heard you got a CEO fired."

You glance away, keeping your voice low. "I wouldn't come to a Vought party to give them bad press. I'd like to be on their good side."

"Theirs or mine?"

"Hopefully both."

He smirks. "You wanna step out for a minute?"

"Stepping out" is code for commandeering a coat closet, jamming a chair under the door knob to lock it, and riding Ben on a pile of other people's jackets. You don't care, mostly because corporate assholes deserve far worse than a few wrinkles.

You lower yourself onto his cock, split open by the position and the girth of him, filling you in every way. He was right, the day of the interview, when he said there was nothing small about him. You didn't appreciate that fact until now, as he's pulsing inside of you, hitting every spot of pleasure as he takes you.

The way Ben looks at you, submits to you, like he's not the most powerful man in the world, like he couldn't have anyone he wants. He looks at you in awe, at your mercy as you place a hand against his chest for leverage and crash your hips into his.

"Ben," you whimper. "Fuck, Ben!"

You bite your lip to muffle the sounds, his fingers gripping your hips and thighs tight enough to leave tiny bruises. You come apart, your walls clenching around him as he buries himself deep enough to kiss your womb. He spills into you with enough hot cum to fill you until you're gushing all over yourself and the front of his slacks.

"Might be time to head back to the hotel," he says, as he helps you fix your dress. "You look like a mess."

"You're worse," you tease.

"Damn right." He kisses you deeply, slipping a room key into your hand. "See you in five."

𝘙𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺. After the mixer, you and Ben come to an understanding. One that happens when he's in your neighborhood during a patrol, or a late night at the office, or an event you both happen to be at. You have sex, and occasionally eat together after. No one stays the night, no one knows except the pair of you. He doesn't call to ask about your day, doesn't tell you about his.

Until your boss passes you up for a promotion. You come home in tears, humiliated by the way he treated you, the way he talked down to you in the meeting before giving the job to some wide-eyed boy without a degree whose only claim to the role is a rich daddy playing golf with the paper execs.

You know it's because you're a woman, because you're also the best writer on the paper, and you also write the biggest stories.

Ben has the misfortune of calling while you're sobbing into a couch pillow. You almost let it go to the machine before you see the caller ID. You pick up with a sniffle, voice thick. "Yeah?"

"Hey, sweetheart," he says softly. "What's the matter?"

You sniffle guiltily. "Nothing."

He scoffs. "If it's making you cry, it's not nothing."

"Why're you calling me?" you ask, trying to change the subject, because his voice is soft in a way you've never heard it, and you're trying to keep it together instead of falling apart. Something twists in your chest, affection threatening to rear its ugly ahead.

This is casual, right? Just two people who have sex. One guy who's a famous, notorious womanizer, and the other a journalist who's written a few decent articles, but otherwise, is unimportant. Just a human. No special powers or colorful capes.

Who are you to someone like him besides a good fuck?

"I was in your neck of the woods," he drawls. "Figured we could order in, and you get to be my dessert."

Any other day, you'd say yes. Any other day, you'd give in so fast it might almost be desperate. "Ben, I don't know."

"Well, this is awkward, because I'm at a payphone in the lobby of your building."

You sigh. "Any chance you leave me alone?"

"Not with my favorite girl so down in the dumps."

You hate him for saying it. Hate yourself more for preening at the nickname. You'd let him ruin you in a heartbeat, and you'd give him anything he asked for. All in exchange for pretty, empty words, and a couple of orgasms.

He's knocking a few minutes later. You unlatch the chain, and he holds up a bag of Chinese food. "You got makeup everywhere, sweetheart," he tells you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. He gestures to his cheekbones. "Let's clean you up."

He wipes your makeup away with a wet washcloth, surprisingly gentle. It's so strange, so unlike Soldier Boy. It occurs to you, as he cleans your face, all puffy and swollen and ridiculously emotional, that Soldier Boy and Ben aren't the same man, not at all.

And you're in love with the real thing.

But he can't know that, because he'll break your heart into a thousand pieces and go right back to cocaine and plowing Payback superfans with tighter asses and more cleavage.

You can have this, though. Whatever this is.

So you eat dinner with him, and then you kiss him, climbing into his lap and carding your fingers through the golden strands of his hair. He stops you, gently, green eyes folded into silent questions.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?" he asks. He's hesitating, ready to go without sex, like this isn't a transaction, like this is something real. Something sweet, like a friendship.

"Just want to feel better," you answer.

"We don't have to do anything."

"I want to," you insist, kissing his neck. "Please."

You need to do it, just one last time. Remember him like this, before you have to push him away and let him go. It's the only hope you have of making it out of this without falling apart.

This, you decide, is the one time you'll let yourself pretend he loves you too. This Ben can be yours, just this once.

He carries you into your bedroom—a place he's never been before. You usually don't make it past the couch, and one time, the shower, but he's never done this with you before. Had you in your most sacred space. But you don't have time to marvel at the newness, because he has you on your back in seconds.

He kisses gently down your torso, kneeling in front of you to worship you, and then he spends a half an hour sucking and teasing and bringing you to the edge again, and again, and again. Until you're slick on your thighs and bleaching his beard and so overstimulated you feel like you'll explode.

When he comes up for air, and you're trembling and puffy, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before he kisses you softly and asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

You promptly burst into tears.

His pants never come off. Instead, he holds you in his arms and listens to you babble about work and make excuses for what's really bothering you, the deeper issues, and how much you love him.

No, Ben can never know about that.

He just pets your hair until you're all cried out, and keeps watch over you until you're asleep.

He's gone when you wake up.

He doesn't call for six months.

𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺. You're patched up, but broken up. You're still hopelessly in love with Ben. You read every story you see, every magazine spread at the bodega two blocks over. You watch the TV interviews, the movie reruns, and you think about him all the time. He consumes you, every morning and night, constantly on your mind.

Ben. Ben. Ben.

You don't know how you let this happen, let yourself get mixed signals. You're better than this, aren't you? You know how to separate casual sex from a romantic connection. You're a professional. A serious journalist who's going places.

And now you're a silly girl pining after a man you can't have.

He turns up on your doorstep after midnight, a bag over his shoulder, his beard grown out. He looks tired, but triumphant. You're standing there in your nightgown, eyes sleepy, exhausted from a weekend spent moping over your shitty coworkers and the one bright light in your life that's gone out.

"Ben?" you whisper. "You... What are you doing here?"

He doesn't wait for an invitation before he pushes past you and walks inside, talking over you. "I have a story for you."

"What are you—"

"I have a story," he says again, more insistent. "Soldier Boy retires."

"W-What?" you stammer out.

"I'm cashing in on my fifty million and leaving Vought," Ben explains. "Finished my contract and decided not to renew it. I'm older than I look anyway, and I want to start living, properly. I want to do it with you."

You're flummoxed, eyes wide, shocked. Of all the things you've fantasized about, good and bad, you haven't considered this before.

"You don't have to be with me," he continues. "I know this ain't... that we had an agreement. No strings, no feelings. But the other night, that night six months ago, I realized what was right in front of me, and I thought, fuck Vought. I'm gonna retire, and I'm gonna marry the hell out of that reporter who drives me insane. Because I love her. And I didn't know I could feel that way about a person, and I'm a selfish bastard, but I'll be your selfish bastard, if you'll have me."

You laugh, and then you start to cry. "I love you, too, Ben."

"Fuck yeah, you do."

He kisses you hard, pressing you against the door, and he whispers sweet nothings against your neck as he tugs your panties down, lifting you into his arms, and slipping inside you quick as a wink.

Every thrust is an apology, and every kiss is a promise. He sings his song against your mouth, swallowing your gasps with a steady I love you, over and over again.

You run one last story with the paper, covering his retirement front and center before any other publisher. And, on page eight, your engagement announcement becomes the second biggest story of the week.

Like what you read? You can Buy Me A Coffee ☕️ and, if you're feeling spicy, feel free to browse my masterlist for more dirty old men.

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

You’ve covered high school football. You’ve covered city council meetings where the most exciting thing that happened was a debate about parking meters. You have not covered professional hockey, and you definitely haven’t covered the Colorado Avalanche, who are currently warming up on the ice below you like a pack of very expensive, very fast wolves.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Jeff again.

Remember to be assertive in the scrum. These guys will eat you alive if you’re not.

“Fantastic,” you mutter, shoving your phone into your bag next to your recorder, three pens (always bring backups), and a protein bar you’re too nervous to eat.

The game starts, and you do your best to keep up. You know hockey — grew up watching it with your dad, can explain offsides and icing without breaking a sweat — but knowing the sport and covering it professionally are two wildly different things. The reporters around you type with the casual confidence of people who’ve done this a thousand times, their eyes barely leaving their laptops as they capture every rush, every hit, every save.

You’re handwriting notes like some kind of medieval scribe, your fingers cramping around your pen.

The Avalanche score first. Then Calgary ties it. Then Colorado goes up again, and Calgary ties it again, and suddenly you’re in overtime and your heart is doing things that probably aren’t medically advisable.

That’s when number eighty-eight, Martin Nečas, picks up the puck in the neutral zone.

He’s fast. You knew he was fast from watching highlights, but seeing it in person is different. He blows past one defender, then another, then he’s in alone on the goalie and-

The puck goes high glove side.

The goal horn sounds.

Ball Arena loses its collective mind.

You’re scribbling frantically. Nečas OT winner, 3:47 into extra period, unassisted — check that, maybe assisted? Need to confirm. Your hand is shaking slightly, and you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the three cups of press box coffee you’ve consumed.

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing outside the Avalanche locker room with approximately thirty other media members, most of whom are men, and most of whom look like they’d rather be literally anywhere else. They’re checking phones, comparing notes, complaining about traffic.

You’re trying not to throw up.

The door opens, and a PR assistant — bright-eyed, clipboard-wielding, probably doesn’t get paid enough — waves everyone in. “Okay, folks, you know the drill. Bednar will be available in five, but players are good to go now.”

The scrum moves like a single organism, flowing into the room and immediately clustering around certain stalls. You can see Cale Makar’s number eight jersey hanging in one corner, surrounded by reporters. Nathan MacKinnon’s number twenty-nine is creating its own gravitational pull.

And Marty’s number eighty-eight? That’s where the real crowd is.

Of course it is. Two goals, including the overtime winner. That’s the story of the night.

You wedge yourself into the back of the pack, your recorder held up like a periscope, trying to catch anything useful. The guy in front of you is approximately six-two and apparently made of concrete. You can see roughly forty percent of Marty’s face and none of your future.

“-yeah, you know, I just tried to get to the net,” Marty is saying, his accent slight but present, the kind that makes certain words sound softer around the edges. “They gave me some space, so I took it.”

“Marty, can you walk us through the overtime winner?” Someone shouts.

“Sure, yeah. Lehki made a good play in our zone, got it out clean. I saw the defenseman cheat a little bit to the middle, so I went wide. After that, it was just me and the goalie, and I just tried to pick a spot.” He pauses. “Got lucky, I guess.”

The reporters scribble. You scribble. Everyone scribbles.

“Do you feel like you’re finding your rhythm? Third game with multiple points-”

“I mean, the team is playing well, you know? When everyone is doing their job, it makes my job easier. It’s not just about me.”

Standard athlete answer. Humble. Team-first. You’re not going to get a story out of that.

But you might get one out of something else.

You’ve been watching the game closely — or as closely as someone covering their first NHL game can watch — and you noticed something in the second period. Marty had changed his positioning on the power play, rotating higher in the zone instead of staying down low. It had opened up passing lanes, created chaos for the Calgary penalty kill. None of the reporters have asked about it yet.

You wait for a gap in the questions, your heart doing that thing again where it tries to escape through your throat.

Nothing.

More questions about the goals, about the team’s playoff positioning, about-

“Marty, your parents are visiting from Czechia this week, right? Did they-”

You’re formulating your question in your head, trying to make it sound smart and professional and like you absolutely belong here, when suddenly there’s a brief pause. Someone’s phone is ringing. Another reporter is checking his notes.

Marty’s eyes scan the crowd, and for just a second, they land on you.

You freeze.

He tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Yeah?” He says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you. “You’ve been waiting. What’s your question?”

Oh God. Oh God, everyone is looking at you now.

You clear your throat, raising your voice to be heard over the ambient noise. “I noticed in the second period, on the power play, you started rotating higher in the zone instead of-”

“Hey, Marty,” a voice cuts in from your left — deep, male, impatient. You feel a hand on your shoulder, pushing. Not gently. “Follow-up about the first goal. You said you saw the space, but their defenseman had been playing you tight all night. What changed?”

You stumble slightly to the side, catching yourself on someone’s arm. The reporter — older guy, maybe fifty, with a press badge from some blog you’ve never heard of — has essentially shoved his way into your spot, his recorder thrust toward Marty’s face.

Your question dies in your throat.

The locker room continues on like nothing happened. Someone asks about goaltending. Someone else asks about line combinations.

Your face is burning. You’re angry, but more than that, you’re embarrassed. You finally work up the courage to ask something, and you get physically pushed aside like you’re not even here.

You’re about to give up, about to just take your partial quotes and your wounded pride and get the hell out, when Marty speaks again.

“Actually, hold on.” His voice is quiet but firm, and somehow it cuts through all the noise. “I want to hear her question.”

The locker room doesn’t go silent, there are still conversations happening in other corners, still the ambient sound of a hockey team winding down after a win, but the scrum around Marty’s stall definitely quiets.

Marty is looking directly at the reporter who cut you off. His expression hasn’t changed much — he’s still got that post-game calm, that professional athlete neutrality — but there’s something in his eyes that’s gone very, very flat.

“You pushed her,” Marty says. It’s not a question.

The reporter scoffs. “I didn’t—look, it’s a scrum, everyone’s trying to get questions in-”

“Yeah, and she was asking one.” Marty stands up, and suddenly the dynamic in the room shifts. He’s not a huge guy by hockey standards — six-foot-two, maybe — but he’s still in his gear minus the shoulder pads, and there’s something about the way he moves that makes you think of a coiled spring. “And you interrupted her. And pushed her.”

“It wasn’t-”

“I saw it.” Marty crosses his arms. “Everyone saw it.”

The reporter’s face is reddening now. “Look, kid, I’ve been covering this league since before you were born-”

“Great. Then you should know better.” Marty’s voice hasn’t risen, but it’s taken on an edge that makes you think he sounds like this on the ice right before someone makes a very bad decision. “You want to ask questions? Fine. Wait your turn. Don’t put your hands on people. And definitely don’t cut off-” He glances at your press badge, squinting slightly. “-Colorado Sports Network in the middle of a question.”

“It’s just an intern,” the reporter mutters, but he’s already backing up slightly.

“I don’t care if she’s the mascot,” Marty says, and there’s a ripple of surprised laughter from some of the other reporters. “She was asking something, and you interrupted. That’s rude. We don’t do that here.”

The PR assistant has materialized from nowhere, her expression torn between professional horror and barely suppressed glee. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s keep this professional-”

“I am being professional,” Marty says, not looking away from the reporter. “I’m telling him to be professional too.”

The reporter opens his mouth, closes it, then turns and pushes his way out of the scrum entirely. You catch a few muttered words that are definitely not appropriate for a family establishment.

Marty watches him go, then turns back to you. His expression softens immediately, like someone flipped a switch. “Sorry about that. You were saying? Something about the power play?”

Your brain has officially left the building. You’re running on autopilot now, some deep-seated journalistic instinct that survived three years of college and one Very Bad Breakup.

“I … yeah. I noticed you started rotating higher in the zone on the power play, creating more of an umbrella setup instead of staying down low. It seemed like it opened up passing lanes and gave you guys more flexibility. Was that a tactical adjustment, or something you read off Calgary’s penalty kill?”

Marty’s face lights up — an actual, genuine smile that makes him look about five years younger. “Yes! Okay, yeah, you noticed that. That’s a good question.” He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “Their PK was collapsing really hard down low, trying to take away the bumper and the net front. So me and Val talked about it on the bench, and we decided I’d rotate higher, pull one of their defenders with me. Creates more room for Nate to work in the middle, and if they don’t follow me up, I’ve got time and space to shoot or make a pass.”

You’re nodding, your recorder capturing every word. “So it was a read you made in-game?”

“Yeah, exactly. Their penalty kill is very aggressive, which is good for them most of the time, but if you can recognize it and adjust, you can take advantage.” He shrugs. “Plus, our coaches are really good about letting us make those changes on the fly. They trust us to see what’s happening and react.”

“That’s great,” you manage, and you mean it. This is actual analysis, actual insight into how the game works at this level. This is a real answer.

“You played hockey?” Marty asks suddenly.

The question catches you off guard. “What? No. I mean, I watched a lot growing up, but I never played.”

“But you know the game.” It’s not a question. “That was a smart thing to notice. Most people, they just see goals and hits. They don’t see the small adjustments.”

“I’m trying to learn,” you say, and it comes out more honest than you intended. “This is actually my first time covering an NHL game.”

His eyebrows rise. “Really? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m very good at pretending.”

He laughs — a real laugh, bright and surprised. “Well, you’re doing better than some people who’ve been doing this for twenty years.” He shoots a pointed look in the direction the rude reporter went.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it for multiple reasons. “For answering the question. And for, you know. Standing up for me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That guy was being an asshole. Sorry—can I say that? Are you recording?”

You glance at your recorder. “I am, but I won’t use that part.”

“Okay, good, because he was.” Marty grins. “You have any other questions? I’ve got time.”

You do have other questions — about a dozen of them, actually, now that your brain is slowly coming back online. You ask about his chemistry with his linemates, about adjusting to Colorado’s system, about whether he misses playing in Carolina. He answers all of them thoughtfully, with the kind of detail that makes you think he actually enjoys talking about hockey when he’s not being asked the same five questions on repeat.

Other reporters are still hovering, waiting for you to finish, but Marty doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.

“Last question,” you say finally, partly because you’re running out of notebook pages and partly because you can feel the impatient stares of ten other media members. “The overtime winner—you went glove side on a goalie who’s been statistically one of the best in the league at stopping high shots. What made you choose that?”

Marty’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Honestly? Gut feeling. I’d been watching him all game, and he was really good at tracking the puck down low, getting his pad down fast. But a couple times when there were high shots, he was just a little bit slow getting his glove up. So when I came in on that rush, I was already thinking glove side. And then I saw him cheat a little bit to his blocker side — just a tiny bit, maybe he thought I was going there — so I went upstairs glove.” He smiles. “Also, I got lucky. Let’s be honest.”

“Skill and luck,” you say.

“Best combination in hockey.”

You thank him again, clicking off your recorder and stepping back from the scrum. Your legs feel like jelly, and you’re pretty sure you’ve sweat through your shirt under your blazer, but you have quotes. Good quotes. Great quotes, actually.

As you’re turning to leave, Marty calls out, “Hey, Colorado Sports Network?”

You turn back. “Yeah?”

“What’s your name? I didn’t catch it.”

“Oh. Um. It’s Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”

He nods, like he’s committing it to memory. “Cool. Good questions, Y/N. I hope you cover more games.”

“Thanks,” you say, and then you flee before you can do something embarrassing like giggle or trip over your own feet.

You make it approximately fifteen feet down the hallway before you have to stop and lean against the wall, your heart pounding so hard you’re pretty sure it’s visible through your shirt.

Your phone buzzes. Jeff.

How’d it go???

You stare at the message for a long moment, then type back. Got the story. Filing in an hour.

What you don’t say: You also got defended by a professional hockey player, had your first real scrum experience, and possibly just developed a crush on someone you’re supposed to be covering objectively.

But that’s fine. That’s totally fine. You’re a professional.

You’re absolutely, completely, definitely fine.

(You’re not fine.)

***

The thing about Park Meadows Mall on a Monday afternoon is that it should be relatively empty. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past hour, wandering from store to store with the kind of determined focus usually reserved for investigative journalism or defusing bombs.

You are not defusing a bomb. You are buying underwear.

“Just go in, get what you need, get out,” you’d muttered to yourself in the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel like it might offer moral support. “You’re an adult. Adults buy lingerie. This is normal.”

Except it doesn’t feel normal when you’re standing in Victoria’s Secret, holding a lacy burgundy bra up to the light and trying to remember what size you’re supposed to be, and whether it even matters because who’s going to see it anyway?

The sales associate — perky, blonde, probably doesn’t lie awake at night worrying about whether she’ll die alone with seventeen cats — had been aggressively helpful.

“That color would look amazing on you,” she’d said, appearing at your elbow like a lingerie-themed ghost. “And we’re doing a promotion: buy two bras, get two panties free.”

Which is how you ended up with a shopping bag containing one burgundy bra, one black bra (practical), two matching thong sets (aspirational), and a crisis about whether buying nice underwear when you’re single is empowering or just sad.

You’re going with empowering. It’s empowering.

The bag swings from your hand as you navigate the mall, trying to look like someone who buys thongs on a Tuesday and feels totally normal about it. You pass the Apple Store, catch a glimpse of your reflection in a window, and make the executive decision that you need a coffee before you can handle the rest of your day.

There’s a Starbucks on the second floor. You head for the escalator, already mentally composing your order (iced latte, oat milk, extra shot because your life is a circus), your mind drifting to the article you need to finish editing tonight.

You’re thinking about transition sentences and whether you used “however” too many times when you step off the escalator directly into what feels like a brick wall.

Except brick walls don’t say “Oof” and stumble backward.

Except brick walls don’t have arms that instinctively reach out to steady you.

And brick walls definitely don’t smell like expensive cologne and fresh laundry.

“Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t-” you’re saying, at the same time the brick wall is saying something in what sounds like Czech, and then you’re both stepping back, and your Victoria’s Secret bag — your very full, very pink Victoria’s Secret bag — chooses this exact moment to give up on life.

The bottom tears.

Everything goes flying.

The burgundy bra lands near a trash can. The black bra drapes itself over someone’s abandoned smoothie cup. And the thongs — Jesus Christ, the thongs — scatter across the floor like the world’s most embarrassing confetti.

“Oh my God,” you say, dropping to your knees immediately, your face already burning hot enough to power a small city. “Oh my God, oh my God-”

“Here, let me help-” the brick wall says, and that’s when you look up and realize the brick wall is Marty.

Martin Nečas. Number eighty-eight. Two-goal scorer. Professional hockey player.

Currently crouching down to help you pick up your underwear.

“No!” You practically shout, reaching out to stop him. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got it, you don’t have to-”

But he’s already picking up the black bra, and now he’s reaching for one of the thongs — the burgundy one with the little lace detail that the sales associate had described as “cheeky” — and you want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You want to spontaneously combust.

Marty’s holding the thong by one tiny string, staring at it like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. His ears are turning red.

“This is, um.” He looks at you. Looks at the thong. Looks back at you. “This is yours?”

“Yes,” you say, snatching it from his hand and shoving it into what’s left of your shopping bag. “Yes, it’s mine, thank you, I’ve got it, sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going-” He’s grabbing the other thong now (black, also “cheeky”), and the second bra, and somehow he’s managed to corral most of your escaped lingerie while you’re still frozen in a crouch, wishing for death.

A woman walking by gives you both a curious look. A teenager snickers.

You’re going to have to move to a different state. Maybe a different country.

“I think that’s everything,” Marty says, standing up and offering you the handful of lacy things he’s collected. His face is flushed, and he won’t quite meet your eyes, but he’s also trying very hard not to smile. “Unless, uh, there’s more?”

“No. That’s it. That’s all of it.” You stand up too quickly, nearly lose your balance, and catch yourself on a nearby railing. Smooth. Very smooth. “Thank you. For helping. Even though you didn’t have to. And probably shouldn’t have. I mean—not that I don’t appreciate it, but-”

“It’s okay,” he says, and now he is smiling, just a little bit. “I’ve seen underwear before.”

“That’s … great? That’s great for you.”

He laughs, and it breaks some of the tension. “I’m sorry about your bag. I really wasn’t paying attention. I was looking at my phone and-” He gestures vaguely at the multiple shopping bags hanging from his arm. Apple, Lululemon, some place called Tumi that you’re pretty sure sells luggage that costs more than your rent.

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not fine, nothing is fine, you just had a professional athlete handle your thong collection. “I should’ve been watching where I was going too.”

There’s a pause. You’re clutching your broken bag of lingerie. He’s holding what appears to be half of the Apple Store’s inventory. You’re both just standing there, in the middle of the mall, while the universe laughs.

“So,” Marty says slowly. “This is, uh. This is embarrassing.”

“You think?”

“For both of us.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s more embarrassing for me,” you say. “You’re not the one whose underwear just went on a public tour.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who picked it up.” He shifts his bags from one hand to the other. “Which, in retrospect, maybe I should’ve just let you handle that yourself.”

“Probably,” you agree. “But you were trying to be helpful. In a mortifying, I’ll-never-recover-from-this kind of way.”

He grins. “You’ll recover. Give it, like, ten or fifteen years.”

“Oh good. So I only have to hide in my apartment until 2040.”

“Could be worse. Could’ve been your grandma walking by instead of me.”

You hadn’t thought of that. “Oh my God, don’t even put that image in my head.”

“Now I’m curious what your grandma would’ve said.”

“She would’ve asked why I was buying thongs when I don’t even have a boyfriend.” You say it without thinking, then immediately want to take it back because why, why did you just volunteer that information?

Marty’s eyebrows rise slightly. “No boyfriend?”

“Nope. No boyfriend. Just me and my extremely fancy underwear that no one will ever see.” You’re babbling now, the words just pouring out like your brain has disconnected from your mouth. “Not that I bought it for anyone to see. I bought it for me. Because women can buy lingerie for themselves. It’s empowering.”

“It is,” he agrees, but he’s definitely trying not to laugh. “Very empowering.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Little bit.”

“Great. Fantastic.” You’re backing toward the escalator now, ready to flee this conversation and possibly this dimension. “Well, this has been humiliating. Thanks again for the help. I’m going to go throw myself into traffic now.”

“Wait.” He takes a step forward. “Don’t throw yourself into traffic.”

“I’m open to alternative suggestions.”

“Let me buy you lunch.”

You stop. “What?”

“Lunch,” he repeats. “As an apology. For, you know, crashing into you. And seeing your underwear. And making this whole thing weird.”

“You want to buy me lunch.”

“Yeah.”

“Right now?”

“I mean, unless you have somewhere else to be. Or unless you really are going to throw yourself into traffic, in which case I should probably try to stop you first.”

You stare at him. He’s serious. Martin Nečas, professional hockey player, the guy you interviewed two weeks ago, the guy who defended you in a locker room full of reporters, is asking you to lunch.

“I can’t have lunch with you,” you say.

“Why not?”

“Because-” Because you’re a journalist and he’s a player and there are probably ethics rules about this, right? Except you’re not really a journalist, you’re an intern, and you’re not even covering the team regularly, and also you’re pretty sure the ethics rules don’t account for chance encounters at the mall involving airborne lingerie. “Because it would be weird.”

“Weirder than what just happened?”

He’s got a point.

“I’m buying,” he adds. “And I promise not to mention your underwear again.”

“You just mentioned it.”

“That was the last time. From now on, we pretend it never happened.”

You look down at your broken Victoria’s Secret bag, then back at Marty, who’s watching you with this hopeful expression that’s honestly unfair because how are you supposed to say no to that?

“Where did you have in mind?” You hear yourself asking.

His face lights up. “You like burgers?”

***

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from Marty in a corner booth at some gourmet burger place on the ground floor, your reconstructed shopping bag (he found a paper one from one of his stores) tucked safely beside you, trying to act like this is a totally normal situation.

It’s not a normal situation.

“So,” Marty says, pulling a pickle off his burger and setting it on the edge of his plate. “You’re still at Colorado Sports Network?”

“Yeah. Still an intern.” You pick up a fry, then put it down again. “That game two weeks ago was actually my first NHL coverage. They’ve had me on high school sports mostly.”

“But you did a good job. Your article was really good.”

You blink. “You read my article?”

“Yeah, of course.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I wanted to see what you wrote. Especially after the whole thing with that asshole reporter.”

“He’s still mad at you, by the way. Someone told me he’s been complaining about you to anyone who’ll listen.”

Marty shrugs, biting into his burger. “Don’t care. He was being rude.”

“You didn’t have to stand up for me like that.”

“Yes, I did.” He sets his burger down, looking at you seriously. “He pushed you. That’s not okay. And even if he hadn’t pushed you, interrupting someone in the middle of a question is just … it’s bad manners. My mom would kill me if I did that.”

“Your mom sounds scary.”

“She’s not scary, she’s just Czech. There’s a difference.” He pauses. “Actually, no, she’s a little bit scary.”

You laugh, and it feels good, some of the tension from the mall incident finally starting to ease. “How long are your parents visiting?”

“They left last week. But they’re coming back for playoffs, hopefully.” He steals one of your fries and grins when you swat at his hand. “If we make it.”

“You’ll make it. You guys are, what, second in the Central?”

“Yeah, but it’s close. And I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Not superstitious at all, huh?”

“I’m a hockey player. We’re all superstitious.” He counts off on his fingers. “I eat the same breakfast before every game. I put my left skate on before my right. I have to tap the glass three times when I go out for warmups. And I never, ever say the word ’shutout’ during a game.”

“What happens if you do?”

“The universe explodes. Or the other team scores. One of those.”

You’re grinning now, relaxing into the conversation. “Do you really believe that?”

“Doesn’t matter if I believe it. It’s just what you do.” He leans back in the booth, his long legs stretching out under the table. “Everyone on the team has their things. Gabe has this pre-game nap schedule that he will not deviate from. Nate listens to the same pump-up playlist. Cale does this specific stick-taping pattern.”

“What happens if someone messes up their routine?”

“Panic. Chaos. General disaster.” He’s smiling. “One time, Nate’s headphones died right before a game. You would’ve thought someone cancelled Christmas.”

“Did you guys lose?”

“No, we won 5-1. But he was stressed the entire time.”

You take a bite of your burger — it’s good, really good, the kind of burger that makes you understand why people wait in hour-long lines — and watch Marty across the table. He’s different like this, away from the arena. More relaxed. Funnier. The media persona falls away, and what’s left is just a guy in his twenties who apparently has strong opinions about pickle placement and breakfast superstitions.

“Can I ask you something?” You say.

“Sure.”

“Why’d you ask me to lunch? Really?”

He’s quiet for a moment, dragging a fry through ketchup. “I don’t know. I thought it would be nice?”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. You seemed cool. At the game, I mean. You asked good questions, and you weren’t just going through the motions like some of the other reporters.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “And then we literally crashed into each other today, and your underwear went everywhere, and I thought … I don’t know, I thought maybe the universe was telling me something.”

“The universe told you to ask me to lunch via flying lingerie?”

“The universe works in mysterious ways.”

You’re trying not to smile and failing. “That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe. But you said yes, so it worked.”

He’s got you there.

Your phone buzzes on the table. You glance at it — Jeff, asking about a deadline for Friday — then flip it face-down. “Sorry. Work thing.”

“It’s fine. Are you busy? We can eat fast if you need to-”

“No, no, I’m good. I’ve got time.” You steal one of his fries in revenge for earlier. “What about you? Don’t you have practice or training or hockey stuff?”

“Day off. We played last night, so today’s recovery.” He flexes his arm dramatically. “As you can see, I’m recovering very hard. Buying electronics. Eating burgers. Really pushing my body to the limit.”

“The Apple Store bags make sense now.”

“New laptop. My old one died.” He grimaces. “Well, I maybe accidentally dropped it. And then maybe accidentally stepped on it.”

“How do you accidentally step on a laptop?”

“It was on the floor.”

“Why was it on the floor?”

“Because I dropped it.”

You’re laughing now, actually laughing, and Marty’s grinning at you like he’s won something. “You’re a disaster.”

“Little bit,” he agrees. “But I’m a disaster with a new laptop, so it’s fine.”

“What else did you buy? That’s a lot of bags.”

“Some clothes. A duffle bag. We have a road trip coming up and my other one broke. Oh, and I got my mom this fancy tea set thing from that kitchen store. For her birthday next month.”

“You’re mailing your mom a tea set to Czechia?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s just … that’s really sweet.”

He shrugs, but his ears go a bit pink. “She likes tea. And she’s always saying the tea here is better than Czech tea, which I think is just her being nice, but whatever. I wanted to get her something good.”

There’s something about the image of this professional hockey player carefully picking out a tea set for his mom that makes your chest feel warm. You take another bite of your burger to cover whatever expression is probably on your face.

“What about you?” Marty asks. “What were you doing at the mall? Besides, you know-”

“We said we weren’t going to mention it.”

“I didn’t mention anything specific. I’m just saying, besides shopping.”

“That was the whole thing. Just shopping.” You don’t mention that you’d been stress-shopping, that buying nice underwear had felt like taking control of something in a life that often feels like it’s happening to you rather than because of you.

“Do you like it? Your job?”

The question catches you off guard. “I … yeah. I do. I mean, it’s an internship, so a lot of it is grunt work. But I’m learning a lot. And I love writing.”

“You’re good at it.”

“You read one article.”

“It was a really good article.” He’s serious now, not joking around. “You made the game sound interesting. Like, you didn’t just report what happened. You explained why it mattered. That’s hard to do.”

“Thanks,” you say, and you mean it. You’ve gotten compliments on your writing before — from professors, from Jeff when he’s in a good mood — but something about hearing it from Marty feels different. “I’m trying to figure out what I want to do after I graduate. Like, do I want to do sports journalism specifically, or general news, or … I don’t know. I love sports, but I also like investigative stuff.”

“You’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Do I? Everyone else in my program already has it figured out. They have internships lined up at major papers, or they’re starting their own podcasts, or they’ve already got job offers. And I’m just-” You stop, realizing you’re oversharing to someone you barely know. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear me have a quarter-life crisis.”

“I don’t mind.” He steals another one of your fries, and this time you let him. “For what it’s worth, I think most people are just pretending they have it figured out. Like, I’m a professional hockey player, which sounds like I’ve got my shit together, but I literally just stepped on my laptop last week.”

“That’s different. You’re already doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“Yeah, but what happens when I’m not? Hockey careers don’t last forever. I’ll be, what, forty max when I retire? Then what? I have no idea.” He shrugs. “So maybe we’re both just figuring it out as we go.”

You look at him — really look at him — and realize that he’s being genuine. There’s no bravado, no performance. Just a guy admitting he doesn’t have all the answers.

“How did you end up in Colorado?” You ask. “I know you got traded from Carolina, but-”

“Yeah, last season. It was weird. I liked Carolina, I liked my teammates there. But sometimes things don’t work out, you know? And Colorado needed a winger, and they made the trade, and now I’m here.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “I really like it, though. The team is great. The city is great. The mountains are amazing, they remind me of home.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes. I miss my family. My friends. The food — American food is good, but it’s not the same.” He grins. “But I can go back and visit in the summer. And they come here sometimes. So it’s okay.”

“Does it ever get lonely? Being that far from home?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “But you get used to it. And you make new friends. New routines. After a while, wherever you are becomes home too. Kind of.”

There’s something wistful in his voice, and you want to ask more, but before you can, your phone buzzes again. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.

“Sorry,” you mutter, grabbing it. It’s your best friend, Riley, sending a series of increasingly unhinged texts.

WHERE ARE YOU WHY ARENT YOU ANSWERING DID YOU DIE IF YOU DIED CAN I HAVE YOUR BOOTS THE BROWN ONES

You type back quickly. I’m alive. Having lunch. Talk later.

Riley’s response is immediate. WITH WHO

You don’t answer that one.

“Everything okay?” Marty asks.

“Yeah, sorry. My friend is having a crisis about my boots.”

“Your boots?”

“Don’t ask. It’s a whole thing.”

He laughs. “Friends are weird.”

“The weirdest.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind of quiet that feels rare with someone you don’t know well. The restaurant has gotten busier — it’s lunchtime now, and there are families at nearby tables, business people on their laptops, a couple sharing a milkshake.

“Can I ask you something?” Marty says.

“Sure.”

“That reporter. The one from the game. Has he bothered you since then?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondering. I heard he was talking shit, and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t giving you a hard time.”

“I haven’t seen him since that night. And honestly, I think after what you said, he’s probably avoiding me.” You pause. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. You could’ve just let it go. Answered his question. Moved on.”

“I could have,” Marty agrees. “But that would’ve been letting him think it was okay to treat people like that. And it’s not.”

There’s a conviction in his voice that makes you believe he’d do it again, no matter the circumstances. It’s refreshing … and maybe a little dangerous to your heart.

“Well, thank you,” you say. “Again. For the hundredth time.”

“You’re welcome. For the hundredth time.”

Your phone buzzes again. TELL ME WHO YOURE WITH OR I WILL CALL YOUR MOTHER

“I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, gesturing at your phone. “Before my friend actually calls my mother.”

“Would she really?”

“Yes. She did it once when I didn’t answer for six hours because I was doing laundry. My mom called me crying, thinking I’d been kidnapped.”

Marty’s eyes widen. “That’s intense.”

“That’s Riley.” You gather your things — your purse, your phone, your reconstructed shopping bag with its mortifying contents. “Thank you for lunch. And for the bag repair. And for not running away screaming when my underwear attacked you.”

“It was the least I could do after causing the underwear attack.” He stands when you do, grabbing his shopping bags. “This was fun.”

“It was,” you agree, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it. Despite the mortifying beginning, lunch has been … nice. Really nice.

You walk out together, into the mall’s main corridor where shoppers are rushing past with bags and strollers and grande lattes. It feels surreal, standing here with Marty like you’re just two normal people who happened to have lunch, not a journalist and an athlete who probably shouldn’t be fraternizing.

“I’ll see you around?” Marty says, and it sounds like a question.

“Maybe. If you don’t run me over at the mall again.”

“I’ll try to be more careful.” He shifts his bags, looking like he wants to say something else, then just: “Enjoy your, uh. Your purchases.”

You’d almost forgotten. “Oh God. We’re not mentioning those, remember?”

“Right. Never happened.” But he’s grinning, and you’re fighting a smile, and this is ridiculous.

“Bye, Marty.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

You turn to leave, make it about five steps, then hear him call your name. When you turn back, he’s still standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

“Hey, um. Can I—would it be weird if I got your number?” He’s talking fast now, words tumbling over each other. “Not weird weird, just like, so we could maybe hang out again? As friends. Or not friends—I mean, as friends is fine too, I just meant-”

“Marty.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re rambling.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m not usually—this is not normally how I-” He stops, takes a breath. “Can I have your number?”

You should say no. You should absolutely say no. This is a terrible idea for approximately seventeen different reasons, most of which involve ethics and professionalism and not getting emotionally involved with people you might have to cover.

You give him your number.

He saves it in his phone, then sends you a text — just a simple “hey” — so you have his too.

“Cool,” he says. “Okay. Cool.”

“You already said cool.”

“I’m aware. I’m leaving now before I say it again.”

He does leave, finally, walking backward for a few steps and nearly colliding with a man carrying a giant teddy bear before course-correcting. You watch him go, then look down at your phone where his text is waiting.

Riley’s going to lose her mind.

You’re probably going to lose your mind.

But as you head toward the parking lot, your ruined Victoria’s Secret bag in hand and Marty’s number in your phone, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret any of it.

Even the thong incident.

Especially the thong incident.

***

The thing about covering your second-ever NHL game is that it should be easier than the first.

Should being the operative word.

You’re back in the press box at Ball Arena, three weeks after your first assignment, because apparently the universe has decided that the regular Avalanche beat reporter is cursed. First he got the flu. Now he’s somehow managed to break his foot while hiking — his actual words were “stepped wrong on a rock” — and is laid up for the next month.

Which means you’re getting more game coverage.

Which should be exciting.

Which is exciting, except for the part where you’ve spent the last three weeks texting Marty, and now you have to see him in a professional capacity and pretend like you don’t know that he sends terrible memes at two in the morning or that his favorite movie is The Princess Bride or that he once got scared by a chipmunk on a run and screamed loud enough that his neighbor called to check if he was okay.

“You’ve got this,” you mutter to yourself, laptop open, fingers poised over the keyboard. “You are a professional. You can be objective. You will not think about the mall incident.”

Except now you’re thinking about the mall incident.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Riley. Stop overthinking. Do your job. Try not to drool on your recorder.

You text back. I hate you.

You love me. Now go be a journalist.

The game starts, and you force yourself to focus. Avalanche versus Vegas — a big game, playoff implications, the kind of matchup that sells tickets and breaks hearts. You’re taking notes, tracking line changes, watching systems and strategies the way you’ve been teaching yourself to do.

Marty’s on a line with Artturi Lehkonen and Nathan MacKinnon tonight, which feels like putting a very fast sports car between two other very fast sports cars and just seeing what happens.

What happens is chaos.

Good chaos.

Marty gets an assist on the first goal — a beautiful feed to MacKinnon that makes the crowd lose its collective mind. Then he sets up Lehkonen in the second period with a pass that somehow threads through three defenders. And then, in the third period with the game tied 3-3, he takes a shot from the circle that goes bar down so fast the goalie doesn’t even move.

Goal and two assists.

The arena erupts.

You’re writing frantically as fans trail out, trying to capture everything, when your phone buzzes again.

It’s Marty. Told you you’re good luck

You stare at the text, then at the ice where Marty was being mobbed by his teammates just a few minutes ago, then back at your phone.

He’s texting you. Right after the game. Minutes after scoring.

You type back. Pretty sure that was skill, not luck.

Why not both?

You’re grinning at your phone like an idiot when the reporter next to you — Ted, who’s been covering the Avs for the Denver Post for approximately a thousand years — leans over. “You okay? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, shoving your phone away. “Just warm in here.”

“Press box is always freezing.”

“I run hot.”

He gives you a weird look but goes back to his laptop, and you go back to pretending your heart rate is normal.

The Avalanche won 4-3. Marty gets second star of the game. And you have twenty-five minutes before the locker room opens to figure out how to act like a professional when you’re pretty sure your face is going to betray you the second you see him.

***

The scrum is already forming when you walk into the locker room, reporters clustering around the usual suspects. You can see Makar in one corner, MacKinnon in another, and-

There.

Marty’s at his stall, still in most of his gear, running a towel through his hair. He’s talking to one of the equipment guys, laughing about something, and he hasn’t noticed you yet.

You’re trying to decide where to position yourself — close enough to hear, far enough to maintain plausible deniability about your rapidly developing crush — when Marty looks up.

His eyes scan the crowd, land on you, and his entire face lights up.

Not a small smile. Not a polite acknowledgment.

His face lights up like someone just told him Christmas came early and also he won the lottery.

“Y/N!” He calls out, loud enough that several reporters turn to look. “You’re here!”

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

Every reporter in a ten-foot radius is now staring at you, and you can feel Ted’s confused look boring into your back, and Marty is grinning at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day.

“Hi,” you manage, lifting your recorder in a wave that feels deeply awkward. “Good game.”

“You must be my good luck charm,” Marty says, still grinning. “Last time you were here, I got two goals. Tonight, goal and two assists. That’s not a coincidence.”

“That’s—I don’t think that’s how statistics work,” you say, very aware that everyone is listening.

“Sure it is. You show up, I play better. Science.”

A blogger from some Avs fan site is typing rapidly on his phone. Ted looks like he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. Another reporter — woman from a local TV station — is smiling like she’s just stumbled onto a story.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

“Should we, um, start the scrum?” You suggest weakly.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Marty settles back against his stall, but he’s still looking at you with this warmth that makes you want to either melt into the floor or possibly run away. “What do you want to know?”

The questions start — other reporters jumping in first because they’re more experienced, more aggressive, or maybe just less flustered. Marty answers everything professionally, talking about the game, the line chemistry, Vegas’s defensive structure.

But his eyes keep drifting back to you.

You’re not imagining it. Ted definitely isn’t imagining it, based on the way he keeps glancing between you and Marty like he’s watching a tennis match.

Finally, there’s a gap, and you clear your throat. “The assist on MacKinnon’s goal in the first period — you made that pass from a pretty tight angle while being pressured. Can you walk us through what you saw?”

Marty nods, leaning forward. “Yeah, so I knew Nate was driving the net, and their defenseman had committed to me because I think he thought I was going to shoot. But there was a small gap—like, really small, maybe this wide-” He holds his hands a few inches apart. “And I thought, if I can just thread it through there, Nate’s going to be in perfect position.”

“You weren’t worried about it getting picked off?” You ask.

“Little bit, yeah. But sometimes you have to trust the small gaps, you know? Like, everyone’s always looking for the big obvious play, but sometimes the small spaces are where the magic happens.” He pauses, and there’s this tiny smirk on his face. “It’s like … it’s like trying to fit through a crowd. Or getting thongs through tight spots. You just have to commit and hope it works out.”

The locker room continues on like normal.

The reporters keep scribbling.

No one reacts.

Because why would they? “Thongs” sounds like “things” with his slight accent, and the context makes perfect sense if you’re not having Vietnam-style flashbacks to a mall incident three weeks ago.

But you know.

You know what he just did.

Your face is on fire. Your ears are burning. You’re pretty sure you’ve achieved a shade of red previously unknown to science.

Marty’s looking at you with this innocent expression that is absolutely not innocent, and you want to kill him. Or kiss him. Or possibly both, in that order.

“That’s-” Your voice comes out strangled. You clear your throat, try again. “That’s a good point. About the small gaps.”

“I thought you’d appreciate that,” Marty says, and the bastard is trying not to smile.

Ted leans over again. “You feeling okay? You look really flushed now.”

“I’m fine,” you hiss. “Totally fine.”

Another reporter jumps in with a question about the third period goal, and you take the opportunity to try to get your face under control. You’re a professional. You can handle this. So what if Marty just made a joke that only you would understand? So what if he’s clearly enjoying your reaction? You are a grown woman with a journalism degree (almost) and a career to think about.

The scrum continues for another ten minutes. You ask two more questions — both perfectly professional, thank you very much — and Marty answers them normally, without any more coded references to your most embarrassing moment.

But he keeps looking at you.

And you keep noticing.

Finally, the PR assistant starts herding reporters toward the door. “Okay, folks, let’s wrap it up. Coach Bednar’s available in the media room if anyone needs him.”

The crowd disperses. You’re packing up your stuff, very focused on zipping your bag and not looking at Marty, when you hear your name.

“Y/N, wait up a sec?”

You turn. Most of the reporters have cleared out, but Ted’s still lingering near the door, and a couple of others are chatting by MacKinnon’s stall. Not private, but not exactly public either.

“Yeah?” You say, hoping you sound casual.

Marty’s standing now, and he’s so much taller than you remembered. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware of everything about him right now. “You doing anything after this?”

“I … what?”

“After this. Are you busy?” He’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his joggers, and he looks almost nervous. “I thought maybe we could grab dinner or something.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Dinner.”

“Yeah. If you want. No pressure.”

“I have to file my story.”

“Right, yeah, of course. What if I wait? Or we could meet somewhere?”

You’re very aware of Ted still hovering by the door, definitely listening. “Marty-”

“I know it’s weird,” he says quickly, quietly. “The reporter thing. But we’re friends, right? Friends can have dinner.”

“Do you make friends with all the reporters?” You ask, and it comes out more pointed than you intended.

“No.” He holds your gaze. “Just one.”

Your heart does something complicated.

“I really need to file my story,” you say, because your brain has apparently given up on forming coherent arguments.

“Okay. File your story. I’ll text you a place, and you can meet me there if you want. If you don’t want to, that’s okay too. No pressure.”

He says it so earnestly that you almost believe there’s no pressure, except there is, because he’s looking at you like you’re the reason the sun comes up and you’re trying very hard to remember why this is a bad idea.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Okay, yeah. Text me.”

His smile is blinding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I really do have to file first. Jeff will kill me if I’m late.”

“Right, yes, go file. I’ll text you.” He’s backing toward the showers now, still grinning. “And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming to the game. Good luck charm.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling, and he laughs as he disappears around the corner.

Ted’s suddenly at your elbow. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely at where Marty was standing. “The whole … that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Kid, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. That was not normal post-game interaction.”

“We’re friends,” you say, probably too defensively. “We ran into each other at the mall a few weeks ago. It’s not a big deal.”

Ted looks deeply skeptical. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s not.”

“If you say so.” But he’s smiling, and it’s not unkind. “For what it’s worth, I like the kid. He’s good people. Better than most of the guys in this league.”

“I’m not—we’re not-”

“I know, I know. You’re friends.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Just be careful, okay? This job’s hard enough without adding complications.”

He leaves, and you’re alone in the hallway outside the locker room, your recorder in one hand and your phone already buzzing with a text from Marty.

Angelo’s on 15th Street. 10:30? Or later if you need more time.

You should say no. You should definitely say no.

You text back: 10:30 works.

You file your story in forty-five minutes flat, a personal record. Jeff calls while you’re sitting in your car, psyching yourself up.

“Good work tonight,” he says without preamble. “The stuff about the line chemistry was solid. And that quote from Nečas about the small gaps? Gold.”

If he only knew.

“Thanks,” you manage. “I’m getting better at the post-game scrums.”

“You are. Keep it up.” He pauses. “Also, I heard from Ted that Nečas seemed pretty friendly with you.”

Oh God.

“We’re friends,” you say, and you’re going to wear that phrase out from overuse. “I ran into him a few weeks ago outside of work.”

“Friendly sources are good,” Jeff says carefully. “Just remember the ethics guidelines. No conflicts of interest, no relationships that could compromise your objectivity.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Good. Because I’m thinking about giving you more Avs coverage going forward. You’ve got a good feel for it.”

Your stomach flips. More coverage means more access, more opportunities, more reasons to be professional and objective and definitely not having dinner with players.

“That’s great,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s a lot of work. But I think you can handle it.” He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your phone, trying to reconcile the excitement of more coverage with the reality of Marty texting you restaurant recommendations.

Your phone buzzes again. Riley. How’d it go??

Fine. Good. He asked me to dinner.

AND????

And I said yes.

OH MY GOD

It’s not a big deal.

IT’S A HUGE DEAL

Riley.

Fine fine fine. What are you wearing? Please tell me you’re not wearing your work clothes.

You look down at your slacks and button-down. “Fuck.”

***

Twenty-five minutes and a panicked stop at your apartment later, you’re walking into Angelo’s wearing jeans and a sweater that Riley once described as “effortlessly hot,” which you think might have been a compliment.

It’s a nice restaurant — not fancy fancy, but nice. Exposed brick, dim lighting, the smell of garlic and fresh bread making your stomach growl. The hostess looks up as you enter.

“Hi, I’m meeting someone? Reservation might be under Nečas?”

Her face lights up with recognition, and you realize she probably knows exactly who Marty is. “Oh yes! Right this way.”

She leads you through the restaurant to a corner booth where Marty’s already waiting, and he stands when he sees you, and this is definitely feeling like more than a friendly dinner.

“You made it,” he says, and he looks relieved, like maybe he thought you’d bail.

“I made it.” You slide into the booth across from him, and your knee bumps his under the table. “Sorry, I—sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He’s smiling. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.” And you mean it, even though your heart’s doing that thing again where it forgets how to beat normally.

A waiter appears, takes your drink orders — wine for you, water for him (“game night,” he explains) — and disappears again.

“So,” Marty says.

“So.”

“Thongs?”

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “I cannot believe you did that.”

“I had to. Your face was too perfect.”

“I’m going to murder you.”

“No you’re not. You like me too much.”

He says it teasingly, but there’s a question under it, and when you look up, he’s watching you carefully.

“I do like you,” you admit. “Which is a problem.”

“Why is it a problem?”

“Because I’m covering the team now. Jeff just told me tonight — I’m getting more Avs assignments. Which means I need to be objective and professional, and having dinner with you is probably neither of those things.”

Marty’s quiet for a moment. “Do you want to leave?”

“What? No.”

“But you think you should.”

“I-” You stop, because he’s right. You do think you should leave. You think you should politely excuse yourself, go home, and maintain appropriate professional boundaries. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“No.”

“Okay.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “So here’s what I think. I think we’re both adults. I think we like each other. And I think we can figure out how to make this work without compromising your job.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But we can figure it out.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want to. If this is just a friend thing for you, that’s okay. I’ll back off. But I’m sort of hoping it’s not just a friend thing.”

Your heart is doing gymnastics. “When you say ’not just a friend thing’-”

“I mean I like you,” he says simply. “Like, like you like you. The way you ask questions. The way you get embarrassed about underwear. The way you text me at midnight complaining about your stories. All of it.”

“I’m going to be covering your games.”

“So you’ll have to be extra objective.”

“Marty.”

“Y/N.” He reaches across the table, and after a moment, you let him take your hand. His palm is warm, calloused. “I’m not asking you to compromise anything. I’m just asking if you want to see where this goes. And if you don’t, that’s okay. But I think you do.”

“This is a terrible idea,” you say.

“Probably.”

“I could lose my job.”

“You won’t. You’re too good at it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’ve read everything you’ve written for the past three weeks. You’re really talented.”

You stare at him. “You’ve been reading my articles?”

“Yeah, of course. Did you think I was just saying that to be nice?”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” His thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand, and it’s extremely distracting. “So what do you think? Do you want to see where this goes? Or should I take you home and we pretend this conversation never happened?”

The waiter chooses this moment to reappear with bread and drinks, and you both lean back, the moment breaking. But Marty’s question hangs in the air between you.

What do you want?

You want to be smart. Professional. You want to protect your career, your reputation, your carefully planned future.

But you also want this. Him. The way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room. The way he makes you laugh. The way he stood up for you in a locker room full of reporters and just did it again at dinner.

“I want to see where this goes,” you say finally. “But we have to be careful.”

His smile could power a small city. “We’ll be so careful.”

“I’m serious. No special treatment in scrums. No inside information. Nothing that could compromise my objectivity.”

“Absolutely. You’ll be the most objective reporter in the building.”

“And we can’t tell people. Not yet. Not until we figure out if this is even a thing.”

“It’s a thing,” he says confidently. “But okay. Secret thing. I can do secret.”

“Can you though? You literally announced to an entire locker room that I’m your good luck charm.”

“That’s different. That’s just facts.”

“Marty.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be more subtle.” He’s grinning now. “But for the record, you are my good luck charm.”

“That’s not how hockey works.”

“Isn’t it? You show up, I play better. Seems pretty clear to me.”

You’re trying not to smile and failing. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

The waiter returns for your orders, and the conversation shifts to safer topics — the game, the team’s playoff chances, Marty’s upcoming road trip. But there’s an undercurrent now, an awareness that wasn’t there before.

This is a date.

You’re on a date with Martin Nečas.

Riley’s going to lose her entire mind.

“Can I ask you something?” Marty says later, after the food arrives and you’re both working your way through pasta that’s genuinely incredible.

“Sure.”

“Why journalism? Like, what made you want to do this?”

You twirl pasta around your fork, thinking. “I like stories, I guess. I like figuring out what makes people tick. And I like the idea that good journalism can make a difference — that you can shine a light on things that matter, or give people a voice, or just help people understand the world better.”

“That’s a good reason.”

“What about you? Why hockey?”

He shrugs. “It’s all I’ve ever known how to do. I started skating when I was three. By the time I was five, I knew I wanted to play professionally.” He pauses. “I’m lucky, you know? Most people don’t get to do their dream job. I do. Even when it’s hard, even when we lose or I play badly, I’m still doing what I love.”

“Does it ever feel like too much pressure?”

“Sometimes. But that’s part of it, I think. The pressure means it matters.” He looks at you. “Do you feel pressure? With your writing?”

“All the time. Like, what if I mess up a quote? What if I miss the story? What if I’m just not good enough?”

“You’re good enough,” he says firmly. “Better than good enough.”

“You have to say that. You like me.”

“I’d say it even if I didn’t like you. Well, maybe I wouldn’t, because then I wouldn’t have read your articles.” He grins. “But the point stands. You’re talented, Y/N. Don’t doubt that.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You eat in comfortable silence for a minute, and it strikes you how easy this is. How natural. You barely know him — three weeks of texting, one mall incident, one lunch, one dinner — but it feels like more than that. It feels like the beginning of something real.

Which is terrifying.

“What are you thinking?” Marty asks.

“That this is scary.”

“Yeah.” He reaches across the table again, and this time you meet him halfway. “But good scary, right?”

You look at him — really look at him. At the way his hair’s still damp from his post-game shower. At the small scar on his chin that you’ve never asked about. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Good scary.”

His smile is soft, private, just for you. “Good.”

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of conversation and laughter. He tells you about growing up in Czechia, about learning English from American TV shows, about the time he accidentally insulted his rookie season roommate in Carolina because he mixed up “excited” and “aroused.”

You tell him about your journalism classes, about your professor who once threw a pen at a student for using passive voice, about your disastrous attempt at covering a city council meeting where you accidentally called the mayor by the wrong name for an entire article.

By the time the check comes, you’ve been there for two hours, and you don’t want to leave.

Marty insists on paying, and you don’t fight him too hard on it. Outside, the Denver air is crisp and cool, and you can see your breath in the streetlights.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Marty says.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

So you let him. The parking lot isn’t far, and you walk slowly, neither of you in a hurry to end the night.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say when you reach your car. “This was … this was really nice.”

“Yeah?” He’s standing close now, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

“Yeah.”

“Can I see you again? Not at a game. Like this.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” He’s smiling, and then he’s leaning down, and then-

He stops, a breath away. “Is this okay?”

Your heart is thundering. “Yeah.”

He kisses you softly, carefully, like you’re something that might break. It’s sweet and gentle and over too soon, and when he pulls back, you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to form words.

“I’ll text you,” he says, and his voice is slightly rough.

“Okay.”

“Drive safe.”

“You too.”

He waits until you’re in your car, until you’ve started the engine and given him a small wave, before he heads to his own car across the lot.

You sit there for a moment after he’s gone, your fingers pressed to your lips, your heart doing that complicated thing again.

Your phone buzzes. Riley. WELL????

You text back. I’m in so much trouble.

GOOD TROUBLE???

You think about Marty’s smile. His hand in yours. The way he kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Yeah. Good trouble.

***

Three months into secretly dating a professional hockey player, you learn several important things:

One: Marty cannot cook anything more complex than scrambled eggs, and even those are questionable.

Two: He talks in his sleep, mostly in Czech, and once had an entire argument with someone named Pavel about whose turn it was to take out the trash.

Three: You are completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly in love with him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Marty mumbles against your shoulder. It’s a rare off-day in April, and you’re tangled together on his couch, some movie playing that neither of you are watching.

“I’m not thinking.”

“You’re always thinking. I can hear the gears turning.” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing the Avalanche hoodie you’ve basically stolen at this point. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Y/N.”

You sigh, tracing patterns on his arm. “I’m graduating in three weeks.”

“I know. I’m coming to the ceremony, remember?”

“You can’t come to the ceremony. Someone will see.”

“I’ll wear a disguise.”

“Marty.”

“A very good disguise. Sunglasses. Fake mustache.” He’s grinning now, and you want to kiss him and also possibly throttle him.

“I’m being serious.”

His expression softens. “I know. What’s actually bothering you?”

“Jeff offered me a full-time position.” You’ve been sitting on this for two days, trying to figure out how you feel about it. “Starting in June. Covering the Avalanche primarily, but also other Denver sports.”

Marty’s face lights up. “That’s amazing! That’s … wait. Why don’t you look happy?”

“I am happy. It’s just …”

“The us thing.”

“Yeah. The us thing.” You sit up, and he follows, his hand finding yours automatically. “We can’t keep sneaking around forever. And if I’m covering the team full-time, it’s going to be harder. Someone’s going to notice eventually.”

“So we tell people.”

“And then what? I lose my job? You get fined by the league? We both become a headline?”

Marty’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on your wrist. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I love my job. But I also love-” You stop, the word catching in your throat.

“Say it,” he says softly.

“I love you.” It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it feels huge, like stepping off a cliff. “I love you, and I don’t want to choose between you and my career, but I might have to, and I don’t know what to do.”

He kisses you, slow and deep and thorough, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling. “I love you too. And we’re going to figure this out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But we will.” He tugs you back down against him, your head on his chest where you can hear his heartbeat. “We’re smart people. We’ll think of something.”

***

Two weeks later, you’re sitting in a coffee shop with Riley, who’s looking at you like you’ve just announced you’re joining a cult.

“Let me get this straight,” she says slowly. “You’ve been secretly dating Martin Nečas for three months. You’re in love with him. You just got offered your dream job. And now you’re trying to figure out how to go public without destroying your career or his reputation.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me about any of this until now.”

“I’m telling you now!”

“Three months, Y/N. Three months of lying to your best friend.”

“I wasn’t lying, I was just … strategically omitting information.”

Riley throws a napkin at you. “I’m furious with you.”

“I know.”

“But also, this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m living vicariously through you, so I’m also not that mad.”

You slump in your chair. “I don’t know what to do, Ri. I love him. But I also love my job. And I can’t have both, not like this.”

“What if you didn’t cover hockey?”

“What?”

“What if you took the job but asked to cover something else? Like, I don’t know, the Broncos. Or the Nuggets. Or literally any other sport that isn’t hockey.”

You stare at her. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m good at hockey coverage. Because Jeff hired me specifically for that. Because-”

“Because you love it,” Riley finishes. “But do you love it more than you love Marty?”

The question sits between you like a living thing.

“No,” you say finally. “I don’t.”

Riley reaches across the table, squeezing your hand. “Then maybe you have your answer.”

***

The conversation with Jeff happens on a Thursday, in his office that smells like coffee and newsprint and stress.

“You want to switch beats,” he says flatly.

“Yes.”

“You, who I’ve spent three months training on hockey coverage. You, who just wrote the best feature on line chemistry that I’ve read in years. You want to cover football instead.”

“Yes.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “This is about Nečas.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

“I’m not an idiot, Y/N. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in scrums. The way you try very hard not to look at him.” He pauses. “Ted told me about the dinner invitation. And the good luck charm comment. And, frankly, your writing about him has gotten suspiciously … detailed.”

“I can explain-”

“Are you dating him?”

There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

Jeff is quiet for a long moment. “How long?”

“Three months.”

“Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand over his face. “You know this is a massive ethics violation.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking to switch beats. I’ll cover the Broncos, or the Rockies, or high school field hockey, I don’t care. Just not the Avalanche.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll resign.” The words come out steadier than you feel. “I’m not going to compromise my integrity or the paper’s reputation. But I’m also not going to end my relationship.”

“You’d give up hockey coverage for this guy?”

“I’d give up hockey coverage for the person I love.” You meet his eyes. “And I think I can be just as good covering football. Maybe even better, because I’ll have something to prove.”

Jeff stares at you for what feels like an eternity. “The Broncos beat reporter is retiring in August.”

“What?”

“Jim. He’s sixty-five, been covering the team for thirty years, and his wife wants him to actually be home for dinner occasionally.” Jeff leans forward. “The position’s yours if you want it. But you have to tell people why you’re switching. I’m not going to let rumors start that you couldn’t hack it on the hockey beat.”

“I’ll tell them,” you say quickly. “I’ll be completely transparent.”

“And Nečas? How’s he feel about going public?”

“We haven’t talked about exactly how yet. But he wants to.”

“Of course he does. Kid wears his heart on his sleeve.” Jeff sighs. “For what it’s worth, I like him. He’s good people. And I respect that you came to me before this became a problem.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re going to get shit for this. From other reporters, from fans, from people who think you’re throwing away your career for a guy.”

“I know.”

“But if you’re sure-”

“I’m sure.”

He nods slowly. “Okay. Then let’s figure out how to do this right.”

***

Marty’s idea of “doing this right” involves approximately fifteen minutes of pacing around his living room, talking so fast his accent gets thicker.

“-and we could just post it on Instagram, or maybe Twitter, or we could do one of those cute photo things where we’re holding hands, or-”

“Marty.” You catch his arm as he passes. “Breathe.”

He stops, pulling you against him. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“You? Nervous? You play in front of eighteen thousand people every night.”

“That’s different. That’s just hockey. This is us.” He cups your face in his hands. “I want to do this right. I want people to know how much you mean to me.”

“They will.”

“But I also don’t want to make things harder for you. If you want to just quietly switch beats and not make a big thing of it-”

“No.” You’ve been thinking about this for days, turning it over in your mind. “I want to tell people. I want to own this decision. And I think I know how.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’m going to need an interview.”

His eyes light up. “An exclusive?”

“The most exclusive. Think you can handle that?”

He kisses you, deep and slow and thorough. “For you? Anything.”

***

The article posts on a Friday morning in May, right after your graduation ceremony where Marty absolutely did not show up in a fake mustache (he wore a baseball cap and sat in the back, and your mom definitely noticed him but mercifully said nothing).

You’ve read it approximately four thousand times, tweaking sentences, adjusting quotes, making sure every word is perfect. Jeff approved it yesterday with a grin and a “this is either brilliant or career suicide, and I honestly can’t tell which.”

Riley’s response was more succinct. “Holy shit, you’re brave.”

Now it’s live, and your phone is already starting to buzz, and you’re sitting on Marty’s couch with your laptop, watching the view count climb.

“Are you going to read it to me?” Marty asks, appearing from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee.

“You’ve already read it.”

“I want to hear you read it.”

“That’s narcissistic. It’s an article about you.”

“It’s an article by you. That’s different.” He settles next to you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. “Please?”

You pull up the article, take a deep breath, and start reading.

***

EXCLUSIVE: Martin Nečas on Playoffs, Pressure, and What Comes Next By Y/N Y/L/N, Colorado Sports Network

May 16, 2025

DENVER – Martin Nečas is sitting in his downtown apartment on a rare day off, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days, and he’s talking about fear.

Not the kind of fear you might expect from a professional athlete in the middle of a playoff push. Not fear of failure, or injury, or letting down his teammates. Something more fundamental than that.

“I think everyone’s afraid of being known,” he says, his accent softening the edges of his words. “Really known. Not the version you show people, but the actual you. The messy parts. The parts that aren’t perfect.”

It’s an unexpectedly vulnerable answer to what started as a question about playoff pressure, but that’s Nečas in a nutshell. Ask him about hockey, and he’ll give you hockey. But push a little deeper, show genuine curiosity about what makes him tick, and he’ll give you something real.

Over the past three months, I’ve had the privilege of getting to know Nečas beyond the standard post-game scrums and media availabilities. What I’ve learned is this: the 26-year-old Czech forward is exactly the kind of player — and person — that makes you remember why you fell in love with hockey in the first place.

The Hockey Part

Let’s start with what happens on the ice, because that’s the easy part.

Nečas came to Colorado via trade last season, and while the transition from Carolina wasn’t always smooth, he’s found his stride with the Avalanche in a way that’s been exciting to watch. Playing primarily on a line with Nathan MacKinnon and Arrturi Lehkonen, he’s put up career numbers: 32 goals and 61 assists in 79 games, good for 93 points and a career high.

But statistics only tell part of the story. What makes Nečas special isn’t just his production — it’s how he produces. He’s a player who sees the game differently, who finds passing lanes that shouldn’t exist, who makes the difficult look effortless.

“I just try to play fast and make my teammates better,” he says when I ask about his approach. “That’s the job, you know? Find the open guy. Make the smart play. Work hard when you don’t have the puck.”

It’s a humble answer, almost frustratingly so. But his teammates paint a different picture.

“Marty’s special,” MacKinnon told me after a recent practice. “He’s got this ability to slow the game down in his head while his body’s still moving at full speed. That’s rare. That’s something you can’t really teach.”

Head coach Jared Bednar agrees. “Martin’s hockey IQ is elite. He processes the game at a very high level, and he’s willing to do the little things that don’t show up on the scoresheet. That’s what makes him so valuable.”

The Pressure Part

The Avalanche enter the playoffs as one of the favorites to contend for the Stanley Cup, and with that comes enormous pressure. I ask Nečas how he handles it.

“You have to embrace it,” he says. “The pressure means it matters. Means people care. That’s a gift, not a burden.”

But he admits it’s not always easy. “Some nights you can’t sleep. You’re thinking about the game, about what you could have done better, about what’s coming next. Your brain won’t shut off.”

What helps, he says, is perspective.

“Hockey is what I do, but it’s not who I am. I’m also a son, a brother, a friend. I have a life outside of this.” He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “And I have someone who reminds me of that. Someone who sees me as a person first, player second. That matters more than people might think.”

It’s the first hint of something personal, and when I press gently, he smiles.

“I’m not going to say too much, because that’s not my story to tell. But I will say this: having someone in your life who genuinely doesn’t care about your plus-minus or your ice time — that’s grounding. That’s important.”

The Human Part

Away from the rink, Nečas is surprisingly normal. He likes terrible action movies and good coffee. He’s teaching himself to cook with mixed results (“I made chicken last week that I think could have been used as a weapon”). He misses his family in Czechia but FaceTimes them constantly.

“My mom texts me after every game,” he says, laughing. “Doesn’t matter if it’s 2 a.m. her time. She’s watched, and she has notes.”

“Is she tough on you?”

“The toughest. But also my biggest supporter. She believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.”

It’s clear that family is central to who Nečas is. He lights up when talking about his parents, about his childhood in Czechia, about the sacrifices his family made to support his hockey dreams.

“They gave up a lot,” he says quietly. “Time, money, stability. My dad worked extra jobs so I could play. My mom drove me to practices at 5 a.m. You don’t forget that. You don’t take that for granted.”

That gratitude extends to his adopted city. Nečas has embraced Denver in a way that feels genuine, from hiking in the mountains to exploring local restaurants to supporting other Denver sports teams.

“This city has been really good to me,” he says. “The fans are amazing. My teammates are amazing. I’m really happy here.”

What Comes Next

When I ask Nečas about the future, he’s characteristically diplomatic. 

“I want to be here,” he says simply. “This is where I want to win. This is where I want to build something. This is where I’m signed for the next eight years.”

But beyond hockey, there’s a life taking shape. A life that includes the person he mentioned earlier, the one who keeps him grounded.

“I’m figuring out what matters,” he says. “Hockey is my career, my passion. But it’s not everything. At some point, the game ends for everyone. What matters is who you are when it does.”

It’s a mature perspective from someone who could easily get lost in the bubble of professional sports. But Nečas seems determined to stay connected to reality, to remain the kind of person who still gets nervous before games and still calls his mom and still sees hockey as a gift rather than a guarantee.

The Playoff Picture

As the Avalanche enter the postseason, expectations are sky-high. Nečas will be crucial to any deep playoff run, providing secondary scoring and playmaking alongside the team’s established stars.

“We have a special group,” he says. “The pieces are there. Now we just have to go out and do it.”

Does he think they can win the Cup?

He grins. “I think we’d better. Otherwise, I’m going to have a very long summer thinking about what we could have done differently.”

A Personal Note

This will be my final article covering the Colorado Avalanche. After three months of covering the team — first as an intern and now as a full-time reporter — I’m moving to a new beat. Starting in August, I’ll be covering the Denver Broncos for Colorado Sports Network.

This decision is both professional and personal. Over the past few months, I’ve developed a relationship with Martin Nečas that goes beyond journalist and subject. We’ve been dating since February, a fact we’ve kept private out of respect for both of our careers and the ethical standards of sports journalism.

I’m sharing this now because I believe in transparency. I believe readers deserve to know when a reporter’s objectivity might be compromised, even if I’ve worked hard to maintain professional standards in my coverage. I also believe that women in sports journalism shouldn’t have to choose between their careers and their personal lives, but sometimes we do have to make difficult decisions about how to navigate both.

Moving to the Broncos beat allows me to continue doing the work I love while being honest about my relationship. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the right one for me.

To be clear: my relationship with Martin has not influenced my coverage of the team. Every article I’ve written, every question I’ve asked, every story I’ve pursued has been done with integrity and professionalism. I’m proud of the work I’ve produced, and I stand by every word.

I’m also deeply grateful to the Colorado Avalanche organization, to my colleagues in the hockey media, and to the readers who’ve supported my coverage. Hockey will always have a special place in my heart, and I’ll continue to watch and cheer for this team — just from the stands instead of the press box.

As for Martin, he’s been supportive of this decision even though it means our relationship will be public knowledge. “I just want you to be happy,” he told me. “Whatever that looks like.”

That’s the kind of person he is: thoughtful, kind, supportive. The kind of person who stands up for what’s right even when it’s uncomfortable. The kind of person who makes you believe in good things.

So this is goodbye to hockey coverage, but it’s not goodbye to storytelling. It’s not goodbye to Denver sports. And it’s definitely not goodbye to asking tough questions and demanding honest answers.

It’s just the next chapter.

And I can’t wait to see what comes next.

***

You finish reading, and there’s silence.

Then Marty says, “That’s really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Really, really good.” He takes the laptop from you, setting it aside, and pulls you into his lap. “I love the part about me being thoughtful and kind.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. My head is huge now. Giant. I might need a bigger helmet.”

You’re laughing, and he’s kissing you, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications but none of that matters because you’re here, with him, and you made the right choice.

“Are you scared?” He asks after a moment.

“Terrified.”

“Me too.”

“Good. We can be terrified together.”

“Look at us, being brave.” He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m really proud of you, you know. That took guts.”

“I learned from the best. You did stand up to that asshole reporter for me.”

“True. I am very brave and noble.”

“And humble.”

“The humblest.” He’s grinning, and you love him so much it physically hurts. “So what happens now?”

“Now?” You check your phone — texts from Riley (seventeen), your mom (three), Jeff (one that just says “good job kid”), and approximately one hundred forty-eight notifications from Twitter. “Now I think we’re about to become a headline.”

“Think they’ll make us sound cool?”

“Definitely not.”

“Worth it anyway.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing him softly. “Yeah, it really is.”

***

DENVER POST SPORTS: Avalanche’s Nečas Confirms Relationship with Former Hockey Reporter Y/N Y/L/N

MILE HIGH HOCKEY: Breaking: CSN Reporter Switches Beats After Revealing Relationship with Martin Nečas

THE ATHLETIC: On Ethics, Transparency, and Y/N Y/L/N’s Decision to Leave the Hockey Beat

The headlines roll in over the next few hours, and they’re mostly what you expected — some supportive, some skeptical, some downright hostile. But there are also texts from fellow reporters saying they respect your decision. Tweets from fans saying they appreciated your coverage. An email from a young female journalism student saying you inspired her to be honest about her own struggles balancing career and personal life.

Marty reads them all over your shoulder, his chin resting on your head.

“People are being nice,” he observes.

“Some people. Others think I’m throwing away my career for a man.”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m making a choice that lets me have both.” You turn to look at him. “There’s a difference.”

“I know.” He kisses your temple. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be an amazing football reporter.”

“I don’t know anything about football.”

“You didn’t know anything about hockey three months ago, and look how that turned out.”

“Fair point.”

Your phone rings. It’s Jeff.

“The article’s doing really well,” he says without preamble. “Best traffic we’ve had in months. People are eating this up.”

“That’s good?”

“That’s very good. Controversial is better than boring.” He pauses. “Jim’s wife called me. She says Jim’s excited to meet you. Wants to take you to training camp in July, show you the ropes.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, kid. This is just the beginning.”

After you hang up, Marty pulls you back against him, and you sit there together, watching the sun set over Denver through his apartment windows.

“This is really happening,” you say.

“Yep.”

“We’re really doing this. Public relationship. No more sneaking around.”

“Yep.”

“You’re going to get chirped so hard by your teammates.”

“Oh, absolutely. Devon’s already texted me six times. Nate wants to meet you properly. Cale made a joke about good luck charms.” He shows you his phone, and you groan at the group chat messages.

But then there’s one from MacKinnon that makes you smile. Happy for you, man. She seems great. Don’t fuck it up.

“Think you can handle the chirping?” You ask.

“I’ll survive. What about you? Think you can handle dating a professional athlete?”

“I managed three months in secret. I think I can handle it in public.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

“Especially when you’re annoying.”

He grins, pulling you closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Even though I made you change careers?”

“You didn’t make me do anything. I chose this. I chose you.” You twist to face him properly. “And I’d choose you again. Every time.”

He kisses you, soft and sweet and full of promise, and somewhere in the city below, people are reading your article and forming opinions and probably arguing on Twitter about ethics and relationships and whether you made the right choice.

But up here, in this moment, you know you did.

Because sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones you write.

Sometimes they’re the ones you live.

And this one? This one’s just getting started.

***

Three Months Later

“You’re doing it wrong,” Marty says from the doorway of your new house — your shared house, because apparently you’re the kind of person who moves in with her boyfriend after six months.

“I’m not doing it wrong. This is how you hang pictures.”

“That’s crooked.”

“It’s not-” You step back, level in hand, and realize he’s right. “Okay, it’s a little crooked.”

He comes over, taking the hammer from your hand and adjusting the frame — a photo from your graduation, both of you grinning at the camera while your mom took the picture. Next to it is a photo from the Avalanche’s playoff run (they made it to the Western Conference Finals before losing to Edmonton), and next to that is one from your first Broncos game, your press credential hanging around your neck.

“Better?” He asks.

“Better.”

He steps back, admiring the wall. “Our first place.”

“Our first place,” you agree, and it feels huge and terrifying and absolutely right.

Your phone buzzes. It’s Riley. Dinner tomorrow? Want to hear all about the new job.

You text back. Can’t. Broncos have a thing. Next week?

You and your fancy football life. Fine. But I want details.

“Riley wants details about my fancy football life,” you tell Marty.

“You have a very fancy football life now. Very important. Very serious.”

“Says the professional hockey player.”

“I’m not fancy. I’m just a simple Czech boy who happens to be extremely good at skating.”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily, laughing.

The house is still mostly boxes and chaos, but it’s starting to feel like home. Your books mixed with his hockey equipment. Your coffee maker next to his protein powder. Your life and his life becoming just … life.

“Hey,” Marty says, suddenly serious. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking a chance on me. On us. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Best decision I ever made,” you say honestly. “Even better than buying those thongs.”

He groans. “We’re never going to stop joking about that, are we?”

“Never. I’m going to tell our grandchildren about it.”

“Our grandchildren?”

You freeze, realizing what you just said. “I mean—hypothetically if we-”

He’s grinning now, that soft smile that’s just for you. “I like the sound of that. Hypothetically.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pulls you close, kissing your forehead. “But first, we should probably finish unpacking.”

“Probably.”

You don’t finish unpacking. You end up on the couch instead, watching game film of the Broncos because that’s your life now — watching football with your hockey player boyfriend in your shared home in Denver, trying to learn offensive schemes while he makes increasingly incorrect guesses about what the plays are called.

It’s not what you planned. Not what you imagined when you started journalism school, or when you got that first internship, or even when you walked into the Avalanche locker room for the first time and had your life turned upside down by a two-goal scorer with kind eyes and a tendency to stand up for what’s right.

But it’s better.

It’s real and messy and complicated and perfect.

And when Marty falls asleep halfway through the third quarter, his head on your shoulder and his hand in yours, you think about that first night. About thongs flying through a mall. About good luck charms and small gaps and having the courage to choose what you want instead of what’s expected.

You pull out your phone, opening a new note.

Story idea: What happens when you let yourself be known

You’ll write it someday. Not now — now you’re too busy living it.

But someday.

And it’ll be a good story.

your father tried not to shoot you a disapproving glance- it had taken so much work to warm him up to clark. don't trust those journalists, he said with that gruff tone in the same way he had told you to keep playing a sport even after graduating university or when he had changed the tires on your car- you don't blame him for worrying. you've never brought a guy home before so the bar was low.

lower than fourty three minutes late.

"i'm sure, he just got caught up late with work," you try though the words feel stale and your mother reaches out to place a hand on yours in comfort. its eight pm, you think. should the offices be closed by now? you have no idea.

"you are more than welcome to take some back for him," and your heart soars at the kind offer. though a thank you might cement the fact that he's stood you up on your own family dinner.

"he's coming, i'm sure. in fact, i'll just ring and see where he is," you stand shakily, embarrassment creeping up on your neck as you make your way to the stairs. and just as you suspect, he does not answer like he hadn't the past four times. a sigh escapes you and you know that after tonight, you won't have to keep feeling this way.

you and clark have been dating for six months- he occupies the apartment opposite yours and that's how you met. through laundry days and dinner dates, the two of you had started something slow and sweet at the beginning. it was like having sleepovers every single night and when you'd fall asleep in his big strong arms, nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. you probably spend more time in his than you do your own.

then the lies started to creep in; it started as an offhanded excuse for traffic, then he started "forgetting" date nights- being caught up at work. you knew nothing about the journalism world so gave him the grace he needed and it was so easy to fall back into routine, the small comfortable world you built when you weren't pushing an arguement. and the thing with clark was- he never played nasty, never said things he didn't mean in the heat of the moment. he was thoughtful, patient, let you get it all out then apologises- promising you're the centre of his attention, a sad cycle you've trapped yourself in.

the phone is warm in your hand, like a subtle burn to let you know its still there and you close your eyes. this dinner was important to you- its not often you visit your parents and tell them about the supposed love of your life to which they actually return interest. tonight they were supposed to be getting to know him, to love him the same way you had. if only he could show up.

the door knocks with heavy taps you'd know in any lifetime and you open it wearily.

"hey," comes his breathless greeting, a grin laced on his features, stretching his cheeks as he takes a step forward. he lands a kiss on your cheek sloppily and you don't find yourself leaning into it anymore. it comes and it goes as quickly as it did.

"hey," he loops a finger under your chin to bring your gaze to his. "i am so sorry, this alien attack thing redirected my route like four times- i tried to get here as soon as possible," the words come out in a hurried breath and you furrow your brows, wondering if he's rehearsed this on the way here.

"doesn't matter, thank you for coming," you speak though theres no bite or tone in your voice, just weariness and fatigue of someone who's been let down too many times.

"wait, honey," and you don't grace him an actual reply, just a faint "not here," before tugging his hand in yours as you make your way to the dining room. you've hardly interlocked his fingers in yours, emptily holding his palm and letting go of it as soo as you meet your parents again.

your parents are mid laughter when they stop and spot clark, instantly rising to their feets to greet him. clark's bigger than most humans, instantly filling up the room with his body and his heart and he charms the pants off your parents.

he talks politics with your father, plays into your mothers gossip, tells jokes like all the times he's ran away it's to play stand up comedian and you hate how it just feels so perfect. "wow" your mother mouths across the room, sending you and exaggerated swoony smile and it does make you laugh softly. as if on reaction, clark's ears perk up at the sound, sending you a gentle smile and wrapping his hand under the table around yours.

you lean into his shoulder after the meal, needing to balance the weight before deciding to help your mother clear the table. the dishes you carry are swiped clear, clark clearly a fan of your mother's food and when you land them in the sink with a gentle thud, you feel your mother's hands at your shoulders from behind you.

"darling," she murmurs and its ever so gentle that you can feel the tears gloss over your eyes. "i don't mean to judge but he seems incredible and all but," and you knew the but was coming, "what good can come from a man who loves you in pieces," her whisper cracks open your heart and lays it bare bloodied and bruised.

"mom," you whimper softly in her hold and she's instantly shushing you gently, rocking you back and forth in hug that holds you together firmly. it's not something you didn't know, it's just the first time someone has said it aloud to you and it hurts all the same

"i love him," you breathe, "and i know he loves me," you try.

"and sometimes it's not enough," she strokes your back in comfort and you look up to the ceiling, trying to force those tears back down.

"i know," you clear your throat and she lets you stay like that a little longer. when you return to the living room to find clark's heavy eyes on your figure and dinner wrapped up, you don't meet his gaze.

you kiss your mother and father on the cheek as clark shakes their hand firmly, wrapping your mother in a hug. they wave goodbye to you from the doorstep and watch you get into his car as clark shuts the door behind you.

the engine starts with a soft purr before he pulls out and starts the drive home. the quiet of the night entering your car as you both work your way around the elephant in the room.

he tells you about work to which you reply with nods and one liners and clark senses the shift like it's in the air suffocating him. he parks up on the side and you look around in confusion- this isn't the way home. you look over at him and for once in your life you don't actually know what to think about him.

"do you wanna tell me whats on your mind?" he speaks softly. too softly that it blurs the edges of the cuts he's left on you before and you almost faulter.

"nothing," you get out, because you don't actually know where to start.

"its not nothing if it's got you upset like this, baby," and when he sees you flinch at the pet name you used to adore his heart stills, missing a beat thundering in moment.

"it's you," and the beats stop entirely as he's stuck to the seat. you watch his expression, eyes begging him to just anything but he's stunned into a careful silence.

"it's me?" he asks slowly and you nod, the lump in your throat tightening your voice.

"i can't do this anymore, clark," and the first teardrop glistens in the dark as it falls. "there's only so much i can do, i've tried to hard to be patient- i, i, ah," you groan feel the rush of emotions overwhelm you, "i stretch myself to new limite to make room for all your lies and secrets and i'm breaking clark."

you look up from your lap, years wetting your lashes to face him honestly- he needs to know the damage he's done, "you don't even know what you do to me and it's unfair clark, it hurts," you try and wipe away the tears that fall but a new fresh batch that form and drop and before you know it, the mascara streaks a messy river down your face and you can't stop this.

he doesn't say anything for a moment, focusing on the heavy rise and fall of his chest. he should've known that he was breaking you apart, that he hadn't given you the trust that this relationship needs to work but he's harbouring a secret that could put you in so much more danger if you knew.

but still he tries, "honey, we can fix this," comes an honest admission of stern determination and you pull back, recoiling in anger.

"there is no we, clark," you jab a finger at his chest, "we haven't been on the same team for a while, you've left me on a one vs one each time you disappear with some lame excuse and i have to convince myself that you're not lying or hiding that it's all okay- we," you repeat back to him in a scoff, "i've tried to fix this so don't demean me and dog me down with a 'we'." there's no room for clark to carry on before you're ranting again.

"you were late to family dinner," your voice lowers an octave in defeat- letting him know that tonight was the final straw. "you know how important this was to me, you're the first guy i've brought home and you made me look stupid- then you play happy home pretend like it's nothing and you make me feel stupid too- what kind of asshole does that?" you ask him. he gave you a glimpse of what the future could've looked like if he just let you all the way in and you hate him immensely for it.

"i'll cut back on work, we can spend more time together- i can fix this," he pleads but you shake your head softly.

"i'm done, clark. i think it's time we call it," you nod to yourself more than anything.

his reply comes as quick as it is stubborn, laced with firmness and the fear of letting the best thing happen to him go, "i dont want to."

"i need to." comes your desperate whine.

"but i love you-" and you wince because on any other night it's what would've made smile, laugh and melt into his embrace. now it stands outside the cage you're trapped in, molted into the key that's so close within your grip.

"and its not enough," you counteract, "not when its also determined through actions- when it doesnt come whole- when i get bits of you when you decide to show up like youre superman saving the day," you list off your fingers and clark momentarily stumbles at your comparison. you use it ironically and it being the cause of his relationship failing pricks at his heart, he can feel the migraine coming in already- the you sized hole he's unable to fill.

"relationships arent perfect they dont-" he stumbles and its clearly the wrong thing to say when you cackle loudly in irony.

"oh god i know! ours is far from perfect!" your voice grows a little quieter and settles an air of finality, "love isnt always easy clark, but it shouldnt have to be so fucking hard."

"im calling it now, before we lose more time to this and we wake up so miserable one day suddenly i don't know ten years down the line tethering ourselves to a feeling we thought was enough and i hate both you and me for staying. i'm not happy clark and i cant live like that- i refuse to live like that," you beg and he sighs in defeat.

"im sorry," he murmurs, unsure of what he could say. nothing can change your mind. he's fucked this up and there's no way out of this for him.

"thats nice to hear," you accept, unwilling to forgive him just right now when the feelings are still raw, fresh and tug at the seams of your mind. your fingers find your temples to massage the growing aches and you face the window- looking anywhere other than your doomed lover, "please take me home."

no words are spoken for the remainder of the journey back to your apartment complex. the faint murmurs of billy joel's "piano man" hum alongside the engine and for once it feels like the universe is on your side- there's no traffic for miles, green lights ahead and you get home within minutes. clark however, still gets out the car at lightning speed before you, almost knocking you over to open your door and walks a few steps behind your pace to make sure you get up to the level of your apartments okay.

the final nail in his coffin is when you turn the key to your own apartment door instead of his like you would usually do almost every night and shut it without so much as a look behind. he stands there, pressing his forehead to the cool wooden panel of your door and breathes in heavily.

"fuck," he sighs, the feelings of tonight weighing his body down that he stays there for a couple of minutes before heaving himself up and heading into his own. he however does take one look back behind him only to find nothing changed- the door still shut on him and the sounds of light switches clicking off.

he doesn't blame you one ounce for ending things- you're stronger than he is by miles but that doesn't mean he isn't going to miss you any less.