Trashmouth

It had been a week since The Incident.

That’s what the Kents had started calling it — capital T, capital I — spoken in the same grim tone they might use for “meteor shower” or “barn fire.”

And ever since, Clark and you had officially entered what could only be described as supervised dating probation.

—————

It started small.

You’d be sitting together on the couch, shoulders brushing, watching a movie in the Kent living room, when Martha would just happen to wander through every ten minutes.

“Need any snacks?” She’d ask, already carrying a tray of them.

“No thanks, Mrs. Kent,” you’d answer sweetly.

Five minutes later…

“Popcorn? Water? Fresh air?”

Then Martha would poke her head in, smiling too wide. “Everything okay, kids? Temperature’s good? Not too warm, right?”

You and Clark would exchange a look. “We’re fine,” you’d both say in unison.

Martha would nod thoughtfully. “Good. I just, you know… don’t want the curtains catching fire.”

Clark groaned so loudly it startled the dog. “They’re acting like I’m one passionate glance away from an extinction-level threat.” Clark whispered. You giggled.

————

Clark’s room smelled faintly like laundry detergent and aftershave. You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, “studying,” which really meant tracing your finger over his arm while he tried to pretend he was focusing on his notes.

He smiled, that shy, slow one that made his ears go pink and leaned closer. You were kissing, Clark’s tongue almost about to touch yours when-

SCREECH.

The door literally came off its hinges.

You both froze. Jonathan stood there holding a screwdriver like it was a badge of honor.

“Just—uh—needed to oil the hinges,” he said gruffly. “Don’t mind me.”

“Dad!?” Clark exclaimed, still halfway leaned over you.

“Carry on, son.”

“Dad you can’t be serious…it doesn’t even squeak.” Clark’s shoulders slumped.

“Clark don’t argue with me, I know how and when to oil the hinges of the doors in my house.” Jonathan argued.

Clark stared in disbelief. A beat. “Actually don’t carry on. I need help oiling these.” Jonathan speaks.

You leaned your face onto Clark’s arm an amused smile on your face. “Guess we’re an open-door policy kind of couple now.”

Clark groaned. Getting up. “They think I’m gonna set you alight with my teenage hormones.” Clark spoke.

I tilted my head “well…” my voice high pitched.

“That was one time!” Clark defended walking after his dad.

—————

Later that day, Clark had plans to come over to your house for dinner. You’d actually cooked. Pasta, salad, the whole thing. You’d set the table, even lit candles — but then the phone rang.

“Hey,” Clark’s voice came through, sounding sheepish. “So… my dad says he, uh, needs help with something in the barn.”

You frowned. “Right now? At six o’clock?”

“Apparently the tractor’s… unstable or something.” Clark sighs rubbing his temple.

You stifled a laugh. “Clark you’re kidding!” You sigh looking at all your hard work laid out on the table.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely mournful. “He won’t even tell me what I’m fixing.”

You sighed. “He’s doing this on purpose.”

There was a pause. Then, in the background, you could clearly hear Jonathan yell, “Don’t make me come drag you out, son!”

Clark groaned. “Yeah. Definitely on purpose…I’m really sorry y/n.”

“It’s fine…” it wasn’t. You hung up, muttering something about farm chores ruining romance.

Exactly ten minutes later, in the middle of you pouting at the table, there was a whoosh and your kitchen curtains fluttered. Clark appeared in a blur, cheeks pink, hair ruffled.

He superspeed-sat, grabbed a fork, and devoured a plate of pasta in fifteen seconds flat. You blinked.

He grinned, a little sheepish. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

You laughed, leaned over, and wiped a spot of tomato sauce from his lip. “You liked it?” You asked.

“Best pasta I’ve ever had.” He says. He kissed you quick, just a flash of warmth, before disappearing again in a gust of wind.

You smiled to yourself.

—————

By the weekend, the sabotage had reached new levels.

You’d planned to go see a movie together in town, you even had tickets. You showed up at the Kent house all excited, wearing his blue jacket you’d ’forgotten’ to give back. Clark was halfway down the stairs, grinning, when Martha called from the kitchen.

“Clark! Change of plans!”

He froze mid-step. “…What kind of plans?”

“Family night!” she said brightly. “I made lasagna!”

Jonathan added, “We rented The Sound of Music!” Holding up the movie.

You blinked. “The three-hour version?”

“Extended cut!” Martha said proudly.

Clark looked at you helplessly. “They’re never gonna let us leave.”

You squeezed his hand, smiling despite yourself. “Guess it’s a good thing I like your parents.”

Jonathan overheard that, of course. “We like you too, sweetheart! Especially when you’re not burnt…”

Clark groaned, face in his hands. I smiled. “it’s movie night. Family tradition.” Martha smiled.

Clark, deadpan “Since when?” Not once in his life had this happened.

“Since now,” Jonathan said, sitting down between you.

You mouthed help to Clark. He mouthed I’m so sorry back.

At least Martha made good popcorn.

—————

That night, after surviving the world’s longest family movie, you finally managed to steal five minutes alone on the porch. The air was cool and still, the fields bathed in moonlight.

Clark leaned against the railing beside you, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. “You know,” he murmured, “we’ve been alone for five seconds now, do you think they’ve declared a national emergency yet?” He asked sarcastically.

You smiled, bumping his shoulder. “You know they only mean well, right?”

He sighed, glancing back toward the glowing farmhouse windows. “Yeah. But if they follow us to prom, I’m moving to the Fortress of Solitude.”

You laughed, softly. “I’ll bring a parka.”

He smiled that boyish, heart-twisting kind of smile and brushed your hand with his.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, and for the first time all week, nobody interrupted.

For exactly twenty seconds.

Then the screen door creaked open.

“Clark!” Jonathan’s voice. “Horses stables need cleaning I think-“

Clark groaned into his hands. “I swear to God—”

You laughed so hard.

—————

It took planning. Stealth. Timing. And maybe a fake “extra credit study session” note taped to the fridge for good measure.

After weeks of interrupted moments and Jonathan suddenly needing help moving hay bales, Martha asking for “just one more photo for the family album,” and the tragic “hinges need oiling” excuse that resulted in Clark’s door being removed entirely…. the two of you finally managed to find a loophole.

“Your parents aren’t gonna show up in the loft with cookies again, right?” you asked, climbing the steps, notebook in hand, teasing him.

Clark gave a little grin, that half-nervous, half-mischievous one. “I told them I’d be doing tractor maintenance. Pretty sure that’s the one thing that guarantees privacy.”

“Because they’re scared of grease stains?”

“Because Dad knows I actually hate tractor maintenance.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “So? Are you scary when you’re grumpy?” You teased.

Clark shot you a look which only made you laugh more.

“You’ve really thought this through.” You smirk

“I’ve had time to think it through,” he said, almost groaning. “Weeks, actually. Weeks of—” he moved closer, voice lowering “getting interrupted every time I even look at you for too long.”

“Poor guy,” you said, mock pity in your tone. “Deprived of eye contact.”

“Oh, it’s way worse than that,” he murmured, eyes softening before he finally leaned in.

It started slow, that nervous, shy sort of kiss that turned into something more when you smiled against him. He sighed a little, pressing closer, one hand in your hair, the other braced against the wooden beam behind you. There was that familiar warmth radiating off him, the kind of warmth that made your pulse flutter.

Then —

“MOOO!”

You both jumped.

Clark blinked, glanced toward the barn door, and groaned when he saw a cow staring directly at you through the slats, chewing and looking deeply unimpressed.

“She’s staring,” you whispered trying not to laugh.

“She lives here,” Clark said helplessly.

“Yeah, well, she’s judging.” You look back up at Clark.

Clark looked at the cow, looked back at you, and sighed. “This is the most Smallville thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh, and that only made him grin harder. “Fine,” he said, dropping his forehead to yours with a low chuckle. “If I can’t escape my parents, I’ll take the livestock.”

“Really?” you teased. “She looks like she’s about to call the Kents.”

The cafeteria buzzed with noise, trays clattering, sneakers squeaking, and a steady hum of voices that blurred together in the background. You slid into your usual spot across from Peter, who already had his lunch lined up with the kind of precision only Peter Parker could manage: sandwich halved perfectly, juice box standing upright like a soldier, apple balanced on a napkin.

“Hey,” he greeted, flashing a quick grin. “You’re late. I was about to sell your seat to some other nerd.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, they’d never survive a lunch with Flash circling for my fries.”

Peter laughed, unwrapping his sandwich. “You say that like Flash is a shark and you’re bleeding.”

“I am—emotionally,” you said dramatically, stabbing a fry with your fork. “Also literally, because he elbowed me in chem.”

Peter frowned immediately. “Wait, seriously? I’m gonna—”

“Relax, spider-Rambo,” you said through a laugh. “I’m fine. It’s just a bruise.”

He chuckled, looking like he wanted to argue but letting it go. You both started eating, trading quiet glances between bites, the kind that only years of friendship make comfortable.

After a moment, you sighed. “So… my mom’s leaving tonight.”

Peter glanced up mid-bite. “For that work thing?”

“Yeah. Singapore this time. She was supposed to leave Sunday, but the flight got bumped up. And my dad—” you gave a little shrug, forcing a smile “—he cancelled. Again.”

His expression softened instantly. “Oh.”

“It’s fine.” You shrugged again, fiddling with your straw. “We were supposed to go to that fall fair this weekend—the one in Queens with the sketchy Ferris wheel and the cider that tastes like cinnamon and bad decisions. But I’ll just… stay home, I guess.”

Peter tilted his head, still watching you. “That sucks,” he said quietly.

You tried to laugh it off, taking a sip of juice. “It’s not a big deal. Just a weekend. I’ll order pizza, maybe binge-watch something embarrassing.”

He nodded, though his brows stayed knit together like he was doing complicated math in his head. “Still,” he said after a pause, “you shouldn’t have to miss the fair and he shouldn’t have cancelled.”

You smiled, small but genuine. “It’s not so bad. I’ve got homework. And a cat that ignores me unless I have snacks, so company.”

Peter huffed a laugh. “That cat’s a menace.”

“She’s just misunderstood.”

“Right. Like Loki.”

You smirked. “Exactly.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering, “You and your villain sympathies,” and you kicked his ankle under the table. He winced dramatically, clutching his leg. “Ow! Violence? In broad daylight?”

“You’ll live,” you said, grinning. “You always do.”

Peter smiled at that, quiet and fond. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

You went back to picking at your food, your voice softer now. “I don’t know, Pete. It just… kind of sucks, when people say they’ll show up and then don’t. Makes you feel dumb for expecting them to.”

He stopped chewing. For a second, he didn’t say anything, just looked at you with that open, earnest expression that always made your chest tighten.

“They’re the dumb ones,” he said finally, his voice steady. “Not you.”

You looked up at him, the cafeteria fading into background noise.

Then Peter smiled a little, that shy, crooked thing that never quite reached both sides of his mouth. “Hey,” he said softly. “You should keep doing that.”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

“Smiling,” he said. His voice was almost a whisper.

Your face warmed immediately. “Thats really sweet Peter.” You say softly.

He ducked his head, pretending to focus on his sandwich, though the tips of his ears were bright red. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled, “it’s true.”

You smiled, hiding behind your juice box, pretending the flutter in your chest was just the sugar kicking in.

Peter looked up once more, and when your eyes met, he gave a small, almost secret smile, like he was already thinking about something he wasn’t ready to say yet.

And you didn’t know it then, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter Parker was already planning exactly how to make sure your weekend didn’t end up lonely after all. —————

The afternoon air was crisp, smelling faintly of rain and roasted chestnuts from the cart on the corner. The two of you walked side by side, your backpacks bumping lightly with each step.

Peter kicked at a loose pebble, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. “You know,” he said casually, “I think the cafeteria fries are getting worse.”

You snorted. “Impossible. They were already bottom-tier.”

“No, I swear they’re different. Like… soggier. I think the oil’s rebelling.”

“Mutiny of the fries,” you said with mock seriousness. “Someone alert the press.”

He grinned at that, and for a few minutes you both just walked, laughing quietly at nothing, the easy rhythm of your footsteps matching without even trying.

Then, you sighed. “Okay. Question game.”

Peter glanced sideways at you. “Question game?”

“Yeah.” You tugged your jacket tighter. You’d been playing it for years. Any questions, and you couldn’t skip an answer.

Peter thought for a second, pretending to look deep and philosophical. “Alright. Uh… pickles—love or hate?”

“Hate. On burgers, sandwiches, straight from the jar. I’m a pickle hater.”

He made a face. “Gross. That’s, like, your worst opinion.”

“My worst opinion?” you gasped dramatically. “Out of all of them?”

He laughed, ducking his head. “Pickles are amazing!” He defends. “Okay, fine, maybe not the worst. Your worst is that pineapple belongs on pizza.”

“It does!” you insisted. “It’s sweet and savory—”

“It’s a crime against nature,” he interrupted, and you elbowed him lightly, both of you grinning.

“My turn,” you said rolling your eyes. “Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?”

He groaned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Answer!”

“Fine. Duck-sized horses. Easier to kick.”

You doubled over laughing. “Kick? You’d kick baby horses?”

“Not real ones!” he said quickly, blushing. “Just—metaphorical ones. You know what I mean.”

You were still laughing, and Peter found himself watching you instead of the sidewalk. The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way sunlight caught in your hair. How you didn’t notice him looking and maybe it was better that way, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain the look on his face if you did.

“Okay,” he said, trying to recover, “my turn. Um… if you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”

You slowed a little, thinking. “Hmm. Somewhere quiet. By the ocean, maybe. No alarms, no homework. Just… peace.”

He nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

“What about you?” you asked.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to you. “Honestly? Anywhere you are.”

You blinked, startled but before you could respond, he scratched the back of his neck, rambling, “I mean, like, not in a weird way! Just, you know, because you make stuff fun. Not that other stuff isn’t fun, but—uh—yeah, I’ll stop talking now.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re so smooth, Parker.”

“I try my best,” he said, voice muffled by embarrassment.

You grinned. “Okay, my turn again. What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

His head tilted. “That’s… deep. What kind of questions are these?”

“The fun kind,” you said, bumping his shoulder. “Come on.”

He chewed his lip, thinking. “I guess… I’ve never told anyone that I’m scared of wasting time. Like, missing moments that matter, because I was too busy worrying about something else.”

Your smile softened. “That’s actually really sweet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said lightly, “don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation for being emotionally unavailable.”

You giggled. “Sure you do.”

Said Peter Parker the boy who wears his heart on his sleeve you think, rolling your eyes.

He looked at you again then really looked. The late sun hit your face just right, gold light brushing your cheekbones. You were smiling at him, your eyes bright, and Peter felt that weird ache in his chest again, the one that only seemed to happen around you.

She’s happy, he thought. I like seeing her happy.

“Okay,” you said, breaking his trance. “Your turn.”

“Right, yeah.” He blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Um… what’s something that makes you smile every time?”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Rain on windows. Baby animals. When someone remembers something small about me.”

Peter’s mouth twitched. “Like how you hate pulp in orange juice?”

Your eyes widened. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” he said softly.

You put a hand dramatically to your head pretending to swoon making Peter laugh.

You looked away quickly, cheeks warm. “You’re too observant, Parker.”

He smiled. “I just… pay attention.”

There was a pause then, a quiet, golden kind of silence that settled between you as you turned the corner toward your street.

Finally, you said with a teasing grin, “Okay, last one. Be honest. If you had to pick between saving the world or having a day off with me…what would you pick?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re evil. That’s not fair.”

“Answer!” you demanded, nudging him again.

He looked at you, really looked, like he couldn’t decide if he should joke or tell the truth. Then, softly: “I’d save the world. But only because I know you’d be mad if I didn’t.”

You blinked, then burst out laughing. “You know me too well.”

“Terrifyingly well,” he said with a grin.

When you reached your house, you stopped at the gate, turning to face him. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Always,” he said, and the word slipped out so naturally it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

You smiled. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets again, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “See you tomorrow.”

—————

And as you disappeared through the gate, Peter stood there for another full minute, eyes tracing the curve of your smile still lingering in his mind.

Because if he was honest, really honest, he could spend forever just watching you be happy.

You let out a long sigh the second your bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

The house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made you aware of every creak in the floorboards. You dropped your backpack onto the carpet, toeing off your shoes as you wandered into the living room, already thinking about how long it would take to find something half-decent on Netflix.

You flicked on the light and froze.

Your jaw fell open.

There, on the coffee table, was a mountain of snacks. Not just random chips, but all your favourites; sour gummies, pretzel bites, peanut M&Ms, the brand of popcorn your mom always forgot to buy. A stack of DVDs sat beside them—The Princess Bride, Ferris Bueller, Star Wars and on the floor, a sleeping bag was unrolled with two pillows and a small, handwritten note resting on top.

You stepped closer, heart fluttering before you’d even read it.

Just in case you don’t wanna be alone tonight. – P

You covered your mouth, your chest tightening with something warm and bright.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, a grin tugging at your lips.

Without even thinking, you sprinted to your bedroom window, shoving it open and leaning out onto the fire escape.

“Peter!”

He looked up from the alley below, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, that familiar sheepish grin spreading across his face when he saw you. “Hey.”

You stared down at him, wide-eyed and smiling. “You—how—when did you even—?”

He scratched the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly. “Uh, surprise?”

“Get up here!” you laughed.

He came upstairs and the second he walked through the door you threw your arms around him.

He froze for half a heartbeat, then hugged you back, arms wrapping around you tightly, careful but warm. You felt him smile against your shoulder.

“You’re insane,” you mumbled into his hoodie, laughing a little. “How did you even pull this off? I was literally with you all day.”

He shrugged when you pulled back, cheeks flushed pink. “I had help from Ned. He dropped the snacks off while we were walking home.”

You blinked, amazed. “You coordinated this?”

“Operation: Don’t Let You Spend The Weekend Alone,” he said with a crooked smile. “It was a team effort.”

You shook your head, grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but—” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a moment “you said your dad cancelled and you’d be bored, so I figured… maybe it didn’t have to suck, you know?”

Your throat tightened. “Peter, this is—” you gestured helplessly at the room, your voice softening “literally the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He ducked his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well....”

Your heart did a full somersault. You bit your lip, smiling. “Mission accomplished, Parker.”

He beamed, and for a moment, you both just stood there, surrounded by the soft glow of the lamp and the scent of microwave popcorn, grinning like idiots.

Then he cleared his throat, suddenly fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie. “Oh, uh—before we start the movie marathon, I, uh, got you something else.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two crumpled tickets.

You blinked. “Wait. Are those—?”

“The fair tickets,” he said, holding them out with a little grin. “I, uh… remembered you said you wanted to go. Figured… maybe we could still go tomorrow? If you want.”

You stared at the tickets, then at him, a small laugh breaking out. “Peter. You’re serious?”

He nodded, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. “Totally serious. I mean, it’s still kinda sketchy and the Ferris wheel might collapse, but… I’ll be there. Promise.”

You couldn’t help it, you launched forward and hugged him again, tighter this time.

He laughed softly, a little surprised but hugging you back, his hands resting gently at your waist. “So that’s a yes?” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

You smiled against his chest. “That’s the biggest yes ever.”

When you finally pulled back, your faces were closer than you meant for them to be. You could see the freckles dusting his nose, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked. He looked at you like you were something fragile and luminous all at once.

“Okay,” you whispered, your heart racing. “Movie night?”

“Movie night,” he echoed, grinning. “You pick. But I’m vetoing The Notebook.”

“You can’t veto The Notebook!”

“Watch me.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you grabbed the remote. “You’re lucky you brought snacks.”

He grinned, dropping onto the sleeping bag beside you, soon the opening credits of Ferris Bueller’s day off began to play, Peter glanced over watching your smile light up the room again.

And just like that, he knew every second of planning, every awkward excuse, every sprint up the fire escape had been worth it.

Because you were happy. And that was all he wanted.

—————

The air was sharp with that particular kind of New York cold , the one that turned every breath into a little puff of white and made your cheeks sting in the best way. You tugged your scarf higher around your chin, your gloved hand swinging between you and Peter as you walked toward the fairgrounds.

Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the sky had that faint, pearly tint that promised it might. The streets were slick, the air humming with weekend chatter and distant horns.

“I can’t feel my nose,” you complained, voice muffled by your scarf.

Peter chuckled beside you, adjusting his beanie over his curls. “You said you liked cold weather.”

“I like aesthetic cold weather,” you corrected. “You know, the kind where you drink hot cocoa and look cute. Not this ‘my eyebrows might freeze off’ kind.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You still look cute.”

You turned toward him, eyes wide, caught off guard. “What?”

He blinked, immediately rambling, “I mean—like—uh, winter cute! Like how everyone looks cozy and, uh, scarf-y, I guess? You know, general compliment, not weird or anything—”

You smiled, cheeks warm in spite of the chill. “You’re such a dork.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said, pretending to shrug it off, but his ears were already red beneath his beanie.

As you reached the fair, the world exploded into color and sound. Strings of lights crisscrossed above you, glowing gold against the dimming sky. The smell of caramel popcorn and fried dough filled the air, and laughter carried from every direction.

You spun in a slow circle, eyes wide with delight. “Peter, this is amazing!”

He grinned, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. “I told you it wouldn’t be totally sketchy.”

“You did not say that,” you laughed, tugging his sleeve toward the first booth. “Come on! Let’s play something!”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of laughter and motion. You lost miserably at ring toss and mock-accused Peter of distracting you on purpose. He pretended to be mortally offended. You both screamed your heads off on the janky rollercoaster that rattled like it was held together by tape, and he swore afterward that his life had flashed before his eyes.

The bumper cars were the loudest and happiest part, you both laughing so hard your stomachs hurt as you crashed into each other again and again until Peter held up both hands in surrender. “Truce! Truce!”

“No mercy, Parker!” you shouted, ramming him one more time.

He laughed so hard he couldn’t even steer straight, and by the time the ride stopped, both of you were breathless, cheeks pink from the cold and laughter.

Later, at one of the carnival booths, Peter spent a full five dollars trying to win the giant stuffed bear you’d been eyeing. When he finally managed it, he held it out proudly with a crooked grin.

“Milady,” he said in a mock British accent. “For you.”

You giggled, hugging the bear to your chest. “He’s perfect. You’re perfect. Wait scratch that. He’s perfect, you’re okay.”

Peter clutched his chest. “Ouch.”

You bumped his shoulder affectionately. “Thank you, though. Really.”

He just smiled, quietly, the way he did when words weren’t enough.

As night fell, the air grew colder, and you found yourselves walking hand in hand toward the glowing Ferris wheel. Peter bought two steaming cups of hot chocolate from a nearby stand, and you held yours tight, savoring the warmth against your gloves.

The world was a kaleidoscope of lights and laughter as the Ferris wheel lifted you slowly into the air. You watched the fair shrink beneath your feet, the people, the booths, the blur of motion until everything seemed soft and far away.

“Wow,” you breathed, eyes wide. “Look at that view.”

Peter glanced out for a moment, but his gaze drifted back to you almost immediately. The lights reflected in your eyes, and your hair was glowing from the soft golden bulbs above the cart.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s… pretty great.”

You turned toward him, smiling. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, taking a sip of his hot chocolate, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

You tilted your head, teasing. “You’re staring.”

He flushed. “No, I—I wasn’t staring! I was just… observing.”

“Oh?” you teased. “Observing what?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking between you and the skyline. “Just… you look happy. I like seeing you happy.”

You smiled softly, heart fluttering.

He swallowed, his breath misting the cold air.

The wheel creaked gently as you reached the top, the city stretching endlessly beneath you, glittering, alive, a thousand stories happening all at once. But up here, it felt like you were in your own little world.

You turned toward him, your voice quieter now. “You know… this was the best day.”

He smiled shyly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said “You always find a way to make things better.”

Peter stared down at his gloved hands, fidgeting with the cup between them. “That’s kind of what I wanted to say, actually.”

You blinked, curious. “What do you mean?”

He took a shaky breath, his cheeks pink from more than just the cold. “I’ve, uh… liked you. For a while. Like… a long while. And I didn’t wanna say anything because I didn’t wanna mess up this—” he gestured between you “—but tonight just… I don’t know. It felt like maybe I should.”

You just stared at him for a heartbeat, your breath catching, the world suddenly very still.

Then you smiled, small, soft, a little incredulous. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, eyes wide and nervous. “Yeah. Totally serious. I mean, I get if you don’t feel the same, or if that’s weird, or—”

You leaned forward and kissed him before he could finish.

It was gentle and shy, the kind of kiss that felt more like a promise than a confession. His breath hitched, his hand tightening slightly around yours. When you pulled back, both of you were smiling, blushing, laughing quietly in disbelief.

“Well,” he said softly, still dazed, “that was… wow.”

You giggled. “Yeah. Wow.”

Below, the fair lights spun in warm circles, and the sounds of laughter floated up faintly. You leaned your head on his shoulder, the stuffed bear squished between you.

Peter exhaled, his thumb brushing against your gloved hand. “Best day ever,” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes closing as the Ferris wheel began its slow descent. “Told you,” you whispered. “You make everything better.”

You pushed open the loft door, struggling with a box that seemed determined to weigh you down. Before you could even set it down, Clark was there, one hand already on it.

“Whoa, let me take that,” he said, lifting it effortlessly. You blinked, slightly flustered, but shrugged as if nothing happened—he did this all the time, and you were so used to it you barely noticed anymore.

“Thanks…” you murmured, dropping into a cross-legged position on the floor.

Clark grinned, setting the box down carefully and plopping himself down across from you. He leaned forward brushing a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand lingered just a fraction longer than it needed to, and your stomach gave that familiar flutter.

You tried to pretend you didn’t have butterflies, digging into the box to pull out rolls of colored paper and markers. “Okay, so the deal is… I’m doing all the banners for the spring formal. All of them. Everyone else is too busy or too lazy or… too socially awkward to help, so here I am, armed with markers and a prayer.”

Clark tilted his head, watching you with that easy, familiar smile. “And you needed my artistic expertise.”

You laughed, reaching for a roll of paper. “Artistic expertise? Clark you only ever wear two colours…”

Clark huffed “I know about colours and stuff…I can be artsy.”

“Do you remember when you tried to paint the barn door!” You exclaimed.

“It wasn’t that bad.” He defended.

“It was neon orange! Not to mention streaky.” You giggled.

He sighed “do you need my help or not?”

“Pretty please.” You smiled with teeth in a teasing way

“Yeah yeah, fine.” Clark sighed but he couldn’t hide that small smile. You playfully nudged him grabbing some markers.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, you’ve always had a knack for stuff like this.” Clark spoke

“A knack? Poetic Clark really.” You teased

“You know what I mean…” he smirked. “You’re always doing artsy stuff.”

“Well it needs to turn out great because we need 15 more of these by tomorrow.” You stated.

“Fifteen!” Clark stared at you wide eyed. You gave him a sympathetic smile.

He brushed his fingers along the edge of the paper to straighten it, his hand brushing yours briefly. A shiver ran up your arm. “Seriously, these are good. Really good.” He spoke looking through the ones you’d already made.

“You always this nice?” You teased trying not to blush.

“Only for people who can draw better letters than me,” he said, leaning closer. “Seriously how do you do that.” He gestured to the banner you were drawing on

You smiled “do what?”

“Make art out of nothing.” He laughed. “You’ve been here fifteen minutes and yours already looks amazing and I’ve made one shaky letter.”

You laughed.

You blushed, fumbling for a marker. “Stop it. Yours isn’t that bad.”

Clark gave you a look that said ‘don’t lie.’

You smirked “okay I’ll do touch ups after I go home.” You both laughed at that.

The sound of markers filled the air.

“I miss this, having fun with you.” Clark spoke.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to show how warm that made you. “Oh, sure. Fun. Because making giant letters for an entire school is exactly my idea of a party.”

“You make it fun,” he said quietly, leaning a little closer than necessary, just enough that your knees brushed. “I mean… it’s better with you here.”

You froze, your pencil mid-stroke, because did he just…? No. You were imagining it. He couldn’t… not like that. “Better with me, huh?”

Clark grinned, leaning back. “Hey, it’s the truth.”

You shook your head and smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here I am, helping you,” he said, reaching for another roll of paper. He brushed off a stray smudge of marker from your hand as he handed it over. Small, casual… almost nothing, but your chest tightened.

You bit your lip, smiling shyly. “Fine. I’ll admit… you’re better at this than I expected.”

You blinked at him, heart hammering, but before he could say anything else, his gaze shifted over your shoulder.

“Lana!”

Your smile fell. You turned, and there she was…Lana Lang, standing in the doorway with a soft smile, holding a stack of extra supplies. “Hi… I heard you needed some help with the banners,” she said sweetly. “So I grabbed some extra markers and paper. Thought you might like them.”

Your stomach twisted. Always Lana. Always perfect, always kind, always… unavoidable. You wanted to glare, but she was just so genuinely nice that you couldn’t.

Clark was already moving toward her, practically radiating that stupid, infuriating “I’m captivated” energy you knew all too well. “You came! That’s… wow. Thanks, Lana!”

She knelt by the banners, spreading out the supplies. “I figured it would be fun to help. You’ve got a lot going on here, and—these banners are amazing!”

You sank onto your knees, pulling your hair back, feeling a pang of jealousy twist in your chest. You wanted to be annoyed, to be angry, but you couldn’t help the tight little smile that tugged at your lips. Lana’s voice was sweet, genuine… too genuine. “Thanks Lana.” You spoke.

Clark leaned toward her, reaching for a marker she handed him. “I mean… y/n was just talking about needing help,” he said, glancing back at you briefly.

“Read my mind.” You joke with a tight smile directed at Lana.

You forced a small smile, trying to focus on the banner in front of you as they bent over their work together. The brush of her hand against his, the easy laughs… every tiny movement was a reminder of what you wanted but didn’t have.

Yet somewhere beneath the ache, a stubborn little spark whispered: maybe things could change. Maybe… if you just held on, Clark might notice what was right in front of him.

Lana finally dusts her hands off after a couple hours, her smile warm and easy. “I should probably head home—still have algebra waiting for me.”

“Thanks again for helping,” you tell her, managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You mean it, though—you always did. Lana Lang was too kind to dislike, even when you wanted to.

Clark stands immediately, offering to walk her down. You watch from the floor as he hugs her a little too long, like he never really wants to let go.

When his boots clunk back up the stairs, you’re rolling up the last banner. “Well,” you say lightly, masking the twinge in your chest, “looks like the Kent charm is working overtime tonight.”

Clark chuckles, his ears tinting red. “Charm, huh? I don’t know if I’d call it that.”

“Oh, come on.” You wave the rolled banner at him. “I saw that hug. If it went on any longer, I was gonna have to avert my eyes.”

He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s just… Lana.”

“Exactly my point.” You smirk, sliding the poster into the box. “Every guy in Smallville trips over himself for her, and Clark Kent is no exception.”

He shoots you a look—half teasing, half defensive. “Not every guy.”

“Oh, so you’re special then?” You arch a brow. “Immune to the Lana Lang Effect?”

Clark shakes his head, still smiling. “I didn’t say that.”

You laugh, bumping his arm with yours as he sits back down on the loft step beside you. The kind of laugh that’s easy, familiar—like you’ve been doing this your whole life.

For a while, you just sit there together, rolling the last few posters, the loft filling with the sound of paper crinkling and the faint creak of the barn wood.

Clark glances sideways at you. “Y’know, you’re basically saving the entire school with all this work. Half these kids wouldn’t even get a formal if you weren’t running yourself ragged.”

You shrug, fiddling with a stray marker cap. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I’ll actually be there.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “Wait, what? You’re not going?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, trying to sound casual. “By the time I’m done putting this whole thing together, I’ll probably be too exhausted to even look at streamers, let alone dance under them.”

Clark leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You should go.”

You glance at him, surprised by the quiet certainty in his voice.

He grins, just a little. “Who knows—maybe someone’s been waiting to ask you.”

Your breath stutters. The words hang between you, soft and warm, and for a second you let yourself imagine he means himself. His eyes are steady on yours, and your chest aches with the possibility.

You force a laugh, looking down at your paint-stained hands. “Yeah, sure. The line of guys just dying to dance with me is out the door.”

Clark nudges your knee with his. “You’d be surprised.”

The moment lingers, humming with something unsaid, until he finally pushes himself up to grab the box. “Anyway,” he says, hefting it like it weighs nothing, “you’ll regret it if you miss it. Trust me.”

You watch him carry the box down the stairs, your heart caught between the easy friendship you’ve always had and the dangerous hope blooming in your chest.

—————

The next morning, the school hallways buzz with chatter and slamming lockers, but all you can hear is the echo of Clark’s voice from last night.

Maybe someone’s been waiting to ask you.

You’ve been replaying it in your head ever since you left the farm, that tiny spark of something you’d never dared to hope for before. By the time you’re carrying a bundle of freshly cut streamers down the hall toward the gym, your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks.

You turn the corner, balancing the mess of colored paper in your arms—and then you hear him.

Clark’s voice, soft and hesitant.

“So, uh… are you going to the Spring Formal?”

Your breath catches. The streamers almost slip from your grip as your heart kicks up. He… he meant you? Last night wasn’t just a throwaway line?

You step closer, turn towards his voice.

And then your stomach drops.

Because it isn’t you he’s talking to.

It’s Lana.

She’s leaning against the lockers, her books hugged to her chest, smiling at him with that quiet, perfect warmth that everyone falls for.

“I don’t know,” Lana says, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Clark chuckles nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, you should go. You should go with me….The night wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You freeze. Every word you thought might have been meant for you last night burns away in an instant. Loving Clark was torture but for some reason you kept doing it.

Your chest twists, sharp and hot. The streamers crinkle in your arms, threatening to slip, but you hold them tighter, fighting the sudden sting in your eyes.

From where you’re standing, you can see the way Clark looks at her—the way his gaze softens, how he leans in just slightly like no one else exists.

And just like that, you know.

The way you’ve been dreaming he might look at you? That hope you dared to cradle for one night?

It was never yours.

You press back against the doorframe, the sting in your chest spreading like wildfire. Before either of them can notice you standing there, you turn quickly down the hallway, streamers trembling in your grip, blinking hard against the blur in your vision.

Your footsteps echo in the empty corridor, but all you can hear is Clark’s voice.

And for the first time, you realize just how wrong you were to hope.

—————

The gym smelled faintly of fresh paint and sawdust, the way it always did when spring rolled around and someone remembered too late that the bleachers needed fixing. You balanced on the top step of the rickety school ladder, one streamer clamped between your teeth, the other dangling from your hand as you tried to tape it to the rafters.

“This is going to kill me,” you muttered around the tape roll.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to stand on the top step,” Clark called up, his voice amused.

You glanced down at him, hands planted in the pockets of his flannel. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sneak up on people while they’re defying death.”

He smirked. “You call hanging streamers defying death?”

“You’ve clearly never met this ladder.” You pressed the tape down firmly, wincing when the whole thing wobbled beneath you.

Clark immediately stepped forward, his big hands bracing the sides. “Got it,” he said simply, as if holding a ladder steady took no effort at all.

You looked down at him, smiling despite yourself. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably break your neck,” he teased, glancing up at you with that boyish grin that always made your stomach flip.

Rolling your eyes, you stretched to finish the streamer. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

“Anytime.”

For a few minutes, the two of you worked in easy rhythm, the soft rustle of streamers and the squeak of the ladder filling the gym. Clark handed you supplies without needing to be asked, just like he always had, and for a moment the world felt quiet and safe, just the two of you.

“So,” you said after a while, voice muffled as you tore off another strip of tape, “how many favors do you think I can cash in with the principal once this is done? Because if it’s not at least three, I’m quitting.”

Clark chuckled, leaning against the ladder. “What would you even ask for?”

“First choice of parking spot, lifetime hall pass, and maybe a statue of me in the courtyard. With streamers, obviously.”

He tilted his head back, laughing. “I’d pay to see that.”

“You’d be first in line at the unveiling,” you shot back.

He shook his head, still smiling. “Honestly, you deserve it. Nobody else would spend half their free time up here making this place look like… well, like a prom instead of a gym.”

You paused, glancing down at him. His tone had softened, almost earnest.

Trying to mask the flutter in your chest, you teased, “Careful, Kent. If you keep almost complimenting me, people are going to think you actually like hanging out with me.”

He didn’t look away. “What if I do?”

Your breath caught. For a second, the gym seemed too quiet, too warm.

But then, as if realizing what he’d said, Clark cleared his throat and looked away, shifting his grip on the ladder.

You laughed, turning back to your work. “Guess that makes two of us, then.”

And then it happened. One misstep, one slip. The tape rolled from your hand, and the ladder wobbled violently.

Before you could even gasp, Clark’s arms were around you, strong and steady, keeping you from falling. Your face pressed into the soft plaid of his shirt, your heart hammering in your chest.

“You okay?” His voice was low, close enough that you could feel it rumble against your cheek.

“I… yeah,” you whispered, blinking rapidly, trying to calm your pulse. Your fingers had curled in the fabric of his shirt without thinking, clutching him like a lifeline.

He didn’t put you down right away. Instead, he held you there, his gaze flicking to yours, soft and unreadable. “Told you that top step was dangerous.” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You laughed weakly. “Guess you were right.”

The air between you was thick with something neither of you named.

And just as you were about to regain your composure, the gym doors burst open.

“Y/n! Y/n! Come quick!”

Clark awkwardly put you down. Tension thick in the air.

You spun toward the voice. One of your classmates—grinning and out of breath—stood there, practically vibrating with excitement.

“What?” you asked, frowning in confusion.

“You’ve got to come. Ben Gravis is asking you to the Spring Formal!”

Your stomach dropped, your eyes wide. “What?! Since when?”

She shrugged the smile still on her face. “Apparently he’s has his eye on you since he saw you at the last game-“ she glanced at Clark and then back at you. “Come on, come on!” she giggled running down the hall.

You glanced over your shoulder at Clark, your pulse skipping. His blue eyes followed you, that faint flicker of something—soft jealousy? longing?you couldn’t quite place it.

You jogged across the gym, Clark wouldn’t care right…he was going with Lana.

You smoothed your shirt, fiddled with your hair, and hesitated looking back at Clark. “How do I look?” you asked quietly, almost reflexively, as if needing his opinion.

Clark swallowed, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long. Then, with a soft pause, he said, “You look… beautiful. You are beautiful.”

There was a warmth in his eyes, a smile curling at the corners, but he said nothing more, letting you go.

You smiled, cheeks heating, and ran after your friend, feeling your chest tighten at the unspoken tension. Behind you, Clark stayed on the gym floor, hands in his pockets, eyes following you until the door swung shut.

The words echoed in your mind as you walked away, leaving something unclaimed in the gym between you.

—————

The gym had been transformed into something magical—twinkling lights strung across the rafters, a soft jazz band playing near the stage, and the smell of punch and fresh flowers filling the air. You navigated carefully through the clusters of students, streamers still clinging to your dress from helping with the decorations, when you spotted him.

Clark.

He was standing alone at the drink table, leaning casually against it, scanning the crowd—or so it seemed. When your eyes met his, his gaze didn’t flick away.

You ducked behind a group of people, your heart racing. Then, with a deep breath, you made your way over, hoping you weren’t imagining the intensity in his stare.

“Clark,” you said softly as you reached the table.

“Y/n,” he said, turning toward you fully, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You poured yourself some punch, trying to appear casual. “So… uh… how’s the night treating you?”

“Pretty good,” he said, nodding toward the dance floor. “Not too crowded here, thankfully.”

You smiled, sipping your drink. “Yeah, it’s… a lot.” You laughed lightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I still can’t believe I actually made it through all the decorating.”

Clark’s eyes never left yours. He tilted his head slightly, studying you in a way that made your stomach twist and your cheeks warm. “You really did a great job. Everything looks… perfect.”

You blinked at him, heart skipping a beat. “Clark, what are you doing?” you asked, narrowing your eyes playfully.

He smirked softly, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little. “I’m looking at you,” he said, voice low, almost teasing.

Your heart caught. “Excuse me?”

“I’m looking at you,” he repeated, blue eyes locked on yours, warm and steady. “All dressed up…”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks. “Clark—”

He held up a hand, still smiling, as if daring you to say more. “Shh. I just… wanted to enjoy this view. Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, brushing off the flutter in your stomach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Not my fault you look good in a dress.” he added, quiet enough that only you could hear it, the sincerity in his tone making your chest squeeze.

For a moment, you simply stood there, staring at each other over the rim of your cups, the background noise fading away.

“I should probably get a dance in before someone beats me to it,” he said finally, holding up his cup in mock salute.

Clark’s gaze lingered a beat longer. “I’ll see you out there,” you said, and there was a softness to his smile that made your breath catch again.

Desperately trying not to let your pulse show in the way your hands trembled just slightly.

As you moved away from the table, you felt him watching you, the heat of his gaze lingering on your back like a caress. Every step toward the dance floor made your chest tighten with anticipation, the knowledge that he was still staring—still noticing you—lingering like an unspoken promise. That was until he reached Lana hand on her back…

The night was just beginning, but for that moment, it felt like something had already shifted.

—————

The night air was cool against your cheeks as you sat on the top step of the school’s front staircase, staring at the faint glow of the streetlights reflecting off the empty parking lot. The music from the gym had long since died down, leaving just the hum of crickets and distant car engines.

You hugged your arms around your knees, feeling the lingering awkwardness of the dance still in your chest. You hadn’t exactly had the night you’d imagined, and the guy who had taken you to the dance hadn’t been much of a consolation.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called softly from behind.

You turned and found Clark leaning against the railing a few steps up, hands in his pockets, looking impossibly calm. “Need a ride?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, that half-smile that always made your chest squeeze.

Your brows shot up. “You’re not going home with Lana?”

Clark sighed and shook his head, eyes flicking to the empty parking lot. He leaned back against the rail, a little wind tousling his hair. “And aren’t you going home with Ben?”

You blinked, then grinned faintly. “Touché.”

He chuckled and so did you, a little breathless, and he gestured toward his car parked at the curb. “Come on, before the night gets any colder.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you felt the familiar ease that came with being around Clark. He started the car, the engine humming gently, and for a few minutes, you drove in companionable silence.

“So I know why I’m sad and alone what’s your excuse?” Clark asked.

You laughed. “I… don’t think he was very impressed,” you admitted softly, fiddling with the silk of your dress. “He wanted to hook up…and I wasn’t interested and so he got mad, told me I couldn’t do better and left….”

Clark glanced at you, his hand on the wheel tightening just slightly. “He’s an ass…” Clark spoke.

You shook your head, sighing. “Yeah I guess so,”

Clark looked out the windshield for a moment, then said quietly, “That’s… stupid. And unfair. You deserve someone who actually… sees you.”

Your heart fluttered at the softness in his voice. You glanced at him sideways. “But you… how was Lana?”

Clark exhaled slowly, jaw tightening just a fraction. “She… said she just wanted to be friends this time. Said it didn’t work before, and she didn’t want to mess anything up again.”

You nodded slowly, listening. “I see.” A part of you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement even if it made you feel guilty.

He glanced at you, that familiar intensity in his eyes, the way he always looked like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure how.

You smiled softly, feeling warmth creep into your chest. “Well aren’t we just the two shining stars of the social scene.” You joked bursting into a laugh and so did Clark. He couldn’t help it.

Clark’s lips twitched into a small, thoughtful smile. “I know you like to make everything perfect, but sometimes… imperfect nights are the ones you remember the most.”

You laughed quietly, leaning back into the seat, letting the calm settle around you. “You always know what to say, Clark Kent.”

He glanced at you briefly, eyes softening in that way that made your stomach do a little flip. “I try.”

For the rest of the ride, you looked out the window, missing the glances Clark kept shooting at you. He watched the way you softly hummed to the music and felt the wind on your face.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, you hesitated for just a second, the silence stretching in that quiet, unspoken way.

“Thanks,” you murmured, “for the ride. And… for not making me feel like a total disaster tonight.”

Clark’s gaze softened, eyes locking with yours for a long, almost delicate beat. “You’re never a disaster, Y/n,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened, cheeks warming, but you smiled and climbed out of the car. He started to say something else but stopped himself. You shut the car door softly behind you, the night air cool against your cheeks. Clark then took a step closer, his hand brushing against the car roof as if thinking whether to reach out.

“I—” His voice faltered, low and rough.

You looked up at him, heart thudding. Something in the way he was leaning toward you made your pulse skip. His hand hovered near your face, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He was close too close and you instinctively stepped back, blinking.

“No, no—stop it,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended.

“What?” His eyes were wide, confused, but soft.

“I have been second to Lana my entire life,” you said, voice trembling but fierce. “And I won’t be the girl you settle for just because you can’t have her. I will not do it. I won’t. Not when I’ve spent my entire life loving you.” You stumbled over your words.

You pulled back, your arms crossed, chin lifted defiantly even as tears prickled your eyes.

Clark’s hands lifted, frantic. “What— no.” His words stumbled over themselves, rough and urgent. “This isn’t about Lana- she left earlier remember!”

“Oh, so what? I’m scrappy seconds?” you spat, voice breaking slightly, a tremor of hurt in your laugh.

“No!” His hands went to your shoulders, steadying you, but you shook your head away. “Stop it, stop doing that.”

“I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, helpless. “How was I supposed to know you liked me-“

“You can’t tell that I am in love with you because you were too busy loving Lana to notice!” you yelled, your tears spilling freely now. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to look at me the way you look at Lana!”

Clark’s jaw tightened, his own eyes shining, and for a second, he just stared at you, caught between disbelief and desperation.

“Have you ever loved me?” you whispered, voice cracking. You turned to walk away, chest heaving. “You know what… don’t say anything. I know the answer.”

He reached for you, one hand on your arm, pulling you gently back. “I can’t let you walk away like this,” he said softly, voice thick with emotion.

You shook your head, your tears streaming down your cheeks. “I—Clark, I…I can’t be…I have settled for many second bests in my life but this…this won’t be one of them.” You cried and turned running into your house.

Clark stood shocked, tears threatening to fall. He could hear your sobs from inside.

—————

You lay on your bed, face buried in your pillow, eyes puffy and raw from crying. The fight with Clark replayed endlessly in your mind, every word, every flinch, every aching heartbeat. You felt hollow and heavy all at once, wishing somehow the night could reset itself.

A soft tap… tap… on your window made you freeze.

You didn’t move.

Tap… tap…

You groaned, burying your face further into your pillow. “Go away,” you muttered, voice muffled.

“Y/n… please,” a familiar voice whispered through the glass.

You froze again. Slowly, carefully, you rolled over and peered through the open window. Clark was there, standing on the lawn below, the wind ruffling his hair, shoulders tense.

“Clark… what are you doing here?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice betrayed you.

“Please… let me in,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

Reluctantly, heart hammering, you opened the window more and helped him climb inside. He paused just inside your room, standing still, looking smaller than usual, almost fragile. You crossed your arms, staring at him, hurt still glowing in your chest. You glanced at the box in his hands

Clark’s lips trembled, and for a long, heavy moment, neither of you spoke. His blue eyes shimmered, and you could see the rawness there—he looked like he might actually cry.

“Clark… what are you doing here?” you asked again, softer this time.

He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I… I just—” His voice broke. “I need you to listen. Please.”

You shook your head slightly, eyes stinging again.

“Don’t tell me I don’t love you… ever again,” he said suddenly, voice trembling with urgency.

“This,” he said, stepping closer, “is my favorite picture. I keep it next to my bed because… it’s the one where you look so happy. Laughing, completely yourself. It’s the one I think about when everything else feels… impossible.”

He held out a photo frame. It was a picture of you on the playground from a few years ago—Clark giving you a piggyback ride while you laughed so freely your cheeks dimpled. You blinked, heart twisting.

“This,” he continued, putting it down on the edge of your bed, “is every note you’ve ever sent me in class… every letter, every card. I kept them all.”

He dumped a small pile of neatly folded papers onto your bed. Your eyes widened.

“And this,” he said, pulling out a worn notebook, “is a notebook from sixth grade. Look at the back page.” You did, and there it was in sloppy blue pencil: Y/n Kent scribbled over and over.

Then he started to gather more things, each more personal than the last

“This. A friendship bracelet you gave me in the fourth grade.” Clark showed you. “I was so sad the day it didn’t fit me anymore.” He puts that on the bed too.

He held up a worn t-shirt “this is the shirt you borrowed a few months ago, and I haven’t washed it because I can still sort of smell your perfume.” He spoke his voice cracking.

“Photos.” He said and placed down a stack, some of you together but mostly just photos of you. Not when you were posed, when you were just you. Raw, smiling, laughing, sleeping in class.

He looked at you then, hands trembling slightly, eyes watery but fierce. “Do you see all this? You… you were never a second choice. You weren’t even a choice. You’re the answer. Always have been. I was scared, Y/n. Scared of wrecking our friendship. Scared if I said something, I’d lose you. And I didn’t… I couldn’t risk it. But I can’t hide anymore. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’ve loved you… all of you… for so long.”

You looked up slowly, tears streaming, shaking your head, voice trembling. “Clark… I—”

He knelt beside you, hands gently cupping your face. “I’m not letting you go. Im sorry if I have ever treated you like less than what you are. The one. The only one I’ve ever wanted. And I’ve been too stupid to see you’ve been waiting, but I see it now.”

Your chest heaved, crying, looking up at him through tear-streaked lashes. “I’ve loved you my entire life,” you whispered.

“And I’ve loved you,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours, voice breaking again. “Every second, every day, and I never want to waste another one without you knowing it.”

You laughed through the tears, shaky and raw, and he laughed too, low and warm, and in that quiet moment, surrounded by memories and proofs of a lifetime of love, the two of you finally let yourselves breathe together.

The room was quiet except for your soft, uneven breaths and the faint rustle of papers Clark had left on your bed. The glow from the lamp cast a warm halo around him, illuminating the way his blue eyes shimmered, still wet from tears but burning with something more—desire, longing, relief.

He stepped closer, just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. His hands hovered near your face, trembling slightly, and you leaned instinctively toward him, drawn like gravity.

“Y/n…” he whispered, voice low and raw.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you lifted your face, heart hammering in your chest, and pressed your lips to his. Soft. Tentative. Electric.

It was a kiss that started shy and careful, as if testing the waters, yet already scorching with all the months and years of longing neither of you had dared to speak aloud. You felt him inhale sharply, a shiver running through both of you.

When you pulled back slightly, just to catch your breath, your foreheads rested together.

“Clark…” you murmured, voice trembling. “I—”

“I know,” he whispered back, thumb brushing across your cheek. “I’ve wanted this… you… forever.”

And then, as if the first kiss had broken some dam inside him, he leaned in again—harder, deeper, more insistent this time. Lips crashing together with a fierce, desperate need, tongues brushing, teeth barely grazing. It was urgent, passionate, fueled by every stolen glance, every heartache, every quiet longing that had been building between you.

You gasped into the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair. You could feel the strength in his arms, the warmth of his body, and the undeniable pull between the two of you.

Without breaking the kiss, Clark lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, your arms locked around his shoulders. He pressed you against him, the heat of his body melting away every ounce of hurt and doubt that had clung to you.

“Clark…” you moaned softly, tilting your head, letting him dominate the kiss while still holding him close, your heart soaring and trembling all at once.

He kissed you again, slower this time, letting the fire simmer into something deeper, more intimate. Fingers pressed along your spine, holding you impossibly close, as if he’d never let go. The two of you swayed slightly, caught in your own world, bodies pressed, breaths mingling.

When you finally broke apart, faces flushed and breathing ragged, you rested your foreheads together again, smiles trembling on your lips.

Clark sat slowly onto your bed, you straddling his lap. “You look so good in that dress.” Clark speaks breathlessly looking down at your now slightly creased prom dress.

“I bought it for you…” you admit.

Clark smiled that famous boyish smile the one that always made you blush.

He immediately went in to kiss you again.

You playfully screamed as he kissed your face all over and then your neck. You giggled “Clark!” As he flipped you over so he was hovering over you now.

“Can’t help it.” He whispered into your skin as he kissed you, as you smiled and giggled and tilted your head back.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen.

It wasn’t supposed to slip out, wasn’t supposed to show. You’d gotten good at hiding it—years of practice, tucking those memories into the furthest corners of yourself, keeping the walls high so no one could climb over.

But all it took was something small. A quick motion, someone’s hand moving too fast, a voice raised louder than you were ready for. That’s all it ever was, wasn’t it? Just little moments that had nothing to do with you, and yet your body remembered.

This time, it was Sejanus.

The two of you were sitting on the floor of his room at the Academy, books spread between you. He’d been laughing—really laughing, with his whole face, eyes crinkled and warm—and he reached suddenly to nudge your shoulder when you teased him about getting too carried away with his arguments.

But before his hand even made contact, you flinched. A sharp jerk backward, your arm snapping up as if you needed to block. The reaction was instinctive, quick, and when you saw the look that flickered over Sejanus’s face, you wished desperately you could take it back.

His laughter died instantly. His hand froze in the air before it slowly dropped back into his lap.

“…You thought I was going to—” His voice broke off, soft with disbelief. His brow furrowed, his dark eyes searching your face like he was afraid of the answer.

Your chest tightened. You scrambled for words, any words. “No—it’s not—Sejanus, I didn’t—”

But he wasn’t letting it go. Not this. His voice was quiet, but there was something fierce beneath it, something protective that you’d only ever seen when he spoke about injustice, about the things that weren’t right in the world.

“Who made you flinch like that?”

You swallowed hard. His question landed like a stone in your stomach, heavy and unmovable. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” He echoed it, and now his voice was trembling. “You—you jumped away like I was about to hurt you. That’s not nothing.”

You hated the way your throat felt tight, hated that your eyes stung. You weren’t supposed to cry about this anymore. “It’s not you. I know you’d never hurt me.”

“I know it’s not me.” His voice softened then, but it was still weighted, still raw. He inched closer—not touching, not even daring to reach out, but close enough that you could feel his warmth. “But someone did. Didn’t they?”

You hesitated. The walls you’d built around this part of yourself pressed in, begging you not to let them crumble. But Sejanus wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t careless with people’s pain, and he wasn’t asking to satisfy curiosity. He was asking because he cared.

You nodded, just once. The smallest of confessions. Your face contorted as you tried not to cry. “My dad.” It came out as barely a whisper.

Sejanus’s hands curled into fists on his knees. He shut his eyes for a second, like the thought of it physically hurt him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and the sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. “I’m so sorry he did that to you.”

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said immediately. His eyes opened again, and they were shining in the dim light. “You don’t just forget things like that. And you shouldn’t have had to live with it alone.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until it came out shaky. “I didn’t mean for you to know.”

“I know.” His voice softened, and this time he did reach out—slowly, carefully, letting you see every movement. He stopped short of touching, hovering just above your hand. “Can I—?”

You nodded again, and his fingers brushed yours. Gentle, deliberate. Like he was showing you that nothing about him would ever hurt.

The contact was grounding. Warm, steady.

He exhaled, his shoulders sinking. “I hate that he made you feel unsafe. And I hate that it followed you here. But I want you to know—” His fingers laced with yours carefully, tenderly. “With me, you never have to be afraid.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. You laughed weakly, embarrassed. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to say it.” His voice was firm now, determined. “I need you to know it’s true.” He hesitated, then gave you a crooked, trembling smile. “I mean, I’ll probably trip over my own feet and spill soup on myself in front of you at some point, but I will never hurt you.”

That pulled a real laugh out of you, watery though it was. “That… does sound like you.”

“Good.” He grinned faintly, relief softening his features. “Then maybe I’m doing something right.”

The two of you sat like that for a while, his hand holding yours like it was the most important thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it was.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice small. “Sometimes I feel broken.”

Sejanus shook his head instantly. “You’re not broken.” He squeezed your hand, gentle but sure. “You survived something terrible. That doesn’t make you broken—it makes you strong. Stronger than anyone should have had to be, maybe, but…” He swallowed hard. “I think you’re incredible.”

Your throat caught again, but this time it wasn’t from pain. It was from the warmth in his words, the honesty in them.

You leaned forward just enough that your shoulder brushed his. He went still, then relaxed, tilting slightly so you could rest against him.

You were sprawled out on your stomach across Peter’s bedroom floor, propped up on your elbows, pencil twirling lazily between your fingers. An AC/DC song drifted from the little speaker on his desk, you were pretty sure peter thought it was led zeppelin because Peter kept talking about Robert plant, but you didn’t have the heart to correct him. You hummed along without even realizing, your feet kicking lazily in the air.

At his desk, Peter was supposed to be writing notes. Supposed to. His pen hovered above his notebook, but his eyes kept drifting away from equations and dates and settling on you instead. The way your hair fell over your shoulder, the way your lips curved around the melody. He didn’t even notice he’d stopped writing altogether.

You felt it after a while—that strange weight of being watched. You glanced up, caught him immediately, and your humming stopped. A slow smile pulled at your mouth.

“You’re staring,” you teased, soft but pointed.

Peter startled, blinking too fast, like he’d just been yanked out of a daydream. “I—no, I wasn’t, I was just—uh—thinking. About…math. Yeah. Really complicated math.”

You tilted your head, biting back a laugh. “Uh-huh. You’re so convincing.”

His ears went pink. He ducked his head, fumbling with his pen like it might save him. “I wasn’t—it’s just—you were humming, and it was…nice. Really nice. And then I, uh, I forgot that staring is…weird.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled at him. “So you like my humming?”

Peter risked a glance back at you, shy grin tugging at his lips. “I like…a lot of things. About you.”

Your heart fluttered. “Careful, Parker. That is was almost smooth.”

He let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Almost. Which is, uh, probably the best I can do.”

You rolled onto your side to face him fully, chin propped in your hand. “Well, I’ll take it. Almost smooth suits you.”

His grin widened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. Then, teasing again, “But you’re still supposed to be studying.”

“Right,” Peter muttered, flipping his notebook page though he hadn’t written a word. “Studying. Totally what I’m doing.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Hopeless.”

“Completely,” he admitted, eyes flicking to yours again, unable to help himself.

You tossed your jacket aside and got comfortable on Peter’s bed, propping your textbook against your knees. When you leaned back against his pillow, his eyes nearly fell out of his head.

“Uh—w-what’s that?” he asked, voice cracking halfway through.

You blinked, then glanced down at your shirt, grinning. “Oh! Right. Forgot to show you. Some guy was selling these outside the deli. I thought—well, why not? I mean… I am friends with Spider-Man, after all. Might as well rep the merch.”

The spider suit print on the shirt was unmistakable, and form fitting.

Peter’s pen slipped out of his hand and clattered on the desk. He scrambled to pick it up, mumbling under his breath like his brain had completely short-circuited. “Y-you…uh…shirt—cute—yeah…super…very—um—good choice—”

You laughed, unable to help yourself. “Peter, you’re rambling.”

He went scarlet. “I’m not rambling. I’m just…making observations. About, you know, shirts. Normal, casual shirt observations.” His voice dropped into a barely audible mumble. “It’s just—you look really good in it.”

Your grin widened, heat blooming across your cheeks. “Oh?”

Peter realized what he’d said a second too late. His eyes went wide, and he waved his hands frantically. “I mean—not just in the shirt! Like—you always look good. Not that I’m, like, constantly staring at you, except I kind of am—but not in a creepy way, more in a… wow-you’re-so-pretty kind of way. Which is, you know, also creepy when I say it out loud like that. Oh my god, I should stop talking I’m sorry.”

By the time he stopped for air, you were giggling into your hand, face warm. “Peter.”

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why am I like this?”

“Because it’s cute,” you teased softly, nudging him with your foot.

He peeked at you between his fingers, looking utterly defeated. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping as if he couldn’t keep the words in anymore. “Okay, fine. I really like you. Like, really. And not just in-a-friend way or a study-buddy way. In a you-make-me-forget-my-own-name kind of way.”

Your heart flipped, and for a moment, you just stared at him, smiling so wide it hurt. “Peter Parker,” you said, voice warm, “you could’ve led with that.”

He groaned again, but this time there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well…confessing my crush isn’t exactly step one in my master plan.”

You laughed, cheeks burning. “Master plan? You have a plan?”

“…No,” he admitted, grinning shyly. “I mostly just have a goal…you. And that seems like more than enough.”

Your cheeks were flushed.

The humming silence returned, sweet and warm—and this time, it was Peter who blushed as you kept smiling at him like that.

You were still smiling at him, warmth bubbling in your chest, when Peter dropped his head into his hands again, groaning softly. “I can’t believe I just said all that out loud.” He peeked at you, brown eyes wide and nervous but soft. “You’re…not making fun of me?”

“No..” you teased, lips curving. “But only because you’re adorable when you ramble. And because…” You hesitated, heart fluttering. “I like you too, Peter.”

The silence after that stretched, thick with something electric. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he couldn’t quite believe it. His leg bounced under the desk, fingers drumming restlessly until finally he pushed back in his chair and crossed the room, pacing like he was working up the nerve to touch the ground.

You sat there on his bed, textbook forgotten in your lap, watching him wear a path in his own carpet. “Peter,” you said gently, giggling a little. “You don’t have to short-circuit. I’m right here.”

He stopped, ran a hand through his messy hair, and let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Yeah. You’re—you’re right there. And I should just…” He trailed off, looking at you, eyes flicking to your lips before darting away again. “But what if I mess it up? I always mess things up.”

Your smile softened. “Then I’ll laugh. And then we’ll try again…and no you don’t.”

That earned you a breathless laugh from him, and finally, finally, he sat beside you on the bed. His knee brushed yours, and the contact alone nearly made him combust.

For a second, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, Peter leaned in—hesitant, careful, like you were made of glass. He stopped just short, his breath mingling with yours.

“Is this…okay?” he whispered.

Your cheeks burned, but your smile was steady. “Yes, Peter.”

That was all he needed. He closed the last inch, lips brushing yours in the softest, shyest kiss you’d ever felt. His hand hovered awkwardly, not sure where to go, until you grabbed it and laced your fingers together.

The kiss was clumsy, sweet, and over too quickly, both of you pulling back with wide eyes and matching blushes.

Peter laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. That was—uh—wow.”

You giggled, leaning closer, your forehead brushing his.

His grin grew, brighter than you’d ever seen. “Best. Homework. Ever.”

You giggled.

The silence between you still hummed after that first kiss, the two of you smiling like idiots. Peter kept glancing at your mouth, then away, then back again, like he was having an internal war.

Finally, he blurted out, voice nervous and rushed, “I—I wanna do that again. I’m gonna—can I—can I do that again?”

Your giggle bubbled up, soft and warm. You nodded, cheeks hot. “Yeah, Peter.”

That was all it took. He leaned in quickly this time, kissing you again. Still gentle, still sweet, but with more certainty. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as he deepened the kiss.

You felt yourself smiling against his lips, and that made him bolder. He shifted, gently nudging you back until you were lying down on his bed, textbook slipping forgotten to the side. He hovered over you, bracing himself on one elbow, careful but wanting to be close.

Between kisses, he whispered, voice low and nervous but growing steadier:

“You’re…so pretty…” kiss.

“I’ve wanted to do this…for forever…” kiss.

“Can’t believe…you actually like me back…” another kiss, softer.

You laughed quietly against his mouth, tugging him closer. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned into the kiss, breathless. “Yeah. for you.”

Time blurred until you finally pulled back, giggling, breathless, lips tingling. You saw the time on his alarm clock. “Peter—I have to go. My mom’s probably waiting up.”

He groaned, dropping his forehead against yours like a sulky little kid. “Nooo. Tell her you’re studying really hard.”

“I am studying really hard,” you teased, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “On…kissing Peter Parker.”

That earned you his boyish laugh, his cheeks flaming all over again. He kissed you quickly, stealing one more before you could protest. “Five more minutes. Please.”

You shook your head, smiling wide. “Peter.”

His eyes flicked down to your shirt again, and his grin turned crooked. “It’s just—you in that shirt, lying here—how am I supposed to let you leave? You’re, like, the most distracting thing in the entire world.”

You smiled, blushing as you shoved lightly at his chest. “You’re impossible.”

This all started at a sleepover with Lana and Chloe.

The three of you were sprawled across Lana’s bedroom, a nest of blankets, pillows, and an unhealthy amount of popcorn between you. The glow of the TV lit up the room, and The Princess Bride had you all leaning forward like it was the first time you’d ever seen it—even though you could all quote it line for line.

On-screen, Westley looked at Buttercup with those soft, unwavering eyes and said, “As you wish.”

Lana sighed dramatically, hugging a pillow “Ugh, I swear… I wish Wesley was real.”

Chloe nodded with her mouth full of popcorn “Same. Imagine someone looking at you like that.”

You let out a laugh, tossing a kernel into the bowl. “Don’t we all?”

Both Chloe and Lana turned to you at once, identical mischievous smiles spreading across their faces.

“He’s real for you, he’s literally wrapped around your finger.” Lana smirks.

Chloe was pointing at you like it was obvious “Yeah. Clark. Hello?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Clark? No. Come on, he’s not—he’s not Wesley.”

Lana raised a brow, knowingly “Really? Tall, dark, ridiculously handsome, always swooping in to save people…not to mention farm boy.”

“And have you noticed how he looks at you? He might as well have a sword strapped to his hip.” Chloe adds

Heat crept up your neck, and you waved a hand as if to shoo them away. “That’s different. He’s just… Clark.”

On-screen, Wesley repeated, “As you wish.”

Chloe gasped, sitting up straight. “Oh my god. He literally says that! Clark literally says ‘as you wish’ to you all the time.”

You frowned, blinking. “Yeah, but not in a Princess Bride way… right?”

Both Lana and Chloe immediately collapsed into giggles, exchanging knowing looks while you sat there in confusion, your cheeks burning.

Lana grinned, sing-song “Sure, not in a Princess Bride way.”

“Totally just a friendly, platonic, Clark Kent farm-boy way.” Chloe smirked.

They dissolved into laughter again, leaving you hugging your pillow tighter, trying to hide your smile as Wesley kissed Buttercup on the screen.

They kept bringing up examples of when Clark was literally the perfect man. And you couldn’t help but think back on them.

—————

There was that one time at the school field trip…

The sky was still heavy with clouds from the storm the night before, and the field the teacher had led everyone to looked less like a farmyard demonstration and more like a swamp. Big puddles stretched across the dirt path, mud swallowing every shoe that dared step in. Your shiny black flats already looked doomed if you tried to walk through.

You stopped at the edge, making a face.

Clark, who had been walking a little behind with his hands in his jacket pockets, noticed you pause. He tilted his head, stepping closer, concern etched in his boyish expression.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asked.

You stared at the mud and sighed dramatically, pointing at the path. “That. My shoes are about to meet a very tragic end.”

Clark frowned at the mud, then looked back at you with a small smile. “It’s just dirt.”

“It’s not just dirt, Kent. It’s—” you gestured at the puddle, “—shoe-destroying sludge. There’s a difference.”

He laughed under his breath. “You really don’t want to walk through it, do you?”

“Would you in brand new shoes?” you said.

Clark glanced down at his old sneakers and shrugged. “Mine have seen worse. But… I guess yours wouldn’t survive.” His smile softened. “So what’s the plan? Camp out here till it dries?”

You opened your mouth to say something sarcastic, but before you could get the words out, Clark shifted on his feet like he’d made up his mind. “As you wish.”

Before you could stop him, he bent down and scooped you up—bridal style—like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Alright. Problem solved.”

“Clark! What are you—” you clutched at his shoulder, startled.

“Carrying you across. You didn’t think I’d just leave you there, did you?” he said, grinning, though there was a nervous edge in his voice.

You blinked up at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. He was holding you effortlessly, his arms steady, warm. Behind you, a couple of classmates started whistling, someone shouting, “Way to go, Kent!” A wave of laughter followed, but Clark didn’t even look back.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, trying to ignore the teasing.

“Maybe,” Clark said with a soft smile, “but at least your shoes are safe.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, though your cheeks were still burning. And for the briefest second, as he carried you across the puddles like it was nothing, it felt like something shifted between you. His eyes met yours for just a moment, and the teasing shouts faded into background noise.

By the time he set you down on the dry grass on the other side, both of you were blushing.

“You didn’t have to…” you muttered, brushing your hair back.

“Yeah,” Clark said, scratching the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I kinda did.”

—————

Then there was that time at the football game…

The metal bleachers were already cold under you, and the autumn air only made it worse. You tried not to let it show, but a little shiver escaped as the night deepened and the floodlights buzzed over the football field.

Clark sat right next to you, elbows on his knees, watching the game. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed. Without a word, he shrugged out of his jacket and set it gently around your shoulders.

You glanced at him, startled. The jacket was warm, soft, and about three sizes too big.

“Clark, you don’t have to give me your jacket,” you said, though your voice was softer than you intended.

His smile was small but steady. “You’re cold.”

Pulling the jacket on properly now, the sleeves slipped so far over your hands that you had to peek your fingers out. You tucked the sleeves tighter around yourself, cheeks warming. “But now you’ll freeze.”

He shook his head lightly. “I’ll be fine.”

You turned toward him, narrowing your eyes with a teasing lilt in your voice. “At least take it back if you start turning blue.”

That crooked, shy grin tugged at his lips. “As you wish.”

You froze for a second at the gentle weight of the words, the way he said them like he meant every one. When you finally smiled, it wasn’t just because his jacket was warm, it was because sitting there next to him, wrapped up in something that smelled like him, hearing him promise you that, it felt like more than just kindness.

You glanced down at the sleeves that covered your hands and gave a soft laugh. “You know, I look ridiculous in this.”

Clark tilted his head toward you, a quiet grin forming. “I don’t think so.”

You raised a brow. “No? I look like I stole from a giant’s closet.”

He shook his head, eyes warm as they lingered on you. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks again, and you ducked your head to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said softly, bumping his shoulder against yours. “But at least you’re warm.”

—————

And all those little walks too school…

The path to school was quiet that morning, the dew still clinging to the grass on either side. You were talking about the way your history teacher always managed to turn every lesson into a story about his life when you felt the tug of your sneaker coming loose.

Clark’s eyes dropped immediately. “Hold up.”

You slowed, confused. “What is it?”

He nodded toward your shoe. “Your lace.”

You looked down with a sigh. “Ugh, again.”

Before you could bend down, Clark shook his head, already crouching. Wordlessly ready to tie your shoe.

You laughed nervously. “Clark, you don’t have to do that for me.”

You shifted like you might stop him, and he glanced up at you with that steady, earnest look that always made you falter.

“Just let me,” he said softly.

You nodded sort of flustered. “Yeah okay, you can…tie my shoe.”

His mouth curved into the faintest smile as his hands worked carefully at the laces. “As you wish.”

The words hung in the air longer than they should have, warming you from the inside out. You stared at him, suddenly too aware of how gentle he was being with something as simple as tying a shoe.

When he stood again, towering back at your side, you shook your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Clark grinned. “Ridiculous? For tying your shoe?”

“For acting like I can’t handle basic life skills,” you teased, trying to cover how flustered you felt.

“You can,” he said easily, bumping your shoulder with his. “But I can help, so… why wouldn’t I?”

You gave him a look, biting your lip to keep from smiling too much. “You’re too nice.”

He chuckled, shrugging. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“Maybe not,” you admitted. “But you’re gonna spoil me.”

Clark’s smile softened. “Good.”

That word alone sent your heartbeat skipping, and you ducked your head as you walked, sleeves of your hoodie twisting nervously in your fingers. The air between you felt alive with something unspoken, and you weren’t sure if you wanted it to stay that way… or finally spill over.

—————

Then there was the school dance…

The gym was alive with laughter and music, the school had thrown a formal to raise money. The low thrum of the band vibrating through the polished wooden floor. Lights swirled in colors across the walls, and the scent of popcorn, soda, and a hint of perfume hung in the air. You and your friends were scattered around the dance floor, laughing and catching up.

You’d been dragged along because Chloe’s date had a brother and apparently he needed a date.

Chloe’s eyes lit up when her date asked her to dance. She grabbed his hand without hesitation and twirled away, laughter spilling from her lips.

You smiled at her as she got whisked away.

Lana smiled politely as another guy approached, offering a hand. “Dance with me?” he asked. She accepted with a nod, stepping onto the floor gracefully.

You watched them—Chloe spinning effortlessly, Lana gliding around her partner, Pete perfectly flirting as he and his date swayed. A little pang of longing touched your chest as you realized no one had asked you to dance yet. You stole a glance at the guy Chloe had set you up with, but he didn’t seem interested.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over and asked, “Would you like to dance?”

He shook his head, awkward and embarrassed. “I… I don’t really know how to dance.”

Taken aback you took a breath. “I don’t really know how either…”

“Nah.” He said shaking his head.

You felt a faint twinge of disappointment, but before you could dwell on it, Clark’s voice cut softly beside you.

“I’ll dance with you,” he said, standing there with that shy, earnest look that always made your stomach flutter.

You turned, surprised, and couldn’t help but smile. “Can you dance?”

He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. “No. But I’ll dance with you anyway.” He held out his hand to you.

You laughed softly and took his hand. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

He guided you onto the floor, careful, nervous, but steady. His hands hovered at your waist and shoulder, unsure at first, but never letting go. You adjusted slightly, giving him a reassuring smile.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, leaning in just a little closer so only he could hear. “Just… like this.”

Clark’s fingers brushed against yours, tentative but warm. “Like this?” he murmured, his soft grin lighting up his face.

“Perfect,” you said, your voice barely above the music.

The song carried on, a slow, melodic rhythm that made the rest of the world fade away. Clark’s nervousness eased slightly as he found your rhythm, his hands still unsure where to rest, but always careful, always close. You laughed softly at the way he kept glancing at your face, and he looked down at you sheepishly, a small chuckle escaping.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” he admitted quietly.

“You’re doing amazing,” you said. “Honestly…” you say looking up at him. A pause, then you added teasingly, “One more song?”

He looked down at you, eyes soft and warm, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “As you wish.”

You laughed quietly, the sound barely above the music, and leaned in a little closer as the next song began, holding onto him as if the world existed only in this small space between your hands and his careful, shy movements.

You remember leaning your head on his chest as you swayed the rest of the night.

——————

All these little amazing things Clark did started to flood your mind.

That once when it started to rain and he held his jacket over your head, even though he got soaked.

Carrying your backpack when it’s heavy without you asking, even if you insist you can do it.

He always offers you his hand when you climb down any step.

He holds doors, he stands on the outside of the sidewalk, and he does a hundred little other things that are all too perfect to be real.

You grumble as you shove the blanket off of you. Chloe and Lana giggle “where you going?” Chloe smirks.

“You two are evil!” You grumbled putting your shoes on. Chloe and Lana giggled. Yelling “AS YOU WISH!” In between laughs as you walked out the door.

You didn’t even knock. Not that Clark would have minded. You weren’t even sure he’d have heard you over your own whirlwind of thoughts as you stormed across the yard, boots crunching on the gravel, hair still damp from the impromptu sleepover with Lana and Chloe. You had to see him. Had to. And if you scared him a little? Well… that was just part of it.

By the time you reached the barn, the soft glow of lanterns in the loft caught your eye. Clark’s shoulders were bent over some hay bales, staring at his textbooks like they had the weight of the world in them. He glanced up, startled at the sound of your footsteps.

“hey,” he said, his voice low, rougher than usual, like he was suddenly nervous. “I didn’t… I didn’t hear you come in.”

You didn’t even slow down. “Clark! I’ve been thinking—well, more like spiraling—and I have to know…” Your words tumbled out faster than your own brain could catch. “All the things you do for me, all the little things you do, the jacket, helping me tie my shoes, carrying me across mud puddles—”

Clark’s head tilted slightly, eyebrows drawn together in the way he always did when he was trying to process something. “Wait—slow down. Okay, You’re—what are you talking about?”

“I mean,” you continued, waving your hands as though the gesture alone could make your thoughts coherent, “Lana and Chloe—they got in my head, okay? And now I have to ask—when you say ‘as you wish’… and you do all these kind wonderful things, is it just a thing you say, or…” You trailed off, eyes fixed on him, daring him to finish the thought for you.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up. “I… I just say it. Usually.”

You leaned forward a little, voice soft but urgent. “I mean… do you say it like- you’ve seen the movie? You know, The Princess Bride?”

He hesitated, then nodded once, slowly, as though the act of acknowledgment gave him courage. “Yeah. I’ve… seen it. A while ago.”

“So when you say it is it like… the way Wesley said it? I mean… do you mean it that way?” Your voice was quieter now, almost shy, but your heart was hammering.

Clark’s gaze met yours, steady but nervous, and he paused longer than you thought he would. That pause, that stillness, made your stomach twist with anticipation. Then, finally, he said, softly, “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” you repeated, shocked, incredulous. Your mouth fell slightly open. “Maybe?”

He stepped a tiny closer, eyes not leaving yours. “Yeah… maybe I do. Maybe I’ve always meant it that way.”

Your heartbeat accelerated as you processed that. “Clark…”

“I mean,” he said quickly, his voice low, almost a whisper, “of course I’d do those things for you. Not because I have to… but because I want to. Every time I want to make you happy. The jacket, the shoes, the mud puddles… every little thing. You… you matter to me. And if I can make you smile or make things easier for you, why wouldn’t I?”

Your chest felt like it would burst. “Clark…” you breathed, barely above a whisper.

He stepped a half-step closer, hesitant, unsure, but the warmth in his eyes pulled you toward him like gravity. “I… I don’t always know the right words, or the right way to say things, but… I’ve meant—everything I do for you—I’ve meant it from the start.”

You swallowed, voice shaky, “So… when you say ‘as you wish’… it really means it?”

He nodded, small, earnest, eyes bright with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Yes…” his breath hitches.

You felt your knees weaken just slightly, the barn floor suddenly unsteady beneath you. He reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, and your eyes fluttered closed at the simple intimacy of it. The world outside the barn, the sleepover, the friends, the small-town chaos, it all fell away until there was nothing left but the two of you and the soft glow of lanterns.

“I—” you started, then stopped, realizing there were no words left that could match the way you felt.

Clark tilted his head closer, nervous, voice low. “You don’t have to say anything…I never expected you to, but I also won’t stop trying to make you happy.” He was more flustered than you’d ever seen him.

“I… Clark stop. I really really like you too…” you whisper.

A faint laugh escaped him, nervous and sweet. He was so flustered it made you smile.

“Really?” He asked softly. Almost too quiet to hear. You nodded. He smiled that big boyish smile.

“Good….i really- I.” He looked away flushed.

Your hands found his, lacing your fingers together, and Clark’s grip tightened gently around yours, careful, hesitant, but protective. Every second stretched, every breath between you a fragile, electrifying thread.

“You really?” You asked trying to encourage him.

“I really want to kiss you…”

You looked up at him, how kind and nervous he looked in this moment.

“Clark…” you murmured, heart hammering in your chest. You turned his face to look at you.

“As you wish….” You whispered softly, going on your tiptoes. He tilted his face slightly, eyes soft, lips parted. The moment stretched longer, your foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling, the faint scent of hay and earth and him filling your senses. Then, slowly, carefully, your lips met his. It was soft, tentative at first, a question asked and answered all at once.

Clark’s hands cupped your face, thumb brushing gently across your cheek as he deepened the kiss, careful not to rush, letting it linger and grow in warmth and promise.

When you finally pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, you laughed softly, breathless. “Clark….” You sunk back down to the balls of your feet. You didn’t even have to ask. He knew what you wanted.

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling with that nervous, teasing warmth that made your heart flutter. He smiled, voice husky, low with that quiet certainty you loved. “As you wish.”

He picked you up and you looped your legs around his torso as he kissed you. More loving now, less nervous. Just all the things he’d never said, built up into this kiss.

And that night, with hay beneath your feet and the stars just visible through the loft windows, Clark held you. Slow, careful steps, hands hovering, fingertips brushing, everything filled with tenderness. Every laugh, every hushed word, every gentle glance said more than any confession ever could. Whispered conversations and stolen kisses.

The war was supposed to be over.

That was what the whispers said as you pushed through the crowd gathered in the square, where rubble and smoke still clung to the air. Victory didn’t feel like victory. It felt like exhaustion, like bodies that would never rise again, like the sound of people crying for names that would never answer back.

Your heart slammed in your chest as you searched through the chaos. Faces blurred together—people rushing, embracing, sobbing. You scanned each one desperately, terrified and hopeful all at once. You had told yourself over and over not to hope, not to picture him alive, not to imagine his voice or his arms, because you couldn’t bear it if you were wrong.

And then—you saw him.

Gale.

He stood near the broken wall, uniform torn, soot streaking his jaw. His broad shoulders slumped under exhaustion, his hands scraped raw, but he was breathing. Alive. Those gray eyes you had memorized a thousand times were cutting through the crowd, searching with the same frantic hunger that made your knees weak.

You froze.

For a moment you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Relief slammed into you so violently it hurt. And then the tears came—hot, unrestrained sobs breaking from your chest. You couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t do anything but shove your way through the people between you until nothing and no one stood in your path.

When he saw you, he stilled. His lips parted, his face cracking wide open with disbelief. Then everything in him seemed to shatter—the walls, the hardness, the control.

You crashed into him, arms flinging around his neck, holding on like if you let go, he’d vanish again. He stumbled but caught you, arms wrapping so tightly around you it almost hurt. He smelled like smoke, blood, and sweat, but underneath it was him, the scent you’d thought you’d never breathe again.

A sob tore out of your throat, muffled against his shoulder. “I thought—I thought you were dead.”

His breath hitched against your hair. “I’m here,” he whispered, voice ragged and broken. His hand slid into your hair, the other cradling your back. “I swear, I’m here.”

The square, the voices, the ruined city—all of it blurred into nothing. There was only the thundering beat of his heart, the tremor of his hands, the desperate press of his lips against your temple. You clung tighter, your tears soaking into the soot on his shirt, as though your grip alone could anchor him here with you.

For the first time since the Games, since the war, you let yourself believe it: he had come back.

—————

That night, the fires burned low across the campgrounds, their flickering light pushing against the heavy dark. People gathered in small clusters, voices hushed, some laughing shakily, some sitting in silence. Grief and relief mingled in the air like smoke.

You found him at the edge of one fire, sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. The shadows carved sharp hollows into his face, exhaustion clinging to every line of him. He looked older—harder—like the boy you’d once known had been swallowed by the war.

You sank down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The crackle of the fire filled the silence between you.

Finally, your voice came out small, trembling. “I really thought I lost you.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at you, his eyes locked on the flames. “You almost did.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare. “There were days I didn’t think I’d make it out. Didn’t think I deserved to.”

You turned, your chest aching, and reached for his hand. His fingers were rough, scarred, and trembling in yours. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Gale’s voice was bitter, quiet. “I’ve done things… things I can’t take back. Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I hear them. And I wonder what kind of man that makes me.”

Tears stung your eyes. You squeezed his hand fiercely. “It makes you someone who survived. Someone who fought when no one else would. Someone who came back to me.”

At that, his gaze finally tore from the flames and met yours. His eyes were raw, wet in the firelight. For the first time since you’d known him, Gale Hawthorne looked fragile.

Your thumb brushed his knuckles, grounding him—and yourself. “I don’t care what happened out there,” you whispered. “I just care that you’re here. That you came back.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, his breath uneven. And then, softly, like it hurt to admit: “I missed you. More than I thought I could miss anything. There were nights… the only thing that kept me moving was the thought of holding you again.”

The tears spilled free, and you let out a shuddering breath.

Then he stood, slowly, and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“Dance with me,” he said again, softer this time, almost pleading.

Your heart twisted. But you slid your hand into his, letting him pull you up. He led you a few steps away from the fire, where the shadows were softer and the stars were faint through the smoke. No music played—only the murmur of the camp and the crackle of flame.

His arm slipped around your waist, your hands resting against the solid line of his chest. You curled your fingers into the fabric of his torn shirt, and he drew you close. Slowly, he swayed, guiding you into a rhythm that wasn’t really there but felt real all the same.

Your cheek brushed his collarbone, his breath stirring your hair. The warmth of him, the steady weight of his hand at your back—it felt like coming home.

His voice rumbled low against your ear. “I don’t know how to be the man I was before. But if you’ll have me, I’ll try. For you, I’ll try.”

Your chest tightened. You tilted your head up, tears glistening in your lashes. “You don’t have to be who you were. You’re here. That’s all I ever wanted.”

His eyes softened, wet in the firelight. And then he leaned in, his lips pressing to yours in the softest, most desperate kiss. It wasn’t sharp or hurried—it was gentle, reverent, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he kissed you too hard.

You clung to him, kissing him back with everything you’d held in for years, all the fear, all the longing, all the love you had buried under survival.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice a raw whisper. “I love you always.”

The Capitol was a place built on gold and glitter, but also on fear, control, and the kind of cruelty that never left your bones. You had been fifteen when you won your games, hiding, surviving, doing whatever it took to stay alive, and the Capitol had found a new way to punish you: through eyes that lingered too long, comments whispered too loudly, men who saw you as nothing but a commodity. You had learned early that every glance could be a threat, every smile could be twisted into something they wanted from you.

You were sixteen now back in district 12. Gale was older, only by three years. But it was over the last year he realised how much he hated the way they looked at you. Hated it more than the snow on a January morning, more than the Capitol guards, more than the games themselves. He clenched his fists so hard it hurt every time some man leered or whispered, the way they treated you like you were property. And he couldn’t do anything—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t make them stop, couldn’t put himself between you and their eyes without endangering you both.

So he learned to steal what he could. Stolen looks across crowded streets. Fingers brushing when no one was watching. Words whispered in shadows. Every moment was precious because the world was watching, because Snow had threatened you personally…the second you ceased to appear desirable, you would be kept as a service for the Capitol pertinently. That knowledge carved a hollow ache in Gale’s chest every time he saw you, every time you smiled at him when no one else could see.

He found her in the woods just beyond the outskirts of the city, where the trees swallowed sound and color alike. Here, there were no gawking eyes, no leers, no Capitol to threaten you. Here, you could breathe and he could finally let himself feel what had been growing in his chest for years.

You were sitting on the edge of the hill. Looking out into the forest. When gales hand touched your shoulder you gasped, inhaling sharply. Shaking hands cupping your mouth as you turned. Tears already brewing as you relaxed when you saw it was gale. A year of being touched and gawked at and threatened, let alone the games themselves had taken a toll.

Gale immediately pulled you into him. “Hey- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…shhh I’m sorry.” He whispered stroking your hair.

After a while you leaned into him as if you belonged there, back against his chest with his arms around your waist as if you belonged to him, and he held you with a gentleness that belied the fire roaring inside him.

Gale leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your head and then your jaw “If I could hold you in public… I don’t think I’d ever let go.” He whispered into your ear.

You melted looking at him with the love and weight of the world.

He memorized the feel of your, every sigh and every shiver. He pressed soft kisses along your hairline, along your temple, murmuring words only you could hear. “You’re beautiful, you’re always beautiful,” he said, voice rough, desperate. “Every single moment, every time I see you… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You closed her eyes , letting yourself melt into his arms. The weight of the Capitol and its horrors seemed to fall away, replaced by a quiet, aching longing. “Do you… do you think we could ever leave?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

Gale’s hands tightened gently around you, trembling even as he tried to sound calm. “I’ve thought about it every day. Every hour. And I would—God, I would take you anywhere, anywhere at all. I could never forgive myself if anything… if anything happened to you because I didn’t try.”

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the rapid drum of his heart. “I want that,” you said softly. “I want it so much.”

He pressed his lips to the crown of your head, closing his eyes, letting her warmth seep into him. “Then we’ll figure it out. Somehow, I swear, we’ll figure it out. Just… stay here with me for now.”

And you did. In the forest, away from the Capitol and its cruelty, away from Snow’s threats, away from every man who had ever looked at you like you were theirs, you held each other close. Gale’s arms wrapped around you like a shield, and you leaned into him as if you could make the world forget. He whispered Your name, whispered promises, whispered the words you had been waiting to hear. “I love you…we’ll get out of here, I won’t let them hurt you.” He kissed you between each sentence.

“I love you too…more than you know.” You whispered.

You shivered against him, and he kissed your temple, your hair, your cheek. “I’ll keep you safe,” he murmured. “I swear I will. No matter what it takes.”

The Peacekeepers had dragged you and Sejanus into the city square for what was supposed to be a “mandatory Capitol showing of loyalty.” Which, translated out of Capitol-speak, meant hours of speeches, parades, and fireworks. You’d grown up with it. You knew the routine.

Sejanus, however, had not.

From the moment the crowd pressed in around you, shoulder to shoulder, he’d gone stiff as a marble statue. His eyes darted across the sea of Capitol citizens—faces powdered, wigs stacked high, voices shrill with excitement—as though they were a firing squad instead of partygoers.

“I hate this,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the blaring anthem. “I hate all of this.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Congratulations, you’ve just summarized the Capitol. That’ll be five coins, please.”

Sejanus shot you a flat look, but his lips twitched, the corner of a smile threatening to appear. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny,” you corrected, tilting your head. “You’re just too panicked to appreciate it right now.”

“Panicked?” he echoed, as though he could possibly deny it.

“Your hands are shaking, Plinth.”

He glanced down at his fingers, which indeed trembled where they gripped the hem of his jacket. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I just… crowds make me feel like I can’t breathe. All of them staring, shouting—like they’re waiting for me to slip up.”

You softened, just slightly. Banter was your thing, but you weren’t cruel. Not when it came to him. “They’re not staring at you, Sejanus. They’re staring at the fireworks machine. Trust me, you’re not that interesting.”

That earned you a genuine laugh, a short burst that seemed to surprise even him.

“See?” you said, nudging him again. “Breathing already.”

But moments later, another anthem swelled, drums pounding, and Sejanus flinched like it was gunfire. His breathing quickened again, his hands wringing together helplessly.

And that was when he blurted it.

“God—here, just hold my hand.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Please,” he rushed out, his voice tight. “It’ll… it’ll help. Just for a minute.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. Sejanus Plinth, always so earnest, was standing there in the middle of a Capitol square asking to hold your hand like a child begging for reassurance.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“God, okay, fine—” You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his before you could overthink it. “There. Happy?”

The effect was immediate. His shoulders dropped, his breathing steadied, and a faint blush colored his cheeks. “Actually… yes.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. “Unbelievable. You’re really going to use me like an emotional support dog, aren’t you?”

Sejanus grinned sheepishly. “If it works, it works.”

You huffed, but squeezed his hand lightly, surprising yourself. “Well. I guess it’s better than you passing out and me having to drag you through the square. You’re tall, you’d be heavy.”

His smile softened. “So you admit you don’t mind?”

“I admit nothing,” you shot back, but your thumb brushed against his knuckles without thinking. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Comfortably cocky,” he said smugly, and you wanted to smack him. Except you couldn’t, because he looked so ridiculously happy holding your hand like it was the first good thing that had happened to him all week.

The two of you stood like that through the rest of the anthem, and slowly—against your better judgment—you stopped thinking about pulling away.

When the crowd surged forward for the next act, Sejanus instinctively moved closer, his shoulder brushing yours. You raised a brow but didn’t move away.

“Do you always need a hand-holder to get through public events?” you teased.

“Only when you’re around,” he shot back, surprising you. “Otherwise I just suffer in silence.”

You snorted. “That tracks. But don’t get used to this, Plinth. I’m not your babysitter.”

“Noted,” he said solemnly. “You’re my lifeline.”

You whipped your head toward him, scandalized. “Oh my god, you did not just say that out loud.”

His grin widened. “I did. And you can’t take it back.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still holding my hand,” he pointed out triumphantly.

You glanced down—and cursed internally when you saw he was right. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding on, not until he said it. But by then, it was too late.

“Fine,” you muttered, giving his hand one quick squeeze. “But only because if you have a panic attack in the middle of this parade, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Exactly,” Sejanus said, his eyes bright with mischief now instead of panic. “You’re saving me from myself.”

And though you’d never admit it, the way his thumb kept brushing against yours made the crowded square feel just a little less suffocating.

The fireworks exploded overhead later that night, showering the square in light. The crowd gasped and cheered, but you barely noticed, because Sejanus had turned to look at you instead of the sky.

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice nearly lost beneath the boom.

“For what?”

“For staying,” he replied simply. His hand squeezed yours once more, and you realized he hadn’t let go all night.

Your chest tightened. You tried for your usual smirk, but it came out softer than you meant. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t bolt.”

He laughed again, that genuine laugh that made your stomach flip. “Y/n,” he murmured, shaking his head, “what would I do without you?”

You swallowed hard. This time, though, you didn’t deflect. Not all the way. “Probably panic yourself into an early grave,” you said, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Sejanus’s grin faded into something gentler. His gaze dropped to your joined hands, then back up to your face, lingering there like he was memorizing you in the glow of the fireworks. “Then I guess I’d better keep holding on.”

And before you could muster a witty comeback, he lifted your hand slightly, pressing his lips to your knuckles in a gesture so old-fashioned and earnest that it silenced you completely.

Your heart thudded, heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Plinth…” you whispered, but it didn’t come out like a warning this time.

He smiled softly, still holding your hand like it was the only anchor he had. “I mean it.”

The fireworks burst in gold above you, the crowd roared, and for once, you didn’t care. Because for the first time all evening, you weren’t teasing him back.

You were just… holding his hand.

The Capitol had always taught you that appearance was currency. Beauty bought you influence, perfection secured you approval, and anything less was something to be painted over, powdered away, or hidden behind sequins.

Which was why you felt the sting sharper than usual when you stood before your mirror that morning and found only flaws staring back.

The glitter in your hair seemed dull, the colors you’d chosen too garish. Your eyeliner smeared at the corners no matter how carefully you dragged the brush. Your body, dressed in sculpted fashion, still felt like it belonged to someone else—a mannequin built wrong.

You sighed, sinking onto the vanity stool. For once, the Capitol’s noise outside your window felt unbearable.

And then came the knock.

“Sweetheart?” Effie’s voice lilted through the door, airy and bright, but threaded with something softer. Concern.

Your stomach knotted. Of all people, she couldn’t see you like this. Effie Trinket was effortless beauty, a walking sunrise wrapped in couture. She was the Capitol ideal made flesh—gold curls sculpted, lips the perfect shade of rose, posture like porcelain. And somehow, she’d chosen you.

But that was the part you never understood.

“I’m not ready yet,” you called, hating how weak your voice sounded.

Silence. Then the door creaked anyway, and Effie slipped inside, a cascade of yellow feathers brushing against her shoulders. She closed it behind her with that delicate finality she did everything with, as though even shutting a door was a performance.

Her painted eyes found you instantly, widening at your slumped frame.

“Oh, darling.” She glided across the room, perching on the edge of the vanity. Her perfume smelled faintly of sugared violets. “You look like someone told you there won’t be any more sequins in the Capitol.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “I just… I don’t look right today.”

Effie tilted her head, curls bouncing, as if you’d just confessed to a crime she couldn’t quite comprehend. “Not look right? My dear, you’re dazzling.”

You shook your head quickly, staring at your reflection instead of her. “No, I’m not. Look at my eyes—they’re uneven. My face looks… wrong. And this dress—it doesn’t fit how it’s supposed to. Everyone else looks so perfect, Effie. And then there’s me.”

Your voice faltered, a tremor creeping in that had nothing to do with smudged eyeliner or the cut of fabric. “And how am I supposed to dress myself up in glitter and sequins when—” you stopped, throat tight, “—when out there, they’re killing children on television? The Hunger Games are on every screen, every party, every breakfast table. And here I am, worrying about how I look.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any pause you’d ever shared with Effie. She blinked, her painted lashes lowering for just a heartbeat too long. Her smile wavered, slipping at the edges, though she tried to hold it in place like she held every mask the Capitol demanded.

“Darling…” Effie’s voice cracked softly before she smoothed it again, but not quickly enough—you’d heard it. She reached for your hands, her gloves cool against your skin. “I know.” Her eyes darted briefly toward the window, where the sounds of Capitol life—laughter, music, excess—poured in like nothing was wrong. “We distract ourselves. We put on glitter, feathers, parties, because… what else do we have? If we stop and look at it too closely—” she drew a sharp breath “—it becomes unbearable.”

You’d never seen her falter like that before. Effie Trinket, who carried herself like a pageant queen, who painted over fear with powdered roses, suddenly looked human. Suddenly looked breakable.

“It doesn’t make sense,” you whispered. “The Capitol’s always given us everything—comfort, beauty, safety. But deep down… its so wrong.”

Her grip on your hands tightened, just slightly. Enough to say she felt it too. Enough to say she carried the same guilt. Effie didn’t say the word wrong, but you could see it swimming in her eyes, shimmering like the part of herself she never let anyone glimpse.

And then, as though she couldn’t bear to linger there too long, she pulled her shoulders straighter and forced her painted smile back into place—not for her, but for you. “Which,” she said softly, “is precisely why I hold on to things like you, my darling. Because you make all of this… survivable.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, but deliberate. Effie Trinket was not one for silence unless she meant it. Then she leaned forward, tapping your chin with a single manicured finger until you were forced to meet her gaze.

“Now, listen here,” she said, her voice firm, as though addressing a room full of rowdy tributes. “You will not sit there and compare yourself to anyone else. You are you, and that is infinitely better than perfect.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t mean that.”

Her brows arched dramatically, scandalized. “Don’t I? My dear, do you truly think I’d waste my time chasing after someone ordinary? Heavens no. I could have any shallow, glitter-soaked fool the Capitol offered me. And yet—here I am.”

You blinked at her, confused. “But why me?”

Effie softened then, her usual theatrics folding into something gentler. She reached to brush a strand of hair from your cheek, her glove whispering against your skin. “Because you are real, darling. And because every time you smile, it feels like the whole world finally matches my shoes.”

You laughed wetly, pressing your hand over your face. “That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m dreadfully fond of cheese,” she quipped, but her gaze lingered, warm and unwavering. “And I’m dreadfully fond of you.”

For a long moment, you sat there, searching her painted features for even a crack of insincerity. But Effie Trinket, for all her dramatic bows and elaborate costumes, was nothing if not honest in the quiet moments.

“Effie…” Your voice broke. “I don’t feel pretty enough for you.”

Her eyes widened, and then she stood, pulling you with her until you were both standing before the mirror. She wrapped her arms around your waist from behind, resting her chin lightly on your shoulder. Together, you looked at your reflection: her, radiant in feathers and jewels; you, raw and unsure.

“Do you see what I see?” Effie asked softly.

You shook your head.

“Well, then let me describe it for you. I see someone whose eyes sparkle brighter than the lights of Caesar Flickerman’s stage. I see lips I would choose over the finest wines in the Capitol. And I see a heart—oh, the loveliest heart—that makes me feel safe, which is rarer than diamonds here.”

Tears stung your lashes. Effie, unbothered by the dampness threatening her powder, pressed a soft kiss against your temple.

“And do you know what else?” she whispered.

You swallowed. “What?”

“I see the woman I love. And she is exquisite.”

The words melted through every crack you’d been holding closed. You turned, burying your face against her shoulder, and Effie held you as though you were spun glass, her hands stroking gently down your back.

For once, the Capitol’s obsession with appearances didn’t matter. Not when Effie’s perfume wrapped around you, not when her voice steadied your breath, not when she chose you so deliberately, so stubbornly.

When you finally drew back, she dabbed carefully at the corners of your eyes with her gloved fingers, tutting at the smudges. “Oh, we can fix that. Nothing a little powder can’t solve. But don’t you dare forget what I said.”

“I won’t,” you whispered, though your voice trembled.

Effie smiled then—bright, victorious, as though she’d won a battle. “Good. Now, come along, darling. We’ll touch up your eyeliner, I’ll adjust that darling dress, and then we shall go out together. And I want everyone in the Capitol to see what I see.”

You hesitated. “Which is…?”

She pressed her lips against yours before you could finish the question. It was delicate, Effie-style—soft but certain, a kiss that left glitter on your skin.

When she pulled back, her eyes sparkled. “The prettiest thing in the room.”

For the briefest moment, though, her gaze flickered—just a flicker—toward the window, as if she, too, could still hear the echo of distant cannon fire and screaming crowds. The shadow passed, her painted smile returning, but you felt it. That reminder of the world beyond the glitter.

And somehow, that made her words mean even more.

Dating Superman was hard. You never really got used to the constant worry. The way the TV would flicker with breaking news and your stomach would drop, knowing Clark was already gone before you even had the chance to ask him to be careful. The nights you lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening for the whoosh of him coming home.

But then there were the perks. And God, sometimes they made up for everything.

It started with the skywriting.

You’d been sitting on your apartment balcony with a cup of coffee, trying to shake off a long day, when your phone buzzed with a text.

Clark: Look up.

You rolled your eyes, but you did it—and there it was. Your name scrawled in perfect, looping letters across the clouds. Then, a heart.

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your coffee.

Two minutes later, he landed softly on the balcony in jeans and his Daily Planet T-shirt, glasses tucked in his pocket.

“Subtle,” you teased, setting your mug down.

He grinned, sheepish but proud. “I was practicing my turns.”

“Mm, sure. You just wanted to show off.”

“Maybe.” He leaned down and pressed the quickest kiss to your cheek—so fast you almost didn’t register it.

You swatted at his chest. “Did you just hummingbird kiss me?”

Clark smirked. “What? Too fast?”

“I barely felt it!”

He laughed, catching your hand. “Guess I’ll have to try again.” And this time, he took his time, pressing a slow, warm kiss to your lips until you melted into him.

Dating Superman also meant instant errands.

One morning, you were sprawled on Clark’s couch in his hoodie, scrolling through your phone. “Ugh,” you groaned, “I wish I had a bagel.”

“Plain? Sesame? Everything?” Clark asked without looking up from the article he was editing.

“Doesn’t matter. Cream cheese.”

“Got it.”

You blinked. “Wait, Clark, I wasn’t—”

Whoosh.

The curtains fluttered, your hair whipped around your face, and the room went silent. You sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions.

Not even ten seconds later, he was back, holding a warm paper bag and grinning. “Everything bagel. Double cream cheese.”

You gawked. “You went to New York, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he said, smug.

“Clark!”

“What? You said you wanted a bagel.” He sat down beside you, unwrapping it like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Besides, that’s where the good ones are.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, biting into it. “This is ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You did.

There were other moments that made your heart squeeze. Like the heartbeat trick.

One night, after a close call—you’d seen the footage on the news and sat through hours of terror before he finally walked through your door, scraped and exhausted—you curled up against him on the couch.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you whispered into his chest. “What if something happens out there and I don’t even know? What if you don’t make it back?”

Clark tilted his head, brushing your hair back gently. “I’ll always come back to you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

His eyes softened. He caught your hand and laid it flat against his chest. “You don’t have to wonder. I’ll come back.”

“It’s just…I love you- and like what if you got hurt out there and didn’t know that.” Your voice was vulnerable and soft.

“I know…I can hear it.” Clark spoke pausing slightly.

“Hear what?”

“Your heart. Every time I walk into a room, it races. It always tells me you love me. ”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s not fair. You can’t just say things like that.”

He smiled, pressing his forehead to yours. “Then stop worrying. You’re what keeps me grounded.” He speaks. He brushes some hair off your cheek. “I love you too…”

Of course, sometimes Superman’s powers were used in far sillier ways.

Like the time you started crying in his apartment.

It wasn’t even about anything specific, just a long day, one of those overwhelming spirals where nothing feels manageable. You sat on his couch, tears streaming, trying to hide your face in your hands.

Clark crouched in front of you, eyes wide with concern. “Hey, hey… sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” you sniffled. “I’m just… everything is too much. And you’re gone all the time, and I just… I feel stupid for crying.”

Clark’s brows pinched together, but then, suddenly he straightened up, putting on his most serious Superman face. “Okay,” he said firmly, “this is urgent. Stay right here.”

Before you could ask, he zipped away in a blur.

You gasped. “Clark, wait—”

Before you even had time to be sad he was gone literally one second later, he was back, holding something small and pink.

It was your stuffed pig, Piggy.

You blinked at him through your tears. “You… you went all the way to my apartment for Piggy?”

“Critical rescue mission,” he said gravely, setting the pig in your lap. “She was in grave danger, abandoned on the bed. I had to bring her to safety.”

A watery laugh bubbled out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re smiling,” Clark pointed out, leaning in until your foreheads touched.

“Barely.”

He grinned. “Good enough.” Then he scooped you up, piggy and all, and carried you to bed, tickling your sides until you were laughing for real.

Then there were the ridiculously fast cuddles.

One night, you teased him for being late. “You promised you’d be home an hour ago. I was about to start cuddling piggy instead.”

Clark chuckled, toeing off his boots. “Sorry. Had to stop a couple things on the way.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t fall asleep,” you said, arms crossed.

“Want me to make it up to you?”

“You can try.”

He gave you a sly smile—then in a blur, he was gone.

Your hair whipped around, the curtains rustled, and before you could even process it, he was back, in plaid pajama pants, hair adorably messy, and already climbing into bed.

You burst out laughing. “Did you just super-speed into pajamas?”

“Cuddle emergency,” he said solemnly, pulling you into his chest. “Couldn’t waste another second.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately for your dignity, you did.

And then there was the way he carried everything.

Shopping trips had become comical you’d be juggling a purse and trying to decide if you could manage another bag of groceries, and Clark would be standing beside you with six bags hooked effortlessly on one finger.

“You know,” you huffed, “you don’t have to carry everything.”

Clark raised a brow. “Are you saying you don’t want me to?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Because personally,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of your head, “I kind of like taking care of you.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks heated. “You’re infuriating.”

“Mm, but helpful.”

————

Superman belonged to the world.

You and Clark had been dating for about a month and a half, and every day still felt a little bit like a dream you hadn’t quite woken up from. It was the kind of simple, perfect rhythm that made you smile without even realizing it.

walking to school together with his hand brushing against yours, sharing quick kisses when no one was looking, and stealing glances across crowded hallways like you both knew a secret the rest of the world wasn’t in on.

Living right across the street from him made it even better. You’d catch sight of him through his window sometimes messing with his hair in the mirror, scribbling down homework, or pacing with that restless energy he always carried. And then two minutes later, he’d be at your door with that boyish grin, ready to walk you to class.

What made it all feel so special wasn’t just the romance, it was the trust. Months before you’d started dating, Clark had told you his secret. That he wasn’t like everyone else. That the things he could do, the strength, x-ray vision and speed that would make most people look at him differently. As something to fear. As something not quite human.

But when you looked at him, you didn’t see any of that. You saw the boy who carried your books when your bag was too heavy, who got nervous before math tests, who laughed so hard at your jokes even when they weren’t funny. You saw him. And that’s what he told you he liked most—maybe even loved—about you. That you didn’t see a freak or a weapon. You just saw Clark.

And to you, that was more than enough.

————————

The loft was stifling in the late afternoon heat, golden dust motes drifting lazily in the air. You leaned back on the old couch, fanning yourself with a notebook, while Clark sprawled beside you, his shirt sticking to his chest.

“You know, for a guy who can literally defy the laws of physics you’re doing an awful job at keeping this place cool.” You say a slight smile on your face “run in a circle really fast the air will cool me down.” You tease.

Clark was grinning, and rolling his eyes “That’s not how it works. I’m not your personal air conditioner.”

“Mmm, could’ve fooled me. Might as well use your powers for something useful.” You shrug. Your sundress clinging to your body

“Oh, I’m useful. I carried your bag all the way home, didn’t I?” Clark turned his head to look at you.

“Yeah…” I smiled looking down. “But you always do that.” I say.

Clark nudging your knee with his “Careful, what if I stop carrying it.”

“I might need to look into actually having upper body strength.” You joke.

Clark leans forward in a mock-serious tone “Nah, lucky for you I like being needed.”

You laughed, and he stole the chance to brush his lips against your temple. Brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

“That doesn’t count as cooling me down, you know. You’re making it worse.” You smile blushing ever so lightly

“Worse how?” Clark whispered leaning forward.

You gave him a look, cheeks warming even hotter than the summer air.

“Don’t play dumb, Kent.” You smiled.

Clark was grinning ear to ear, he pretended to think for a moment. “So what you’re saying is… I’m hotter than the sun right now?”

“Oh my God, don’t get cocky.” You laughed shaking your head.

Clark starts laughing “Too late.” He leaned in and started kissing you. Your forehead, your cheek, your neck, all over until he reached your lips.

You giggled into his mouth, the sound catching between kisses. The loft was sweltering in the summer heat, but nothing compared to the warmth curling low in your stomach as you swung one leg over his lap, straddling him with a boldness that made his breath hitch.

When you pulled back, you held his gaze, searching his face, your chest rising and falling quickly. He was smiling, it was a soft and boyish smile but there was something else in his eyes, something needier, that made your pulse thrum in your ears.

Clark was still Clark. That adorable, bumbling mess who got flustered over your compliments and tripped over his own feet when he was nervous. But right now, with you on his lap, his restraint was starting to crack. There nervousness on his face was clear.

His hands hovered just above your back, tense, trembling with the urge to touch. You could feel the heat of them, so close it made your skin prickle. You leaned forward until your lips brushed his ear, your voice low and teasing.

“It’s okay Clark, I want you. ” you whispered.

That did it. His hands finally pressed into you, strong and certain, sliding against your back and pulling you flush against him. The sudden closeness made you gasp, your noses brushing as his smile turned crooked, hungrier.

You kissed him again, this time slow and deliberate, your fingers threading into his dark hair. He groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound rumbling through his chest where it met yours.

You felt Clark tense beneath you, his whole body stiffening in a way that didn’t feel like shyness anymore. It felt wrong. You pulled back, searching his face.

“Clark?” Your voice was gentle, smile fading, but your heart was already starting to race. His eyes were darting everywhere but you, blinking hard, his jaw clenched. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his temple, soaking through his hair.

Concern twisted in your stomach. “Are you okay?”

He swallowed thickly, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“I—” His voice cracked. He shut his eyes tight. “I don’t know… I can’t—”

You reached out, cupping his cheek, trying to steady him. The skin under your palm burned hotter than usual.

“Clark, you’re burning up.” Your brow furrowed. “You never get sick.”

His eyes finally flicked to yours, but they were wild, unfocused, like he was struggling against something inside himself.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” he rasped, pulling back sharply, squeezing his fists at his sides. “Something’s wrong.”

Before you could ask what, it happened…his eyes flared red, and in the next instant, twin beams of searing heat shot out.

You screamed as a sudden sting tore across your shoulder. You stumbled back, crashing onto the loft’s wooden floor. Behind you, the desk erupted into flames. “Clark!” You yelled in concern.

Clark immediately got up and patted down the desk with his bare hands to put out the flames.

“What was that!?” you gasped, clutching your shoulder, eyes wide in shock.

Clark staggered back a step, just as panicked as you. “I—I don’t know!” His voice cracked. “I’ve never—it’s never happened before! I don’t—”

He cut off when his gaze dropped to your arm. The scorch mark seared into your skin. His face drained of color. He looked like he was going to be sick.

“Oh God, oh my God…” He dropped to his knees, hands shaking as they hovered uselessly in the air, too afraid to touch you. “I hurt you—I hurt you—”

You winced at the sting but tried to keep your voice steady. “Clark, it’s okay—”

“No! It’s not okay!” His voice rose, harsh and desperate. “I hurt you! I swore I never—” His breathing was ragged, his eyes glassy, like he was about to cry.

You reached for his arm, but he flinched back. You looked at him distraught “Clark, please, look at me. I’m fine. It just stings.”

“You’re not fine!” His fists pressed into the floorboards hard enough to splinter them. “I can’t even look at you without—” He cut himself off, shaking his head furiously.

“Clark it’s not your fault-“ you start but he stands up shaking his head covering his face and pacing.

“Clark, wait—”

But before you could say anything more, he bolted. One second he was there, broken and terrified in front of you, and the next the air cracked with the rush of wind as he sped away, leaving you alone on the floor with the faint smell of smoke, your shoulder throbbing, and your heart hammering in your chest.

——————

You pushed through the barn door and climbed the loft steps the way you always did. Evening had sunk into the fields; the heat of the day had thinned to a warm, honeyed stickiness and the sky above Smallville poured itself out in pinks and early indigo.

The loft smelled like damp hay and motor oil and a hundred tiny afternoons you’d shared with him. You’d come back because Clark always ended up here when he needed to be unseen. Jonathan Kent liked to call it his fortress of solitude.

He was there hunched against the hay, knees pulled up, jaw working like he was chewing on words. When he heard you he flinched so hard the whole bale shifted.

“Hey,” you said softly as you reached the top step, voice low against the hush of the barn. You dropped down beside him, careful. He didn’t move away so you took that as I sigh to sit fully.

For a beat he didn’t answer. His shoulders were rigid like he’d braced for a blow. Then he let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for hours. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said all at once, words tumbling. “I could’ve— I could’ve hurt you worse. I— I could’ve killed you.” The last words came out small, like he’d whispered them into the hay.

Your knees brushed his. “You didn’t,” you said, keeping your voice steady on purpose. “It stings, but I’m okay. I’ve had worse burns from making breakfast. And besides I had to come back. Where else would you go?” You spoke lightly.

He let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “I don’t deserve you,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the old floorboards.

You nudged his shoulder with the pad of your hand. “Clark Kent, you are being melodramatic,” you said, the words teasing. He tried to smile and it cracked into something sad.

He turned toward you then, finally looking at you, and for the first time you saw the raw worry, the shame, the animal panic. His eyes immediately landed on the newly bandaged burn on your shoulder. “Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asked, voice small and incredulous. “You should be. I almost set you on fire.” His fingers curled into his palms as if he could squeeze the guilt out.

You blinked. For a second you didn’t answer because there were so many small, ordinary truths that made up your reply, the ridiculous fact he only ever wore red and blue, the way he smuggled fries off your plate, the way he tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. But you condensed it down because he needed simple, plain words. “Because I know you,” you said. “Because you’re Clark. Because I trust you.”

He swallowed. “But what if I hurt you again?” he said. “What if I can’t stop it next time? What if it’s worse?” The fear in him was so naked you could see it like a bruise.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you learn to control it, whatever. You’re not a bomb that has to be hid away Clark, you’re a person.” You set your hand on his knee, “You’ve figured this stuff out before. You’ll figure it out again.”

Your chest tightened seeing him like that—less superhero, more scared boy. You moved until your thigh touched his, until you could see the way his hands trembled. “Clark,” you said gently, “look at me.” He lifted his head slowly. His eyes were rimmed and raw. “I’m saying this because I mean it: I’m not afraid of you. I’m not naïve—today scared me. I mean my boyfriend tried to set me on fire with his eyes- but these things happen.” You joked and smiled when you say him smile too. He tried to hold back a soft laugh.

“Come on get up, enough sulking, let’s go figure this out.” You smiled and stood holding out your hand. He took it and stood.

———————

The next thing you knew you were standing in the Kent kitchen, the smell of cornbread and coffee thick in the air. The lights above hummed low, throwing everything in that warm, farmhouse glow that made it impossible not to feel safe…even when you were about to die of embarrassment.

Clark looked exactly like a kid who’d been caught sneaking out past curfew. Martha stood with her arms folded, lips pursed but her eyes soft. Jonathan leaned back against the counter, his gaze shifting from his son to you with suspicion.

“So,” Martha said calmly, in that mother-tone that meant she was already ten steps ahead of the conversation. “Hot lasers. Out of your eyes.”

Clark froze mid-step, shoulders hunching. “Yeah. Um. That… happened.”

Jonathan’s brows knit. “When? How?”

Clark cleared his throat, looked at the ceiling like maybe he could will himself out of the kitchen, then mumbled, “We were… uh… in the barn.”

Martha tilted her head. “What were you doing in the barn?”

Clark coughed into his fist, ears bright red. “Just, uh… spending time. You know. Talking. Hanging out.”

Jonathan’s voice sharpened, “Clark.”

Clark’s eyes darted toward you like help me. Then, very quietly, like the words might self-destruct: “We were kissing.”

Silence. The clock ticked on the wall. Somewhere outside, a cricket chirped.

You gave the most awkward smile of your life, hands clasped in front of you like you were at a parent–teacher conference. “Hi,” you said weakly.

Martha’s brows arched, but her voice stayed gentle. “And that’s when it happened?”

Clark nodded, miserable. “Yeah. I—uh—I kind of lost control.”

Jonathan squinted. “Lost control how?“

Clark sputtered, face crimson. “Dad!”

You jumped in quickly, cheeks burning but trying to rescue him. “It wasn’t… you know, that bad. Just—it was, um, a little heated- the kissing, I mean.”

Jonathan blinked. Then, to your absolute horror, he barked out a laugh. He clapped Clark on the shoulder with one big hand, nearly knocking him over. “Well, son, I think we know what’s causing it.”

Clark groaned so loudly it rattled the windowpanes, dropping into a chair and hiding his face in both hands. “Oh my god.”

You tried to stifle your giggle, but it slipped out anyway. Martha swatted Jonathan lightly with a dish towel, though even she was smiling.

“Jonathan Kent,” she scolded, but her eyes twinkled.

“What?” Jonathan said, grinning. “I’m just saying the boy’s powers have always been tied to his emotions. Looks like y/n’s got him feeling a little hot- don’t mind the pun.”

Clark peeked between his fingers, glaring. “Dad. Please. Stop.”

You leaned against the counter, still laughing, though your face was hot enough to match Clark’s. “For what it’s worth,” you teased, “it was kinda worth the scorch mark.”

Clark groaned again, sliding lower in his chair until he looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Martha shook her head, amused but sympathetic, and set a hand on his shoulder.

“Clark,” she said softly, “we’ll figure this out. It just means you’re growing into yourself. No shame in that.”

Jonathan smirked. “Though maybe keep the kissing outdoors for now. Less fire hazard.”

You laughed again, Clark muttered something that sounded like I hate my life, and the kitchen filled with the kind of warmth that came from love, even when it was mortifying.

——————-

The next morning, the sun was already high over the cornfields, and Jonathan had dragged an old scarecrow into the middle of the yard, propping it up like a target dummy. Straw poked out of its sleeves, and someone had painted a crude face on a burlap sack for a head.

Jonathan stood over Clark’s shoulder, his hands on his hips. “Alright, son. Just… think about what you were thinking about when it happened the first time.”

Clark froze. His neck flushed crimson. After a long, awkward pause, he glanced sideways at his dad. “…You know, this might be easier if I was alone.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched, fighting not to smile. “Yeah. Probably.”

He stepped back, joining you at the fence where you sat swinging your legs. You were biting your lip to keep from laughing. Jonathan leaned on the post beside you, pretending to study the scarecrow, but you could feel how uncomfortable he was just standing there.

Clark squared his shoulders, fixed his gaze on the scarecrow, and narrowed his eyes. Nothing. Not even a flicker. He huffed, shoved his hands on his hips, and muttered, “This isn’t working.” He yelled across the way.

Jonathan exhaled through his nose, then glanced at you with all the subtlety of a tractor in a cornfield. “…Sweetheart, would you just—” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “—give him a little motivation?”

You nearly fell off the fence laughing. “Are you seriously asking me to turn your son on, Mr. Kent?”

Jonathan groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”

Clark buried his face in his hands. “Dad!”

But Jonathan just gestured helplessly at the scarecrow. “Well, I can’t exactly do it myself!”

That only made you laugh more.

Rolling your eyes, you hopped down from the fence and strolled over to Clark. “Hey,” you teased, tilting your head at him, “what’s the problem, Kent?”

He huffed shooting you a look and scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I’m just… not feeling it.”

You smirked. “Okay. Let’s fix that.”

You rose onto your tiptoes, leaned close, and whispered something into his ear that made his ears turn fire-engine red. He immediately took a step back, eyes wide.

“Y/N!” he hissed.

From the fence, Jonathan squinted suspiciously. “What’d she say?”

“Nothing!” Clark barked, his voice cracking.

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose.

You giggled, then turned to Jonathan and waved him away. Shooing him like a dog.

Jonathan gave you a look. “Why?”

“Because.” You whisper yelled.

Jonathan sighed like a man who had seen too much. “Christ.” He mumbled. But he did turn his back, muttering to himself about teenagers.

You grinned at Clark, and lifted your shirt, flashing him. Clarks eyes were wide and Instantly, his eyes glowed red.

“Aim, Clark!, aim!” you squeaked, ducking out of the way.

Clark snapped his gaze back to the scarecrow two beams of heat sliced through the air. The scarecrow’s head burst into flames, straw crumbling into ash.

Jonathan whipped back around at the sound, eyebrows shooting up. “Well,” he said slowly, “I’ll be damned. It worked.”

Clark groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “This is the worst day of my life.”

You doubled over laughing, lying on the floor. “Are you kidding? That was amazing!”

——————

The rest of the day, Clark worked on aiming without… outside encouragement. Every time he missed, you teased, “Want me to help?” which only made him glare and blush harder. Eventually, though, after hours of practice, he managed to control it. shooting two clean beams right through the scarecrow’s chest, without being turned on.

You ran over and engulfed him in a hug. “You did it!”

Clark chuckled, hugging you tightly, relief flooding his features. “Finally.”

You leaned back with a mischievous grin. “Although… I gotta admit, I’m kinda sad you don’t have to burn things every time I make you hot.”

Clark groaned again, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re a weirdo.”

“Maybe,” you teased, kissing the tip of his nose, “but it was kinda sweet.”

Clark blinked at you, half-exasperated, half-curious. “Sweet? I almost set you on fire.”

You grinned, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Yeah, but think about it. You kissed me so hard you literally exploded. No one’s ever done that for me before.”

His ears went pink immediately. “That’s not—” he started, but you cut him off with a laugh.

“I’m just saying, Clark Kent, I must be doing something right if kissing me makes you go full flamethrower.”

Peter Parker was brave.

He’d fought aliens. He’d survived gym class after accidentally webbing himself to a trash can. He even stood up to Dr. Strange once (though the guy still scared the hell out of him). But nothing—and he meant nothing—was as terrifying as the glint in y/n’s eye when she said:

“I’m making us Halloween costumes.”

He had every reason to be nervous.

Y/n was… unpredictable. She was the kind of girl who could wear a plain sweatshirt and somehow make it look runway. She had a soft spot for chaotic Pinterest projects, midnight baking sprees, and beating Peter at Mario Kart while pretending she didn’t know how to use the controller. And she had this dangerous calm about her—like a hurricane encased in lip gloss.

“Just—just promise it’s not glitter, okay?” Peter said nervously, standing in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her rummage through a pile of fabric like a woman possessed. “Or, like… wings. Or cat ears. Or—oh God, are we gonna be cats? Please don’t make me a cat.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Relax, Spidey. No glitter. No cats. And no wings.” She held up a piece of white fabric dramatically. “Trust me. You’re going to love it.”

He raised a suspicious brow. “That’s what you said last time, and I ended up at Ned’s birthday party covered in glow-in-the-dark slime.”

“You said it was ‘slime-themed!’” she countered, tossing a pillow at him.

Peter caught it and laughed, cheeks pink. “I said ‘green balloons.’ You decided that meant Nickelodeon threw up on me.”

She smirked. “Same same.”

He gave her a look, walking over and brushing his hand along her desk, eyes narrowing at the small scraps of cloth and thread. “Just… give me a hint?”

Y/n paused, lips twitching. “Nope.”

“Come on, y/n—what if it’s, like, a historical costume and I have to learn an accent?”

She snorted. “You’d love that. You’d try to make it educational.”

He pretended to pout. “Okay, but I need to mentally prepare, you know? What if it’s leather? Or glitter? Or— spandex.”

“You wear spandex everyday spider-boy.” She countered.

“Yeah but that’s tactical spandex-“ Peter mumbled.

“Peter.”

“—a tutu—?”

“You’ll survive. I promise. Trust me—these costumes are going to blow your nerdy little mind.” Y/n smiled.

“I’m not that nerdy—” Peter counterd.

“You cried when Obi-Wan said ‘You were my brother, Anakin.’”

“Okay—that scene was emotional, n/n!”

“Close your eyes.”

He blinked. “What? Why?”

She tilted her head at him, that secret smile playing on her lips. “Because it’s done. And I wanna surprise you.”

Peter stared. “Oh. Uh—okay. Yeah. Sure.”

He awkwardly turned around and squeezed his eyes shut, hands hovering in midair. His heartbeat picked up. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or just her voice or the fact that he could hear fabric shifting behind him and smell her vanilla perfume wafting through the air like some kind of mind game.

He was feeling a twinge of anxiety in his stomach. She was mysterious when she wanted to be—always calm, cooler than he ever managed to be in any social setting. She was the undercover nerd—quietly brilliant, casually dropping Lord of the Rings references like bombs. And it always threw him off.

“Alright,” she said after a long pause, voice quiet but full of something he couldn’t quite place. “You can look now.”

He turned slowly—and his jaw hit the floor.

Y/n stood in the center of the room in Padmé Amidala’s arena outfit from Attack of the Clones—white, sleek, with a bare midriff and a curve-hugging fit that made Peter’s brain short-circuit. Her hair was styled back, her makeup soft but glowing, and the second their eyes met, she bit her lip nervously.

“Well?” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Too much?”

Peter didn’t answer at first. He just stared, mouth slightly open.

“Holy…” He finally managed a word. “Y/n.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re—” He swallowed. “You’re Padmé. My Padmé.”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to laugh it off. “You gonna faint, Skywalker?”

“I might.” He stepped closer slowly, eyes tracing every inch of her. “You look… insane. Like—in a good way. Like, Natalie Portman’s crying somewhere.”

She smirked, hands on her hips. “You like?”

“Like? Y/n, I think I just fell in love again.” He said.

“Again?” She questioned

“Yeah,” he mumbled, cheeks turning pink, “I already fell once when you said you liked Star Wars… and then again when you quoted Gandalf. But this is like, strike three, I’m dead. You’ve killed me.”

Y/n chuckled, but her arms instinctively crossed in front of her stomach. “It’s kind of tight. And revealing. I don’t know…”

Peter blinked, finally catching the note of vulnerability in her voice. He softened, stepping closer and gently reaching for her hand. “Hey. Hey—look at me.”

She did.

“You look amazing, okay? I mean—beyond amazing. Galactic-level hot. Intergalactic. Multiverse hot.”

That made her laugh again, but her eyes were still searching his.

Peter tucked a loose piece of her hair behind her ear. “I know this shows a lot. And if you’re uncomfortable, we can switch it up. I’ll be Shrek if it makes you feel better—just say the word. But if it’s just nerves?” He smiled. “Then you should know you’ve never looked more beautiful. And tonight, I’m gonna be the luckiest Jedi at the party.”

Y/n exhaled, letting herself lean into his touch. “You always say the right thing.”

Y/n flushed. “Really?” She checked he meant what he said one last time.

He stepped closer, touching her waist gently. “Really. And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll web them to a lamppost.”

“Spider threats. How romantic,” she teased, leaning into him.

He smirked, eyes darkening just a little as his fingers curled at her hips. “You started it. You showed up as Padmé. You know what that does to me.”

“Oh, I know,” she whispered, tugging him by the collar and brushing her lips against his. “Which is why your costume better match.”

Peter groaned. “Please tell me I don’t have to braid my hair like Anakin.”

She kissed his jaw. “Don’t worry. You’re more Episode III. Jedi robe. Messy curls. Tortured soul.”

Peter cleared his throat. “So… like… hot Anakin?”

“Exactly.”

“You little nerd,” he whispered, smiling against her mouth before kissing her properly. Her arms looped around his neck, his hands warm on her bare skin. For a second, the party didn’t matter.

She laughed, kissing him quickly before whispering, “You better put your Anakin costume on before I kiss you again and ruin my lipstick.”

“Bold of you to assume I mind,” he muttered, already leaning in for another.

⸻

At the Party…

Ned spotted them the second they walked in.

“NO FREAKING WAY!” he yelled, practically sprinting in his inflatable pumpkin costume. “YOU GUYS LOOK—like, actual Anakin and Padmé! MJ! LOOK AT THEM!”

MJ, sipping punch from a Solo cup, deadpanned, “Wow. So this is what foreplay looks like for nerds.”

Peter smirked, tugging y/n closer by the waist.

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fake lightsaber in your pocket or—?”

“MJ!” Peter turned bright red, half-choking while y/n cackled into his shoulder.

Ned fist-bumped him. “Dude. You pulled Padmé. I don’t even wanna know what your Jedi trials were.”

“Mostly glitter,” Peter muttered. “And emotional vulnerability.”

Y/n leaned in. “He cried twice while watching Revenge of the Sith this week.”

“TWICE?!” Ned wheezed.

Peter groaned. “Can we not unpack my trauma in front of the fog machine?”

⸻

Later That Night…

The apartment was quiet.

Peter’s Anakin robe was half-off, lightsaber dropped on the floor, and y/n—still in her Padmé costume—was straddling his lap on the couch, fingers in his curls. The lights were low, music still faint from outside the window. His hands ran along her waist like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“I really am the luckiest Jedi,” he whispered against her neck.

Y/n smiled, breathless. “Told you you’d like the costume.”

“I’m obsessed with the costume,” he said, kissing her collarbone. “But you in it? That’s, like… next-level.”

Her lips ghosted over his. “Still think you’re not that nerdy?”

She kissed him, soft at first—then deeper. His hands tightened on her hips, and she gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his curls.

It was warm. A little chaotic. A little sweet. And it felt like galaxies colliding.

Peter pulled back just enough to whisper, “I love you.”

Y/n blinked. And smiled.

“I know.”

The Academy – Late Morning Between Classes

The marble halls of the Academy are always cold—lined with gold-veined pillars and judgmental portraits. The Capitol students drift between classes with their polished uniforms, sculpted hair, and mouths full of secrets. But today, they’re buzzing more than usual.

About you.

Whispers trail behind you like perfume as you walk to your literature class. You ignore them. You’ve gotten good at it. But today, they’re different.

“Did you see them?” someone hisses just behind you.

“They were in the east corridor. Practically wrapped around each other.”

“I thought he didn’t even like girls from the Capitol—”

You nearly roll your eyes. If only they knew.

Because you do like Sejanus Plinth. More than like him. And you’ve been with him—secretly, softly, sweetly—for weeks now. Hidden kisses in library corners, hands brushing under the table at lunch, letters slipped into coat pockets like love was a secret code between two rebels.

But today? You weren’t as careful.

⸻

Flashback: Earlier That Morning – East Corridor

You were both early for class. The hallway was empty, sun pouring in through the arched windows, lighting the corridor in a golden hush.

Sejanus leaned against the wall, waiting. His tie was loose, and there was ink smudged on his fingers. He looked like poetry and rebellion in one breath.

You grinned as you approached. “You’re early.”

He smiled, that soft, crooked smile. “I like when we’re the only ones here.”

You didn’t answer. Just slipped into his arms. For a second, neither of you spoke. The world outside the Academy could have collapsed and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Then, his fingers ghosted along your ribs. You flinched and let out a breathy laugh. “Don’t you dare—”

Too late. He grinned wickedly and tickled you again.

“Sejanus!” you gasped, giggling. “I swear—!”

You tried to wriggle away, but he caught your hand, pulling you close again. His laughter died down as he looked at you. Really looked. His thumb traced your knuckles.

“If I could hold you in public,” he whispered, “I don’t think I’d ever let go.”

You stilled. Heat rushed to your cheeks. His forehead brushed yours. Your noses almost touched. He leaned in, slowly—

And then someone coughed behind you.

You both jumped apart like you’d been shocked, guilty smiles shared in panic.

The student passed without a word, but you both knew. The damage was done.

⸻

Present: Literature Class

Sejanus slips into the seat beside you, cheeks pink. He leans close, voice barely audible over the rustling of papers and whispers.

“Everyone’s talking.”

“Let them,” you whisper back, eyes on the board but your smile unmistakable.

He bumps your knee under the desk. “You almost kissed me. In the east corridor.”

“You tickled me. In broad daylight.”

He grins, leans closer still—warm breath brushing your ear. “If we get detention for public affection, it’s entirely your fault.”

“Worth it,” you murmur.

And beneath the table, his fingers find yours.

You let them.

Harry wakes up as he feels a hand on his shoulder panting and sweating. The nightmares were bad again.

“Sorry sorry! It’s okay.” You said and sat next to him holding his shoulders. He looked around the familiar room at grimmauld place. Then at you.

“Merlin! Y/n what- what are you doing up-“ he tried to calm his breathing. Still shaken from the feeling of Voldemort in his mind like that.

“I heard you talking in your sleep again.” You say quietly, not to wake the rest of the house.

“Sorry.” He spoke breathily looking down. You looked him over and walked out the door and came back soon after with two face clothes one cold and wet the other dry.

You sat in front of him cross legged and wiped his face with the cold went towel.

“You don’t have to do this-“ he started.

“I know.” You said. And he mouthed thank you in the dim moonlight which made you smile .

You dried his face with the other cloth and put them to the side. “What was this one about?” You asked.

“More of the same.” He answered blankly. You knew he hated taking about them.

You stood up and smiled at him as you went to leave. “Goodnight Harry-“ you were interrupted by an abrupt “wait!”

You looked at him. “Please…can you stay for a bit.” He asked nervously. You hesitated before nodding. “Of course.”

You sat on the edge of his bed. He then shook his head. “Don’t be silly I’ve known you for ages.” He spoke and patted the bed next to him.

He couldn’t see it but your face turned crimson. Little did you know his face was the same shade of red. You slowly moved to lie next to him and climbed under the blanket and turned on your side to face him. He did the same and your faces were mere inches apart.

“Are you okay?” You asked him. He shrugged. “I will be.” He had butterflies this close to you.

You combed a finger through his hair, gently tickling his scalp and you could tell he was enjoying it. L he drifted to sleep so did you.

The next morning you stirred. You realized your head was on Harry’s chest, feet entangled and your breathing matched. You were so full of butterflies. Harry smiled at your warmth pulling you closer.

You opened your eyes slightly and screams when you saw Ron, Hermione, ginny and the Weasley twins all staring mouths agape in the doorway. You hid under the blanket. Harry jolting up immediately.

“Get out!” Harry flushed. Scrambling for his wand and he shut the door with a spell.

“Colloportus.” You spoke and the door locked. You’d never been to flustered. And I slowly took the blanket over my face.

“Sorry-“ we both spoke and couldn’t help but laugh. It was quiet for a moment until you realized your hands were interlocked. You didn’t know when it happened.

“N/n..” Harry spoke. Nerves filling his chest. “I should’ve said this years ago…” Harry stumbled.

You furrowed a brow and squeezed his hand. Simultaneously confused yet hopeful.

“I really…I fancy you y/n, a lot.” He sighed. “I have for ages, and I thought you didn’t like me back-“ he began to ramble.

“Harry-“ you interrupted.

He stared wide eyed

“Do you ever shut up potter.” You smiled and kissed him. Softly but passionately.

Then from outside you heard a voice of one of the twins. “Finally!” And then Ron piped up. “Alright Fred that’s 6 galleons!”