Sub men sommelier

He's been your cute stay-at-home-hybrid for a while now, finally comfortable enough to not be as shy around you.

Choso was on the more timid side, but he'd make sure he's always around you when you're home.

Sitting next to you at the breakfast table, thigh against thigh, his tail wagging and smacking against the leg of the chair. You liked his presence, letting him steal food from your plate, wiping his cheek with your thumb when he got a bit messy.

He wanted to watch everything with you, getting startled by horror movies- you had to hold the sweet boy and scratch behind his ears. You loved it though, getting to coo and laugh at him when he trembled from a jumpscare.

He slowly had moved to your bedroom instead of his designated room, sleeping besides you, sometimes at the foot of the bed if you weren't in the mood to get snuggled up with a man that could engulf your whole form in his arms.

But that was rare.

You let him lay his head on your chest, place soft kisses on his hair and listen to his breath.

If there was a thunderstorm outside, then you'd huddle up under blankets with him and read to him as a distraction from the loud thundering sound and howling winds.

He did get a bit… touchy though, nosing and trying to scent you in the middle of the night when he thought you were fully passed out.

…You liked it.

He could smell how turned on you'd get, the lovely way your panties became damp and your cunts hole would flutter.

He wanted to have a lick… get your flavor in his mouth.

But he was good, just shifting to try and go to sleep, even if he had the most delicious smelling treat right under his nose.

When you went for walks at the park, he behaved well and stayed near. Choso was actually fairly frightened by the other demihumans.

Especially that mean looking pink tiger guy… or the gray wolf.

Choso wasn't some meek weakling but he preferred to stay hip to hip with you… in case he had to protect you, not the other way around… definitely.

Back to him being the bestest boy ever.

He wasn't.

Choso was a little pervert.

Like any dog would be.

He gave you sad puppy eyes when you left for work, whining about missing you- all to get a kiss on his droopy expression before you left and closed the door.

He did miss you, he didn't lie about that.

But that pouty act turned into one of pure neediness.

He had started off tame… going into your bedroom, rummaging trough your underwear drawer to get his paws on the fresh laundry, bringing it up to his face to sniff.

Then put them back.

You never knew.

Then he got bolder, sitting on the bathroom floor and pouring the dirty laundry basket out on the tiles, picking your most recently worn clothes up to roll in, laying on his back while smushing a pair of filthy panties to his face. As if you would be on his face.

And then he would shove all of it back into the basket and go laze about on your bed.

You NEVER knew.

One morning you had given him a bye bye peck on the lips, something you had never done before but he had been on the brink of tears, kneeling while tugging at your jeans, ears all flat and tail between his thighs. He was being extra clingy.

So a little kiss was sure to cheer him up.

A bit too much.

Late afternoon- and you return back home, exhausted from work and in need of a shower and a good meal. And some love and attention from your house dog.

"Choso! Puppy, I'm home…" You yawn out, toeing your shoes off and dropping your bag on the little table in your hallway.

Choso, the precious boy he was, rushed over and hugged you, his frame folding over you.

You couldn't help but giggle when he nosed at your neck, acting all cute. Not trying to taste you, no not at all.

He had acted normal throughout dinner, maybe a bit more… nosy than usual.

Nothing was amiss.

Until you were picking out some clothes to change into after you took a shower.

T shirt.. check… sweatpants… check… chewed up panties… check.

…

chewed up panties?

You lifted the cotton pair up by the sides.

There was a hole… a big one… bit right out from where your pussy would go if you wore them-

You don't remember moths having such a big appetite.

Your stupid mutt of a hybrid had gotten into your underwear.

He had gotten a little bit too excited and had decided he NEEDED a taste.

So what else was he supposed to do? Not take a chunk out of your favorite pair?

You tossed the ripped up thing to the bed and groaned, rubbing a hand over your forehead.

"CHOSO."

He was in the room before you could even finish the full word, on his knees and a trembling bottom lip sticking out, tail neatly tucked under his thighs and black furred ears down on his skull.

"Yes, mistress..?"

You glanced over to the bed.

He did too-

Oh no.

I mean, what did he expect would happen.

Leaving evidence right where you'd find it.

Silly boy.

The kneeling hybrids face started to heat up, looking to the floor where his hands were.

"…Wasn't me.."

"Who then? The undie ripping fairy? The pervert gnome of panty land?"

"…Both of them…"

You went silent, eyes staring down at his.

He whimpered, shifting uncomfortably under your glare.

"Choso, be good. Tell me what happened, seriously."

"I.. i didn't mean to… swear it."

"Choso Kamo."

He bit the inside of his cheek, head tipping forwards and hanging. His dark locks falling over his face to cover the guilty look.

His tail was starting to slooowwly slide back and forth across the floor.

Was he enjoying this?

You ran the hand from your forehead down your face.

"I did it…ma'am.."

"Why?"

"Wanted to smell you… but.. but also taste so i…"

"Taste and smell… what else, touch and lick?" You scoffed, making a sarcastic remark.

But he nodded, finally lifting his chin back up to have his chocolate irises meet your annoyed ones.

"May i, mistress?"

"May you? You tore up my favourite pair and now you want to get some? Fine. But you won't like it. "

You tried to threaten him, but he didn't look all that scared.

Not until you grabbed him by the hair and made him scoot forward, clumsy hands clinging to the backsides of your thighs. That pitiful little face he was making made you want to forgive him, but he deserved to be punished.

You stepped a bit wider, shoving his face between your legs.

This earned you a whine from him, unsure what to do now… the scent of you filling his nose and making his fluffy tail thump around on the flooring.

"Don't look so excited, damn mutt."

Choso shuddered from the mean name, peering up at you, tongue already darting out to try and lick at the fabric of your pants.

You unbuttoned your jeans, letting the not so guilty looking hybrid watch you unzip and tug the waistband down.

Before you could even get them past your thighs he was trying to lap at the front of your filly panties- canines lightly pulling on the material.

Someone was hungry.

"Look at you… now hold on, you can't taste unless i allow it." You chuckle, pulling him away by his hair.

Poor Choso was already sniffling, unable to tear his eyes away from the damp fabric clinging to invitingly to your puffy folds, hands gripping into his own sweats.

"Please….mistress… please."

You tutted.

How impatient.

You pulled him up from his knees, pushing him onto the soft bed- ripped up panties forgotten underneath him.

You didn't want to let him get what he wanted the most. To get to touch and bite at your skin.

So the best course of action?

Forcing him to lay down, tugging his sweatpants down just enough so you could sit on his weepy cock. It looked like it was crying by how much precum was oozing out.

Your clothed pussy formed around it, thighs trapping his legs underneath yours.

"No touching."

"Yes ma'am."

It was a pitiful sight, his ears floppy and his eyes glossy, unable to look away where your bodies were rubbing together- and his hands, oh his desperate hands, trying to lay flat on the bedsheets beside his sides.

You didn't slide your soaked panties to the side until he started to buck his hips.

Obviously his cock was obscenely large, with a plump knotting bump at the end. Not to mention how pretty his happy trail was, your hands pressing down on his lower stomach to hold him still while shifting and helping the leaky cockhead find your sopping hole.

Thwap slap thwap slap slap!

Your hips bounced up and down, ass meeting his trembling thighs, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filled the usual wholesome bedroom air.

All he could do was… well.. cry. And let out whimpers of your name- too overwhelmed.

He was sobbing, nose scrunched up and his eyes blinking out pearly tears before shutting completely, fingers gripping into the bedsheets so hard they might tear.

"Misuhh…mistthhrurress…" He hiccuped out your title over and over again.

You leaned over, grabbing his face with one hand, the other bracing your weight on his abs.

"Cmon, look at me, you crybaby. You did this to yourself."

He refused to open his eyes, trying to squirm out of your hold.

Smack!

You have his cheek a light slap before leaning back, making sure to clench around him for a torturous squeeze.

"Bad puppy."

You didn't even let him cum inside, getting off right at the last moment.

And the thick load splurted out all over his own chest and face. Nowhere near where he would have liked to get it on… or in.

Lesson learned?

For now, maybe.

You weren't that cruel… you scooped up the whiteish liquid in your fingers and fed it to him.

That counted as cleanup.

Fine, he got a proper cuddle session and a short lecture about eating your clothes.

Didn't mean you knew about all the other stuff he had done before getting caught this one time.

Yoon's notes: sumn abt writing subby pup choso always hits the spot

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The administrative office at the university annex smelled like burnt coffee, cheap printer ink, and the faint metallic tang of overdue paperwork. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying mosquitoes, and the ancient air-conditioning unit rattled in the corner as if it were personally offended by the humidity rolling in from Tokyo’s afternoon downpour. You were perched on a plastic chair that had seen better decades, one leg tucked under you, the other bouncing impatiently while you scribbled through the stack of forms the HR lady had dumped on the desk with a tired “Good luck, it’s the new insurance packet.”

You were only halfway through page four when your phone buzzed on the desk. The screen lit up with a single unread message preview:

Kento Nanami: If you’re still planning to skip lunch, at least eat the onigiri I left in your bag. I’m not carrying you out of another meeting.

A small, traitorous smile tugged at your lips. Nanami. Of course. The man had the emotional range of a perfectly pressed suit and the reliability of gravity. You’d met him six months ago through a mutual acquaintance at one of those painfully awkward networking things. It was actually somebody’s cousin’s cousin who needed a civilian liaison for paperwork nobody else wanted to touch. He’d been standing in the corner like a disapproving statue, blonde hair slicked back, glasses catching the light, tailored suit somehow still crisp despite the boredom clinging to the air. You’d made a joke about how even his tie looked judgmental. He’d sighed, adjusted said tie, and somehow ended up driving you home when your ride bailed.

Since then, the man had inserted himself into your life like a polite but unstoppable force. Late-night texts checking if you’d locked your door. Dry commentary on your terrible eating habits. The occasional shared silence on the phone when you both pretended you weren’t exhausted from completely different kinds of battles. He was older, thirty-something going on forty in spirit, and carried himself like the world owed him exactly one thing: efficiency. You liked that about him. You liked it a lot more than you’d ever admit out loud.

Your thumb hovered over the emergency contact section on the form.

Name: Relationship: Phone: Address:

The cursor blinked at you like it was judging your life choices. Your actual family lived three cities away and still thought you worked a normal office job. Friends? Most of them would disappear for weeks or those who wouldn’t know what to do if you showed up concussed from an accident. But Nanami… Nanami always answered.

You glanced at your phone again. The chat thread with him was still open. Rows of his perfectly punctuated messages next to your chaotic replies full of typos and emojis. He’d probably just sigh and hang up anyway, you thought. But at least he’d sigh reliably.

So you typed.

Name: Kento Nanami Relationship: Emergency Contact Phone: [his number, memorized like a prayer] Address: [his apartment building, the one you’d only been to once when he insisted on bandaging a paper cut you swore wasn’t even bleeding]

You hit submit before you could overthink it, slid the entire packet across the desk, and promptly forgot the whole thing existed the second you stepped out into the rain.

Across the city, in a quiet corner office that smelled of polished wood and the faint ozone of paperworks and dried out coffee, Kento Nanami’s phone rang.

He was midway through reviewing mission reports, fountain pen poised above a line that read excessive property damage—again. The unknown number flashed on his screen. He almost ignored it. Almost.

But Nanami didn’t ignore calls. Not ever.

He answered on the second ring, voice low and clipped. “Nanami.”

A nervous receptionist cleared her throat on the other end. “Hello, Mr. Nanami? I’m calling from the university annex medical office. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Reader. There’s been an incident—”

His pen stopped moving.

The world narrowed to the exact pitch of her voice. Incident. Medical office. Your name.

He was already standing before she finished the sentence.

“Is she conscious?” His tone was calm. Terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that made people instinctively check their exits.

“Yes, sir, but—”

“I’m on my way.” He hung up without waiting for the rest, coat already slung over one arm, tie loosened by exactly two centimeters because anything more would be undignified. His briefcase snapped shut with military precision. The intern who’d been waiting outside the door for feedback on his weekly report nearly jumped out of his skin when Nanami strode past without a word.

Twenty three minutes later after damning all traffic laws, he reached the annex. You were sitting on the edge of a cot in the small infirmary, ankle propped on a pillow, an ice pack balanced on it like a lazy cat. The “incident” had been spectacularly mundane: you’d missed the last step while rushing to beat the rain, twisted your ankle, and the overzealous campus medic had insisted on calling your emergency contact because “protocol is protocol.”

You were scrolling through your phone, muttering curses at the weather app, when the door opened.

Nanami filled the frame like he’d been summoned by the gods of overreaction. Hair slightly damp from the rain, glasses fogged at the edges, expression carved from granite. His eyes swept the room once. By assessing exits, threats, your position on the cot before locking onto you.

You blinked. “Nanami?”

He crossed the room in three strides. The medic tried to offer a clipboard; Nanami took it without looking, scanned the page, and handed it back.

“Why,” he said, voice dangerously even, “was I contacted before you were able to call me yourself?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I… twisted my ankle?”

His gaze dropped to the ice pack, then back to your face. Something flickered behind the glasses. Relief, maybe, or the ghost of a lecture forming. “You listed me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Heat crawled up your neck. “It was just paperwork. I was in a hurry and your name was already on my screen and—”

“You listed me as your emergency contact.” He repeated it like he was tasting the words, testing their weight. Then he exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a sigh but not quite. More like the universe had personally disappointed him and he was too polite to say it out loud.

The medic wisely vanished into the hallway.

Nanami crouched in front of the cot, eye level with you now. Up close he smelled like rain and that stupidly expensive cologne he wore. The one that made your brain short-circuit on bad days. His fingers brushed your ankle with clinical detachment, checking the wrap the medic had applied. You tried not to notice how warm his hand was.

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly. “I’m fine. I can walk.”

“You will not.” He stood, already reaching for his phone. “I’m taking you home. Then I’m making sure you eat something that isn’t some convenience store onigiri you forgot about.”

You stared at him. “You’re… serious.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses, the tiniest crease forming between his brows. It was the Nanami equivalent of a full-blown panic attack. “I take my responsibilities seriously.”

Your heart did something stupid and traitorous in your chest.

He offered his arm. You took it because refusing felt like arguing with gravity. As he guided you out into the hallway, coat now draped over your shoulders because “you’re still damp,” you risked a glance up at him.

“Nanami?”

“Hm.”

“You’re not mad?”

He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound was the click of his dress shoes on the linoleum.

“I’m not mad,” he said finally. “But if you’re going to burden someone with your safety, at least have the decency to let them know they’ve been volunteered.”

You bit your lip to keep from grinning. “Noted.”

He sighed again but longer this time, almost fond. “Good.”

Outside, the rain had eased to a drizzle. Nanami’s car waited at the curb like it had been summoned by sheer force of will. He opened the passenger door first, waited until you were settled, then shut it with that careful precision he applied to everything.

As he slid into the driver’s seat, you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Never quite a smile. But close enough that your stomach flipped.

You were in so much trouble.

And you hadn’t even realized the paperwork had just rewritten the rules of your entire relationship.

The drive from the university annex back to your apartment in Shinjuku took forty-three minutes instead of the usual twenty-five, thanks to the rain-slicked streets and Nanami’s insistence on driving like the speed limit was a personal recommendation rather than a law. The inside of his car smelled like leather, faint cologne, and the faint metallic trace of the rain that had soaked into his coat. You sat in the passenger seat with your ankle propped on the dashboard (he had adjusted the seat himself), the ice pack slowly turning lukewarm against your skin.

Nanami didn’t speak much during the ride. He never did when he was processing something. His left hand rested on the steering wheel at exactly ten and two, right hand occasionally tapping the gear shift. Every so often his eyes would flick to your ankle, then back to the road, jaw tight in that way that meant he was calculating risk versus outcome.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building. It was a modest mid-rise in a quiet side street off Kabukicho, he killed the engine and turned to you.

“Stay.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I can hobble ten meters.”

“You will not hobble.” He got out, circled the car, and opened your door before you could protest. One arm slid under your knees, the other behind your back, and suddenly you were being carried bridal-style like you weighed nothing. Raindrops clung to his lashes as he looked down at you, expression unreadable behind those wire-rimmed glasses.

“Nanami—”

“Keys.”

You fished them out of your bag and handed them over. He managed to unlock the door without putting you down, a feat of coordination that should have been illegal. Inside your apartment, there were small, cluttered with half-read books, empty coffee mugs, and the faint scent of yesterday’s takeout. He set you gently on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

You heard cabinets opening. The fridge. The soft clink of dishes.

Ten minutes later he returned with a tray: steaming miso soup, perfectly sliced tamagoyaki, rice, and a small dish of pickled vegetables. He placed it on the coffee table, pulled up a chair, and sat across from you like this was a business meeting. For a moment, you were shocked at the amount of food he managed to scavenge in your kitchen knowing for a fact that it had been two weeks since you last step foot in the supermarket. 

“Eat.”

You stared at the food, then at him. “You… stocked my fridge?”

“I stopped by the konbini near your station last week when you mentioned running out of decent ingredients.” He adjusted his glasses. “You skip meals when you’re busy. It was inefficient.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Nanami, this is not normal emergency contact behavior.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. “It is now.”

That was how it started.

Over the next two weeks, Kento Nanami treated his new role with the same meticulous seriousness he applied to quarterly reports and perfectly tied Windsor knots.

It began with texts.

Nanami: Have you arrived home? You: Just walked in. Traffic was hell. Nanami: Reply with a photo of your door locked.

You sent one. He replied with a single thumbs-up emoji. The equivalent of a standing ovation from anyone else.

Then came the rules.

He showed up at your door one evening after work, still in his suit, carrying a small notebook. You’d been expecting maybe a polite check-in. Instead he sat at your tiny dining table, opened the notebook, and slid it across to you.

“These are the conditions under which you will contact me immediately.”

You read the list, eyes widening with every line.

Any injury, no matter how minor

Illness accompanied by fever above 37.5°C

Feeling unsafe while walking alone after 9 PM

Missed meals exceeding 8 hours

Transportation delays that leave you stranded

Emotional distress that interferes with basic functions

You looked up at him, biting back a grin. “Emotional distress? Seriously?”

Nanami leaned back, arms crossed. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with quiet strength from years of… whatever it was he actually did at his mysterious corporate-adjacent job. “If you burn dinner and it genuinely upsets you, call. I will bring alternatives.”

You snorted. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I do not make promises I regret.”

The grocery deliveries started next.

You came home from a long day to find a paper bag outside your door. Inside: fresh vegetables, premium rice, two perfectly ripe avocados, and a note in his neat handwriting.

Do not let these wilt. I will check on Thursday.

You sent him a photo of you dramatically hugging the bag. He replied:

Nanami: Acceptable. Eat the avocado tonight.

Then there were the phone calls.

One night you were walking home from the station after missing the last express train. The streets of Tokyo were still busy but the side alleys felt darker than usual. You called him without thinking.

He answered on the first ring.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just walking home. It’s late. Talk to me?”

A soft exhale on the other end. You could picture him at his desk, tie loosened, lamp casting warm light across his face. “You should have called earlier.”

“I’m calling now.”

“Stay on the line until you’re inside.”

He did. For twenty-three minutes he stayed on the phone. Describing the report he was finishing, asking about the book you’d been reading, occasionally reminding you to look both ways at crossings. When you finally locked your apartment door behind you, he said quietly, “Good. Lock the deadbolt as well.”

You smiled into the darkness of your entryway. “You’re really committing to this, huh?”

“I take my responsibilities seriously,” he repeated, but this time his voice had dropped into something softer. Almost warm.

You were starting to believe him.

The line between emergency and “I just want to hear your voice” blurred faster than you expected.

One evening you called him because you’d burned the bottom of a perfectly good pan trying to make stir-fry.

He answered with the now-familiar sigh. “… This is not an emergency.”

“Emotionally it is,” you replied, grinning as you scraped at the charred bits. “I ruined dinner and now I’m sad and hungry. Come save me, emergency contact.”

A long pause. You heard the sound of his chair creaking as he stood. “I’m twenty minutes away. Order something if you can’t wait. I’ll bring proper ingredients.”

He showed up with fresh salmon, ginger, and that same quiet intensity. You ended up eating together at your tiny table while he patiently showed you how to sear the fish without destroying the pan. His knee brushed yours under the table and neither of you moved it away.

Another night you lost your keys after a particularly chaotic day at work. You called him from the lobby of your building, voice sheepish.

He arrived in under fifteen minutes, still in his work clothes, carrying a spare set he’d apparently had made “just in case.” When you asked how he even got a copy, he simply said, “Efficiency.”

You laughed until your sides hurt. He watched you with that steady gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his glasses.

The domesticity was creeping in like morning fog over Tokyo Tower. Slow, quiet, impossible to ignore once it settled.

One Saturday afternoon he appeared at your door unannounced, holding a grocery bag and wearing a rare casual button-down instead of his usual suit. The top button was undone. You tried very hard not to stare.

“I noticed your fridge was low again,” he said, stepping inside like he belonged there. Which, apparently, he now did.

You leaned against the counter, watching him unpack with surgical precision. “You know, most emergency contacts just send a ‘hope you’re okay’ text.”

Nanami placed a carton of eggs in the fridge, then turned to face you. The late afternoon light filtering through your curtains caught the gold in his hair and made his eyes look softer than usual.

“I am not most emergency contacts.”

The air between you felt heavier suddenly. You swallowed.

“No,” you said quietly. “You’re not.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, then cleared his throat and went back to organizing your pantry.

But you both felt it, the shift. The way his presence in your space no longer felt like an overreaction, but something you were starting to crave. The way your heart stuttered every time his phone call started with that concerned “Is something wrong?” even when you both knew it wasn’t.

Nanami was taking his role seriously.

And somewhere along the way, you were starting to take him seriously too.

The next three weeks turned your quiet Shinjuku apartment into what could only be described as “Nanami’s Unofficial Annex.” The man moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had never once been late to a meeting in his life, and somehow that efficiency had colonized your fridge, your schedule, and dangerously… your thoughts.

It started innocently enough. Or as innocently as anything could start when your emergency contact treated “checking on you” like a full-time side hustle.

Monday evening, you were sprawled on the couch after a brutal day of back-to-back meetings, nursing a budding headache and contemplating whether cereal counted as dinner. Your phone buzzed.

Nanami: Have you eaten?

You typed back quickly:

You: Working on it. Cereal is a food group, right?

The reply came in under thirty seconds.

Nanami: No. I’m ten minutes away. Do not touch the cereal.

You laughed out loud, the sound echoing in your empty living room. When he arrived, still in his charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted despite the late hour. He was carrying two bentos from that tiny izakaya near his office. One for you, one for him. He set them on the table like a man presenting quarterly earnings.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” you said, already reaching for the chopsticks.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he lied smoothly. He had not been in the neighborhood. His office was in Minato. You knew this because you’d once accidentally called him during his commute and heard the distinct chime of the Tozai Line.

You ate together in comfortable silence, the only sounds were the clack of chopsticks and the low hum of the city outside your window. Halfway through, you caught him watching you with that focused stare he usually reserved for important documents.

“What?” you asked, cheeks warm.

“You’re eating slower than usual. Is the headache still bothering you?”

You nearly choked on a piece of tamago. “How did you—?”

“You rub your temple when it’s bad. You’ve done it three times since I sat down.”

You stared at him. “Nanami, that is terrifyingly observant.”

He adjusted his glasses, the faintest hint of smugness in the set of his shoulders. “It’s called paying attention.”

You pointed your chopsticks at him. “It’s called being a creep. A very helpful, suit-wearing creep.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. The Nanami version of a full belly laugh. “I’ll add that to the list of approved non-emergencies.”

Tuesday brought the grocery incident.

You came home to find your kitchen counter transformed. Fresh produce arranged with military precision: spinach, mushrooms, two perfect avocados (again), and a small note in his elegant handwriting.

These will go bad if unused by Thursday. I will verify.

You took a photo of yourself saluting the vegetables like a soldier and sent it to him with the caption:

You: Sir, yes sir! The produce has been secured.

Nanami: Acceptable. Also, the milk in your fridge expired three days ago. I replaced it.

You cackled so hard your neighbor probably thought you were losing it. The man was treating your kitchen like a hostile takeover.

By Thursday you’d decided to retaliate with chaos.

You called him at 7:42 PM exactly. His prime “just got home from work” hours.

He answered on the first ring, as always. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” you said, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “It’s a code red. I lost the TV remote and the batteries in the spare one died. I can’t watch my drama. This is an emotional crisis.”

A long, suffering sigh traveled through the line. You could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is not an emergency.”

“It is if I miss the new episode. My heart will literally break. You’re my emergency contact. Fix it.”

Silence. Then the sound of a chair scraping back. “I’m bringing new batteries. Do not move from the couch. And for the love of… stop laughing.”

You were still giggling when he arrived twenty minutes later, batteries in hand and a takeout bag from your favorite ramen place tucked under his arm. He handed you the batteries with the air of a man surrendering to a hostage situation.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he muttered, loosening his tie as he sat beside you on the couch.

“Immensely,” you admitted, scooting closer under the pretense of making room. Your thigh pressed against his. Neither of you moved. “Admit it. You like being needed.”

Nanami glanced at you sideways, golden-brown eyes catching the glow of the TV. “I like knowing you’re taken care of. There’s a difference.”

Your stomach did a slow flip. The drama played on in the background, completely forgotten.

Friday night brought the late-night walk call.

You’d stayed late at a friend’s place in Shibuya and missed the last reasonable train. The streets were alive with neon and salarymen stumbling out of izakayas, but the shortcut through the quieter residential streets still made your skin prickle. You dialed him without thinking.

He picked up instantly. “Where are you?”

“Walking home from Shibuya. It’s fine, but… talk to me? Please?”

There was the soft rustle of fabric. It was him probably standing up from wherever he’d been. “Stay on the line. Describe what you see.”

So you did. The glowing signs for 24-hour konbinis, the couple arguing playfully outside a karaoke bar, the way the rain from earlier had left puddles that reflected the city lights like broken mirrors. Nanami listened without interrupting, occasionally murmuring small questions or warnings about crosswalks. His voice was a low, steady anchor in your ear.

When you finally reached your building and locked the door behind you, you leaned against it and exhaled. “Thank you. I feel silly for calling.”

“You’re not silly.” His tone had softened, the professional edge gone. “Call me every time. Even if it feels trivial.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding. “Even at 2 a.m. when I just want to hear your voice?”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Even then.”

Saturday afternoon was when the line blurred dangerously.

You’d twisted your ankle again. This time mildly, just from stepping wrong on the station stairs, and ended up at a small clinic near your apartment for a quick check. The nurse, a cheerful woman in her fifties with perfectly permed hair, took one look at Nanami (who had, of course, shown up the moment you texted him) and beamed.

“Oh! Your husband is here already? How sweet. Most men wait in the car.”

You opened your mouth to correct her. Nanami beat you to it.

He simply placed a steady hand on your shoulder and said, calmly, “How long until the x-ray results?”

The nurse nodded approvingly and bustled off.

You stared at him, mouth agape. “You didn’t correct her.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses, expression perfectly neutral. “It would have complicated the paperwork. Efficiency matters in medical settings.”

“You let her think we’re married.”

“I let her think whatever expedites your care.” He paused, then added almost under his breath, “The assumption is not… entirely unpleasant.”

Heat flooded your face. You poked his arm. “Nanami Kento, are you blushing?”

“I do not blush.” But the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink, and he refused to meet your eyes for the next five minutes.

The humor peaked that evening when you decided to test the boundaries of his “emotional distress” clause.

You called him at 9:17 PM while dramatically flopping on your bed.

“Emergency,” you announced the second he answered.

His voice was instantly alert. “What happened?”

“I burned the toast. Again. And now I’m questioning all my life choices. This is a full existential crisis. Come fix me.”

Dead silence. Then the longest, most theatrical sigh you had ever heard from the man.

“… You are going to be the death of me.”

“But you’ll still come, right?”

Another sigh, softer this time. “I’m already putting my shoes on. Try not to burn the apartment down before I arrive.”

When he showed up twenty-five minutes later with fresh bread and a small tub of butter, you greeted him at the door in your pajamas, grinning like an idiot.

He looked you up and down. The appearance of your hair messy, one sock missing made him shake his head. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it,” you teased, stepping aside to let him in.

Nanami paused in the genkan, toeing off his shoes with practiced ease. For a moment he just looked at you, the overhead light catching the sharp line of his jaw and the quiet warmth in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I suppose I do.”

The air thickened. Your teasing smile faltered as something warmer, heavier, settled between you. He was standing close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of Tokyo rain on his coat. Close enough to notice the way his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before flicking back up.

Then he cleared his throat and headed for the kitchen like nothing had happened.

“Toast,” he declared. “Properly this time. No more existential crises on my watch.”

You followed him, heart racing, already wondering how much longer you could keep pretending this was just an emergency contact arrangement.

Because the way Nanami looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching? The way he showed up every single time, no matter how ridiculous the reason?

That wasn’t responsibility anymore.

That was something else entirely.

And you were starting to suspect he knew it too.

The clock on your nightstand glowed a soft 11:47 PM in cool blue digits, casting a faint light across the rumpled sheets of your bed in your modest Shinjuku apartment. Outside, Tokyo refused to sleep. The distant rumble of the last few trains on the Yamanote Line mixed with the occasional honk of a taxi and the low, persistent hum of neon signs flickering in the humid night air. A light drizzle had fallen earlier, leaving the streets glossy and reflective, the scent of wet asphalt and distant yakitori smoke drifting through the slightly cracked window. Your fan spun lazily on its lowest setting, stirring the warm air without doing much to cool the flush already creeping across your skin.

You lay on your back in nothing but an oversized soft cotton t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a pair of simple black shorts, one leg bent, the other stretched out. The phone felt heavy in your hand as your thumb hovered over Nanami’s contact. The memory of the last few weeks. The grocery deliveries, the late-night walks where his voice anchored you through dark streets, the way he’d carried you without hesitation after your twisted ankle had been simmering beneath your skin like a slow-burning fuse. And that almost-kiss tension from the other evening when he’d shown up with fresh bread? It had left you restless, replaying the way his gaze had lingered just a second too long on your mouth.

Your heart thudded heavily as you pressed call. It rang only twice before he answered.

“Nanami speaking.” His voice was low, a little rough around the edges from what must have been a long day at the office. You could picture him perfectly: still at his desk in the quiet Minato high-rise, the overhead lights dimmed, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, tie loosened by precisely two centimeters, sleeves rolled once to expose those strong forearms. The faint scent of his cologne would still cling to his collar even now.

You swallowed, suddenly nervous despite the liquid courage of your own thoughts. “Hey… It’s me.”

A brief pause. Then the familiar, concerned shift in his tone. “Is something wrong?”

The question made your stomach flutter. Even at nearly midnight, even when he was clearly still working, he answered like the world might be ending. You smiled into the darkness, biting your lower lip. “No. Not… technically an emergency. I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

Nanami exhaled softly. The sound you’d come to recognize as his version of fond exasperation. You heard the faint creak of his leather chair as he leaned back. “You know the rules. Non-emergencies can wait until reasonable hours.”

“But it feels like an emergency,” you murmured, your voice dropping naturally into something softer, more intimate. The fan whirred overhead, but the room suddenly felt warmer. “After the other night… when you were here fixing my toast and standing so close in the kitchen… I keep thinking about it. About you.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on that careful, measured quality he used when assessing a situation. “You’re calling because of that?”

You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear as if you could feel his presence through the line. “Partly. And partly because of the call we had before that. The teasing one.” Your fingers traced idle circles on the sheet, imagining they were tracing the line of his jaw instead. “You didn’t hang up. You stayed. And the way you sounded when you said you’d be… thorough. It’s been stuck in my head.”

Another pause, heavier this time. You could hear him breathing. Slow, controlled inhales that told you he was choosing his words with precision. “This conversation is venturing into territory that is… inappropriate for a phone call at this hour.”

The word “inappropriate” sent a thrill straight through you. Instead of backing down, you let your voice go quieter, a little breathier. “Is it? Or is it exactly the kind of emergency you signed up for when I listed you?”

Nanami made a low sound in his throat. Something between a sigh and a restrained growl that made the heat pool low in your belly. “You are pushing boundaries tonight.”

“I know.” You shifted on the bed, the sheets rustling softly. Your free hand rested on your stomach, fingers lightly pressing against the fabric of your t-shirt. “But you always answer. You always show up. And after all those times you’ve taken care of me… the groceries, the rides, the way you check my ankle like it’s the most important thing in the world… I’ve started wanting more than just your concern, Kento.”

Using his first name felt bold. Intimate. You heard the sharp intake of breath on his end.

“Say that again,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave.

“Kento.” The name rolled off your tongue like a secret. “I keep imagining what it would be like if you were here right now instead of at your desk. If instead of organizing my fridge or lecturing me about expired milk, you were… touching me. The way your hands are always so careful and steady. I wonder how they’d feel on my skin. Slow and thorough. Like everything else you do.”

The line went quiet except for the faint sound of fabric shifting. Perhaps him adjusting in his chair or running a hand through his neatly combed blonde hair. When he spoke, there was a new tension in his voice, controlled but unmistakably strained. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do.” Your heart raced as you grew bolder, the late hour and the privacy of your dark bedroom making the words spill easier. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here. If this was a real emergency and I called you because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because I was… aching.”

Nanami cursed softly under his breath. A rare, quiet “Fuck” that sent electricity down your spine. He rarely swore, and hearing it now, rough and private, made your thighs press together instinctively.

“If I were there,” he began slowly, each word deliberate and measured, as if he were still trying to maintain some semblance of control, “I would start by making sure the door was locked. Then I would come to your bed and take off my glasses so I could see you clearly. No barriers.”

You let out a soft, involuntary sound, your hand sliding lower on your stomach. “And then?”

“Then I would kiss you properly. Not the almost-kiss we almost had in the kitchen. A real one. Slow at first, until you stop teasing and start needing. My hand on the back of your neck, holding you exactly where I want you.” His voice had gone lower, richer, the professional edge completely stripped away. It wrapped around you like warm velvet. “I would take my time undressing you. Peeling that t-shirt off until I could see every inch of skin I’ve been trying not to think about when I’m supposed to be working.”

Your breath hitched. The fan continued its lazy spin, but sweat was already beading at the small of your back. You slipped your hand beneath the hem of your shorts, fingers brushing lightly over sensitive skin as you pictured his large, capable hands doing the same. “Kento… keep going.”

He exhaled shakily, the sound raw. “I would touch you everywhere you’re aching. Starting with my fingers. Slow circles, learning exactly what makes you tremble. I’d watch your face the entire time, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you say my name exactly the way you did just now. Then my mouth. Down your neck, across your chest, lower… until the only thing you can focus on is how thoroughly I’m taking care of you.”

A soft moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. Your fingers moved with more intent now, matching the rhythm he described, the phone pressed tight to your ear so you wouldn’t miss a single word. “God… your voice sounds so good like this. So controlled, but I can hear how much you want it too.”

“You have no idea how much restraint this is taking,” he admitted, voice rougher now, the words coming a little faster. “If I were in that apartment right now, I wouldn’t stop at fingers. I’d bury myself inside you. Deep, until you forget every ridiculous rule I made about emergencies. Until the only emergency is how badly you need me to keep moving.”

Your hips rolled instinctively against your hand, breath coming in short, quiet gasps. The details he painted were vivid: the weight of his body, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh, the steady, unrelenting focus in his golden-brown eyes as he watched you fall apart. “Kento… I’m so wet just from your voice. If you were here, I’d want you to feel it. Want you to—”

A low groan interrupted you, it was quiet but unmistakable. On his end, you heard the faint sound of a zipper or belt shifting, the chair creaking as he adjusted. The image of composed, always-perfect Nanami touching himself while on the phone with you sent another wave of heat crashing through you.

“Tell me how you feel right now,” he commanded softly, the words laced with that same serious intensity he used for everything else. “Describe it. I want to know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Your voice trembled as you obeyed, words spilling out between soft sounds you couldn’t hold back. “My hand is between my legs… circling… imagining it’s your fingers instead. Or your tongue. I’m clenching around nothing, wishing it was you filling me up. Slow and deep like you said. I keep thinking about your tie… how I’d pull you closer by it while you—”

“Careful,” he warned, but there was dark amusement and raw want threaded through it. “If you keep talking like that, this call will end with both of us ruined for sleep.”

“That’s the point,” you whispered, your pace quickening as tension coiled tighter in your core. “I want you ruined for anyone else. Just like you’ve ruined me for normal emergency contacts.”

Nanami’s breathing had grown heavier, matching yours now. The professional mask had shattered completely, replaced by something hungry and devoted. “Then come for me. Right now. Let me hear it. Say my name when you do.”

The command, delivered in that calm, authoritative tone, pushed you over the edge. Your back arched off the bed, a broken “Kento—” spilling from your lips as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Sharp, trembling, and overwhelmingly intimate across the phone line. You rode it out with quiet gasps and whimpers, the phone nearly slipping from your grip.

On the other end, you heard his own low, restrained groan as he followed moments later, the sound muffled but no less powerful. For several long seconds, the only noise was both of you catching your breath, the fan still spinning lazily above you and Tokyo continuing its endless rhythm outside.

Finally, Nanami spoke first, voice hoarse but softening back toward that familiar steadiness. “... You are going to be the death of me.”

You laughed breathlessly, boneless and glowing with satisfaction. “But what a way to go.”

He sighed. Long, fond, and utterly exhausted in the best way. “Lock your door. Drink some water. And… we will discuss this properly tomorrow. In person. When I can look you in the eyes and decide whether to scold you or kiss you senseless.”

The promise in his words sent a final shiver through you. “I’m looking forward to both.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured, the word carrying layers of unspoken emotion.

“Goodnight, Kento.”

The call ended, but the warmth lingered in your chest and between your legs long after the screen went dark. You stared at the ceiling, heart still racing, a giddy smile spreading across your face.

Your emergency contact had just become something far more dangerous.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The izakaya in the heart of Shinjuku was alive with the chaotic energy that only a Friday night after a successful project deadline could produce. Smoke from the grill mingled with the sharp scent of grilled yakitori, sizzling beef tongue, and endless rounds of beer and sake. Neon signs from the surrounding Kabukicho district bled through the windows, casting erratic red and pink glows across the wooden tables cluttered with empty plates, half-full glasses, and discarded wet wipes. Your team that consisted of about eight coworkers from the administrative department had been here since 7 PM, celebrating the closure of a massive client contract that had consumed the last three months of everyone’s life.

Laughter echoed off the walls as someone (probably Tanaka-san from accounting) launched into yet another off-key karaoke rendition of an old enka song on the small machine in the corner. You’d started with one beer to be polite. Then another because the boss insisted on “nomikai spirit.” Then sake shots because “it’s Friday and we survived!” By 12:30 AM, the world had taken on that pleasant, fuzzy warmth where everything felt hilarious and your limbs moved just a second slower than your brain.

You were drunk. Properly, giggly, warm-cheeked drunk.

Your coworkers finally started dispersing around 1:15 AM, waving sloppy goodbyes and promising to “do this again next quarter.” You declined the offer of a shared taxi. Since your apartment was only a fifteen-minute walk away after a quick train ride, and the fresh air sounded nice after hours in the smoky izakaya. The main streets of Shinjuku were still buzzing: salarymen stumbling out of host clubs, groups of young people queuing outside late-night karaoke bars, the iconic red neon of Kabukicho’s entrance glowing like a beacon. Billboard trucks blasted club beats as they rolled past, and the air carried the mingled smells of street food vendors shutting down, rain-damp pavement, and distant cigarette smoke.

You hummed to yourself as you turned onto a quieter side street, the click of your low heels echoing unevenly on the wet asphalt. The buzz in your head made the neon reflections in the puddles dance like colorful fireworks. Your work skirt felt a little too tight after all the food, and your blouse was slightly untucked, but none of it mattered. Because your mind kept drifting back to three nights ago.

That phone call.

Kento’s voice. How his voiced sounded so low, strained, and commanding in your ear. The way he’d described exactly what he’d do if he were in your bed. The sounds he’d made when he finally lost that ironclad control. The way he’d said your name like it was something precious and dangerous at the same time. Heat flushed through you again, mixing with the alcohol and making your steps even more unsteady.

You pulled out your phone, the screen too bright in the dim alley. Your thumb slipped twice before you managed to tap his contact. It rang three times, longer than usual. He must have been asleep.

When he answered, his voice was rough with sleep but snapped to full alertness instantly. “... Is something wrong?”

You giggled, the sound bright and tipsy, leaning against a streetlamp for balance as the world tilted pleasantly. “Nanamin~ Not a real emergency. Or… maybe it is now.” You hiccuped softly. “I’m drunk. Very, very drunk. We had nomikai for the project closing and they kept pouring sake and now I’m walking to the station because the last train is… soon? I think?”

A rustle on the other end. Sheets shifting, him sitting up quickly. You could picture him in his neat apartment somewhere in a quieter part of Tokyo, blonde hair slightly mussed for once, glasses probably already on. “You’re walking alone? At this hour? Tell me exactly where you are right now.”

You ignored the concern, too buoyed by liquid courage and the three-day-old memory burning in your chest. The side street was narrower here, lined with closed shuttered shops and the occasional vending machine humming softly. Fewer people, more shadows. But the alcohol made you bold.

“I wanted to tell you something important,” you continued, pushing off the lamppost and continuing your wobbly walk toward the brighter lights of the station a few blocks away. “After that phone call the other night… when you told me how you’d touch me… how thorough you’d be… I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Not once.”

“... You’re intoxicated,” he said carefully, but there was a new tension under the words. “We should talk about this when you’re sober.”

“But I mean it!” you protested, voice rising with drunken sincerity. Your free hand gestured wildly even though he couldn’t see. “I really like you, Kento. Seriously like you. Not just as the guy who stocks my fridge and sighs at my burned toast. Like… want-to-kiss-you-while-you’re-being-all-responsible like you. The kind that makes my stomach flip when you say my name all serious. After that call, everything feels different. I want more than check-in texts. I want you here. With me. Doing all the things you described and more.”

Silence stretched. You could hear his breathing. It was still measured but quicker now. When he spoke, his voice had dropped into that low, velvety register that had undone you before. “You’re making this very difficult to remain professional.”

“Good,” you laughed softly, the sound echoing down the quiet street. “Because I don’t want professional anymore. I want—”

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps behind you. Too close. You glanced over your shoulder, the pleasant buzz in your veins turning sharp with unease. Two men, their silhouettes in the dim light from a distant streetlamp had turned into the alley from the main road. One muttered something slurred about “pretty office lady walking alone” and “spare some cash?” The other laughed, low and unpleasant. They weren’t rushing, but they were closing the distance, weaving slightly like they’d had their own share of drinks.

Your pulse spiked. The station lights suddenly felt much farther away.

“Nanami—” Your voice cracked, the playful lilt gone. The alcohol made your reactions sluggish, your balance worse. “There’s someone… two guys behind me. They’re following—”

“Stay calm. Keep walking toward the station. Describe exactly what you see. Street signs, anything.” His tone shifted instantly to that sharp, commanding focus you’d heard only in true “emergency” moments. You heard him moving. Probably already pulling on clothes, keys jingling. “Do not hang up. I’m coming.”

One of the men called out louder now, voice thick with drink: “Oi, wait up! Just talk a minute!”

Your heart hammered. You tried to walk faster, but your heels caught on an uneven crack in the pavement. The phone nearly slipped from your sweaty palm. “Kento, they’re getting closer. I don’t—”

The line crackled as your grip faltered. A shout from behind. Your foot twisted, the same ankle you’d injured weeks ago, and pain shot up your leg. The phone tumbled from your fingers, clattering onto the wet pavement with a sharp crack.

The last thing you heard before the call cut off was Nanami’s urgent voice slicing through the night: “Stay on the line! Tell me your location right now!”

Then silence. Just your ragged breathing, the approaching footsteps, and the distant hum of Shinjuku’s never-sleeping streets.

You scrambled to pick up the phone, screen now spiderwebbed with cracks, but it wouldn’t light up properly. Panic cut through the alcohol haze like ice water. The men were only a few meters away now, one reaching out with a sloppy grin.

Your back hit the cold wall of a shuttered shop as you pressed yourself against it, heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.

In the distance, you thought you heard the faint wail of a siren or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

But one thing was certain: Kento Nanami was already on his way.

And when he arrived, the “emergency contact” role was about to become something far more permanent.

The cracked screen of your phone lay face-up on the damp pavement, spiderwebbed lines glowing faintly with the last remnants of battery before it finally went dark. The alley smelled of old rain, cigarette butts, and the faint greasy residue from a nearby closed ramen stall. Neon from the main Kabukicho streets bled weakly around the corner. The pink and red reflections dancing in puddles. But back here, in the narrow gap between shuttered buildings on one of those quieter side streets, the shadows felt heavier. The kind of back alley locals warned about after midnight, where the bright chaos of Shinjuku’s entertainment district gave way to pockets of trouble.

Your back pressed hard against the cold metal shutter of a closed shop, the ridges digging into your spine through your thin blouse. The alcohol still buzzed in your veins, making your head swim and your injured ankle throb sharply where you’d twisted it again trying to hurry. The two men were only a few meters away now, their silhouettes swaying slightly from their own drinking. One was taller, wearing a rumpled jacket that looked like it had seen too many late nights; the other shorter, with a sloppy grin and a hand already reaching into his pocket. Maybe for a cigarette, maybe for something worse.

“Oi, come on, don’t be like that,” the taller one slurred in thick Japanese, stepping closer. “Just a little chat. You look like you could use some company walking home.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, the pleasant sake warmth turning to cold nausea. “I’m fine. My… my boyfriend is coming to pick me up,” you lied, voice higher than you wanted, trying to sound steadier than you felt. Your phone was useless now. Screen dead, no way to redial. The station lights seemed impossibly far, the distant roar of Shinjuku’s main streets mocking how isolated this narrow lane felt.

The shorter man laughed, low and unpleasant. “Boyfriend? Sure. Hand over your wallet and we’ll make sure you get there safe.”

Panic clawed up your throat. You edged sideways along the shutter, heel catching painfully on uneven pavement. The world tilted from the alcohol and fear combined. One of them lunged forward.

A new sound cut through the night: rapid, purposeful footsteps echoing from the alley entrance, moving fast. Then a voice that was calm, low, and edged with ice that sent a shiver down your spine for an entirely different reason.

“Step away from her. Now.”

Kento Nanami appeared at the mouth of the alley like a force of nature.

He must have run most of the way. His usually impeccable appearance was disheveled in a way you’d never seen: blonde hair slightly messy from the wind and haste, wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew, dress shirt untucked on one side beneath his hastily thrown-on coat, tie completely missing. His dress shoes that was still the polished ones from work had struck the pavement with sharp, deliberate clicks. Even breathing harder than normal, his expression was carved from granite, golden-brown eyes locked on the two men with terrifying focus. In his right hand, he held his phone like a lifeline; in the left, keys clenched so tightly the metal bit into his palm.

The men turned, surprised. The taller one sneered. “Mind your own business, suit. This doesn’t concern—”

“It concerns me.” Nanami’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The quiet authority in it. The same tone he used when establishing “emergency protocols” or describing exactly how he’d touch you over the phone made the air feel heavier. He closed the distance in long strides, positioning himself between you and the two strangers without hesitation. His broad frame blocked most of the dim light, casting you partially in his shadow. “She is under my protection. Leave.”

The shorter man laughed nervously, but there was uncertainty now. “Protection? Who the hell are you?”

“Her emergency contact.” Nanami adjusted his glasses with one finger, the gesture so familiar it was almost absurd at this moment. But his eyes never left them. “And if you take one more step toward her, this becomes a matter for the police. I already have your descriptions and the exact location recorded.”

He lifted his phone slightly. Screen still lit, showing an active call to emergency services on speaker, the operator’s faint voice asking for updates in the background. He must have dialed them the second your call dropped, multitasking while racing across Tokyo from Minato. The drive was only supposed to take around ten minutes in light traffic, but at 1:30 AM with him pushing every limit, he’d clearly abandoned the car at the nearest possible point and ran the rest on foot through the bustling streets.

The men exchanged glances. The taller one muttered a curse, sizing Nanami up. Tall, composed, radiating the kind of restrained strength that came from years of quiet discipline. Whatever they saw made them back down. “Tch. Whatever. Not worth it.”

They shuffled off, disappearing around the corner with grumbled complaints fading into the night noise of Shinjuku.

The moment they were gone, Nanami turned to you.

His expression cracked just slightly. The granite facade gave way to something raw: relief mixed with lingering fear, concern so deep it made his brow furrow. He crossed the remaining steps in an instant, one hand gently cupping your elbow to steady you while the other brushed a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was quieter now, but still edged with that urgent focus. His eyes scanned you head to toe. Checking for injuries, noting the way you favored your ankle, the flush of alcohol and adrenaline on your cheeks. “Your phone cut off. I heard the fear in your voice. I came as fast as I could.”

You nodded shakily, the adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the immediate danger was gone. Tears pricked at your eyes partly from fear and partly from the overwhelming realization that he had dropped everything and sprinted through Tokyo’s night streets for you. “I’m… I’m okay. Just twisted my ankle again. And drunk. Really drunk. I’m sorry, Kento. I shouldn’t have walked alone. I was stupid and—”

“Shh.” He didn’t scold. Not yet. Instead, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from his body and carrying that familiar woody cologne. It enveloped you like a shield. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

He crouched slightly to inspect your ankle, fingers careful and clinical even as his touch sent warmth spreading through you. Then he straightened, sliding one arm behind your back and the other under your knees without asking. You were lifted bridal-style again, just like after the first twisted ankle weeks ago, but this time it felt different. More intimate. More necessary.

“I’m taking you home,” he said simply, already walking out of the alley toward brighter streets where he’d left his car illegally parked near a konbini. “No arguments. The police can handle the report if needed, but right now you need water, rest, and that ankle elevated.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. Still faster than normal from the run. The city lights blurred past as he carried you effortlessly, his steps sure despite the late hour and the lingering chaos of Shinjuku around you. Salarymen and night owls gave you curious glances, but Nanami ignored them all, focused entirely on you.

In the car, he buckled you in carefully, then drove with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching over to squeeze yours. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy with everything unsaid: your drunken confession still hanging in the air, the spicy phone call from nights ago, the way he’d come without hesitation.

When you finally reached your apartment, he carried you inside again, set you gently on the couch, and disappeared briefly into the kitchen. He returned with water, painkillers, a fresh ice pack, and a small towel to wrap it. Then he sat beside you, close enough that your thighs touched.

“You said some things on the phone,” he began quietly, adjusting his glasses as he looked at you. His voice had softened, the emergency mode easing into something warmer, more vulnerable. “About liking me. Seriously.”

You swallowed, the alcohol making you honest even as embarrassment crept in. “I did. And I meant it. After that call… after all the times you’ve shown up for me, even when it was just burned toast or a late walk… I realized it’s not just responsibility for you anymore. At least, I hope it’s not.”

Nanami was quiet for a long moment, then reached out and took your hand properly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “It stopped being just a responsibility a long time ago.” He met your eyes steadily, the gold in them catching the soft lamp light. “I intend to continue showing up. Not because of a form you filled out. Because I want to. Because the thought of anything happening to you…”

He trailed off, then leaned in slowly to give you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he kissed you. Soft at first, almost testing, then deeper as weeks of tension finally broke. His hand cupped the back of your neck with that same careful thoroughness he’d described over the phone, lips warm and sure against yours.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he murmured, “We’ll talk more when you’re sober. But for now… rest. I’m staying right here.”

You smiled, exhausted but glowing, curling into his side as he pulled a blanket over both of you. The real emergency hadn’t been the alley, or the twisted ankle, or even the drunken walk.

It had been falling for your emergency contact.

And tonight, he had proven he would always come running.

The morning after the alley incident dawned soft and gray over Tokyo, the kind of quiet Saturday where the city seemed to breathe a little slower. Pale light filtered through the curtains of your Shinjuku apartment, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Your head throbbed faintly from the lingering sake, but the ice pack Nanami had carefully reapplied twice during the night had done wonders for your ankle. You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something savory. It was miso soup, rice, and the faint sizzle of eggs.

Kento was already in your kitchen, moving with that familiar, quiet efficiency. He wore the same dress shirt from last night, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the top two buttons undone. His hair was slightly tousled from sleep on your couch, glasses perched on his nose as he plated breakfast with surgical precision. When he noticed you stirring, he glanced over, expression softening in that subtle way only you seemed to recognize now.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and warm. “How’s the ankle? And the head?”

“Better,” you murmured, sitting up slowly. The blanket he’d tucked around you smelled like him. “Thanks to you. Again.”

He brought the tray over without comment, settling beside you on the couch. You ate together in comfortable silence, the events of last night hanging between you like a shared secret. The drunken confession, the fear in the alley, the kiss that had finally bridged weeks of slow-burn tension.

After breakfast, he helped you to the small dining table where a fresh stack of paperwork waited. The university annex had sent over updated insurance forms via email, asking you to confirm or change your emergency contact.

You picked up the pen, glanced at him, then wrote without hesitation:

Name: Kento Nanami Relationship: Partner

He watched you slide the form across the table. When he saw what you’d written, the corner of his mouth twitched.The closest thing to a full smile you’d ever coaxed out of him.

“Good,” he said simply, adjusting his glasses. Then, quieter: “Very good.”

The rest of the day passed in gentle domesticity. He ran errands for more groceries while you rested your ankle. He changed the ice pack, massaged the swelling with careful hands, and didn’t complain once when you teased him about his overprotective rules. But beneath the easy rhythm, the air crackled with unfinished business. The memory of the phone call three nights ago lingered. His rough voice describing exactly what he’d do if he were here. The way he’d lost control just enough to groan your name. The kiss last night had only been a promise.

By evening, the tension had grown thick enough to taste.

You were both on the couch again, a movie playing softly on the TV as background noise. Your legs were draped over his lap, his hand resting possessively on your thigh just above the knee. The city lights outside painted shifting patterns across the walls.

“Kento,” you said softly, turning to face him. “About that phone call…”

He stilled, thumb pausing its slow circle on your skin. His eyes met yours. Steady, but with heat banked behind the calm. “Yes?”

“I meant every word I said when I was drunk. And I want… what you described. Not over the phone this time.” Your voice dropped, bold but vulnerable. “I want you here. Thorough. Like you promised.”

Nanami exhaled slowly, the sound shaky with restraint. He set the remote aside and turned fully toward you, one large hand cupping your cheek. “Are you sure? You were injured last night. The alcohol—”

“I’m sober now. Ankle’s manageable. And I’ve wanted this since you first carried me like I was something precious.” You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Please.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you then. Deep, deliberate, nothing like the tentative brush from the night before. His mouth moved against yours with focused intent, tongue tracing your lower lip until you opened for him. The taste of him flooded your senses. His free hand slid up your thigh, under the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’d changed into, fingers splaying warm and steady against bare skin.

When he pulled back, his voice was rougher, that controlled baritone edged with hunger. “Bedroom. Now.”

He didn’t wait for you to stand. In one smooth motion, he lifted you bridal-style again, carrying you the short distance to your bed as if you weighed nothing. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow through the curtains and the soft lamp on the nightstand. He laid you down gently on the sheets, then straightened to remove his glasses, setting them on the bedside table with careful precision.

You watched, breath catching, as he unbuttoned his shirt slowly, revealing the lean, toned torso you’d only imagined during those late-night calls. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the faint trail of hair leading downward. He was beautiful in that quiet, powerful way. Every movement efficient yet charged with restrained desire.

Nanami climbed over you, caging you with his arms. His mouth found your neck, kissing a slow path down to your collarbone while his hands worked the hem of your t-shirt upward. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured against your skin. “I need to know exactly how you feel.”

The shirt came off. Cool air met heated skin as he took his time looking at you. Eyes dark with want, but still so focused, so devoted. “Beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then his mouth was on you again, lips closing around one nipple while his hand palmed the other, thumb circling until you arched with a soft moan.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly. “Kento… more.”

He obliged with that same thoroughness he applied to everything. His hands mapped every inch of you. Sliding your shorts and underwear down your legs, careful of your ankle. Fingers traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing higher until they brushed where you were already slick and aching.

“So wet already,” he murmured, voice low and approving. One finger slid through your folds, circling your clit with deliberate, slow pressure. “Is this what you imagined during the call?”

“Yes—” The word broke into a gasp as he pressed one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right while his thumb continued its steady rhythm. He watched your face the entire time, cataloging every hitch of breath, every tremble. “Just like that… God, your hands—”

“My hands are only the beginning.” He kissed down your stomach, settling between your legs. The first touch of his tongue made your hips jerk. He held you steady with one arm across your waist, licking and sucking with focused precision. Alternating between broad strokes and tight circles until your moans filled the room. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. “You taste even better than I imagined.”

Pleasure coiled tight and fast. Your thighs trembled around his shoulders as he worked you higher, fingers pumping steadily while his mouth devoured you. “Kento— I’m close—”

“Come for me,” he commanded softly, the same authoritative tone from the phone call now delivered in person. “Let me feel it.”

You shattered with a cry of his name, back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through you. He didn’t stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, only then kissing his way back up your body.

When he reached your mouth again, you could taste yourself on his lips. His erection pressed hot and heavy against your thigh through his slacks. You reached down, palming him through the fabric. “Your turn. I want you inside me.”

Nanami made a low sound in his throat and shed the rest of his clothes with efficient movements. He was thick, hard, the sight of him making fresh heat pool between your legs. He rolled on a condom from his wallet (always prepared), then positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance.

“Slow at first,” he promised, echoing his words from the call. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

He pushed in gradually, stretching you deliciously. Both of you groaned at the sensation. When he bottomed out, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “You feel incredible.”

Then he began to move with deep, measured thrusts that built steadily. One hand braced beside your head; the other gripped your hip, angling you just right so every stroke hit that perfect spot inside. His pace was controlled but relentless, the way only Nanami could be by being utterly focused on your pleasure.

You wrapped your legs around him (careful of the ankle), nails digging into his back as the coil wound tight again. “Harder… Kento, please—”

He obliged, hips snapping with more force while still keeping that devastating rhythm. Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed together. His mouth claimed yours in a messy kiss, swallowing your moans. “That’s it. Say my name again.”

“Kento!” You came a second time, clenching around him hard enough to pull a broken groan from his throat. He followed moments later, burying himself deep with one final thrust, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the condom with a low, satisfied sound that vibrated against your neck.

For long minutes afterward, you stayed tangled together, his weight a comforting press as he caught his breath. He pulled out carefully, disposed of the condom, then returned with a warm cloth to clean you both. Only then did he lie beside you, pulling you into his chest.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he murmured, echoing the words from the phone call, but this time with a fond, sated smile tugging at his lips.

You laughed softly at the familiar statement, tracing patterns on his chest. “But what a way to go. So… does this mean the emergency contact role is permanent?”

Nanami kissed the top of your head, arm tightening around you. “It was never just a role. From the moment you listed me, I was yours. And I intend to keep showing up for every emergency, every burned dinner, every late-night walk, and every night like this.”

He paused, then added with that dry humor you loved, “Though I may need to update the rules. ‘Anything that requires me’ now includes this. Frequently.”

You grinned against his skin. “Dangerous policy, Nanami Kento.”

“Worth it,” he said simply.

Outside, Tokyo continued its endless rhythm. Trains running, lights glowing, life moving forward. But inside your apartment, the world had narrowed to the steady beat of his heart under your cheek and the quiet promise of mornings, nights, and everything in between.

Your accidental emergency contact had become your everything.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

You walked.

That was apparently your great talent now…walking. Walking away from bars, from conversations and from Clark standing on sidewalks looking at you as though he could still fix things if he just chose the right sentence. 

Your eyes stayed unfocused on the crowd ahead of you while every muscle in your body held tension from the night before, your shoulders were stiff and your jaw sore from clenching it for hours without noticing. Metropolis moved around you at its usual merciless pace with horns blaring, women in pencil skirts marching to offices with coffee cups clutched like weapons and businessmen smoking outside newspaper stands and you drifted through all of it with the vague sensation that you had forgotten how to occupy your own body correctly.

Your steps finally slowed several blocks later when your attention snagged on a storefront window and there she was.

The dress stood on a mannequin beneath soft yellow lighting, navy blue with a full flowing skirt that dipped perfectly at the waist before spilling outward in expensive, dramatic folds. Pink details lined the collar, delicate enough to feel intentional instead of childish. Beside it sat the matching handbag and a hat perched at a jaunty angle that immediately summoned Ricky’s voice in your head.

‘Thank fuck someone convinced you not to wear those fucking hats of yours.’

You stared harder at the shoes…Now those were necessary, absolutely necessary.

You looked down at your own heels, the former Prada casualties of emotional devastation and sewer grates and narrowed your eyes thoughtfully. A woman could survive heartbreak, she could survive public intoxication, temporary imprisonment and accidental topless comedy but surviving ugly shoes? That was where dignity truly died.

You turned sharply, giving the storefront your back before your brain could start writing checks your bank account would mail back wrapped in funeral black. You had forty-five dollars and sticky coins. The phrase alone should’ve been enough to drag you toward financial responsibility because nothing about that outfit whispered good decision, it screamed future problem. So you forced yourself to keep walking, merging into the current of pedestrians and focusing on the back of whoever walked ahead of you.

Left foot, right foot…left foot…Don’t turn around.

So how, exactly, did you end up back in front of the same store twenty minutes later?

You stood there breathing hard, offended with yourself. “Predatory,” you muttered at the mannequin. “This is entrapment.”

Two hours later, after a quick shower in the boutique’s absurdly luxurious private dressing quarters, a fresh face of makeup and an entirely new outfit wrapped around your body with sinful perfection, you stepped back onto the street with your skirt flowing around your legs and your confidence artificially reconstructed by tailoring and lipstick.

Your eyes dropped toward the receipt in your hand. It read eight hundred fifty-one dollars and thirty-three cents. The amount was circled…Underlined, even.

You had needed to provide your address, your ID and what felt spiritually equivalent to a kidney before they finally allowed you to leave with it on. The saleswoman had smiled at you the entire time too, which made it worse. People should not look that elegant while financially ruining strangers.

Still, you looked incredible and if there was one thing your mother had accidentally taught you well, it was that devastation became significantly more manageable in a good outfit.

You folded the receipt and shoved it deep into your purse where numbers couldn’t hurt you anymore. You’d figure it out, you always did.

The taxi downtown cost another twenty dollars, which almost made you ask the driver to hit you with the cab instead but at least you remembered the name of the club.

The Talon looked completely different sober.

During daylight, the place lost most of its mystery. The neon sign appeared smaller, the stairs even steeper, the hallway narrower and considerably less glamorous than your drunken memory had painted it. You marched downstairs anyway, your new heels clicking sharply against the concrete, crossed through the hallway and stopped at the tiny window where the cigarette-smoking guy had been stationed the night before.

It was closed so you didn’t bother knocking. You just walked inside, oddly relieved you weren’t ten dollars poorer for the privilege.

“Hello?” you called out as your heels echoed through the empty club.

The smell hit first, it was a mix of stale alcohol, old smoke and industrial cleaner losing a long battle against decades of bad decisions. Then came the floor itself, tacky beneath your heels as you moved toward the stage, which looked smaller now and less magical. Without the crowd, without the laughter and lights blinding you into bravery, the stage barely reached your waist.

Strange how a platform could feel enormous one night and pathetic the next.

“What’s with the hat?”

You yelped, body whipping around so fast your purse smacked against your hip as you found the bartender from last night standing behind you carrying a large tub of glasses. Her eyes traveled slowly over your outfit, her expression caught somewhere between suspicion and slight disgust.

Your hand flew immediately to the top of your hat before you slowly removed it.

Satisfied, she walked past you toward the bar without another word and after one awkward second of standing there alone, you hurried after her. “Hi, uh…I’m–”

“Mrs. Kent,” she guessed immediately. The tub landed on the bartop with a loud clatter of glass against glass, before she pulled one out and started drying it casually while you approached.

“I took a cut of your earnings last night,” she informed you, motioning vaguely toward the stage with the towel. “Considering I coached you into getting a slot for that performance of yours.”

You laughed nervously and adjusted your grip on your purse. “I had low expectations anyway, so…” You shrugged weakly.

“Did you get enough to get home?”

“I assume not.” Your mouth flattened into a tight line. “Considering I woke up in a holding cell.”

You watched as she burst into laughter so suddenly she had to brace herself against the counter, shoulders shaking violently while she pointed at you with the glass still in hand. “You thought those cops were strippers, it was fucking hilarious.”

Your entire face drained. “I didn’t…” Your eyes widened in horror as you pointed urgently toward the stage. “I didn’t get naked up there, did I?”

She followed your finger thoughtfully. “Depends,” she answered carefully. “How well do you take lies?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you breathed, collapsing dramatically onto a bar stool. “When…exactly was that?”

While she talked, you slowly folded inward until your forehead rested on top of your crossed arms against the bartop. If you couldn’t see reality, perhaps reality would lose interest and leave.

“Uh…” She looked toward the ceiling as though replaying events chronologically required divine intervention. “Somewhere between seducing a drunk grandfather at the bar and talking about Mr. Kent for the third time.”

You groaned loudly from your position.

“Nobody could get you off that stage,” she continued cheerfully. “You had to be carried out–”

Your head snapped upward instantly. “Tits out?” you asked, horrified.

“Unfortunately,” she confirmed with a firm nod, studying you carefully afterward, probably checking if you were about to faint. “You could’ve mentioned you were a comic when I asked.”

“I’m sure I could’ve said lots of things,” you muttered, forcing yourself upright again with whatever remained of your dignity. Your hands crossed protectively over your new purse. “And I’m not.”

Her brows furrowed as she gestured toward the stage again. “Then what was that?”

You snorted tiredly. “Heartbreak? I don’t fucking know. I was drunk.”

She shook her head immediately. “You don’t hold a room like that by accident.”

“I exposed myself,” you reminded her, pointing directly at your chest. “There’s nothing accidental about that.”

“You don’t get it.” She tossed the towel over her shoulder and leaned against the bar properly now, watching you with the patience of someone preparing to explain gravity to a particularly stubborn child.

“What’s there to get?” you asked, almost laughing at how serious she suddenly looked standing behind that sticky bar with rolled sleeves, as though she were about to deliver life-altering wisdom instead of liquor recommendations.

She planted both palms on the bartop. “Last night doesn’t happen anymore, definitely not unannounced in shitty bars.”

You blinked at her.

“The business changed,” she continued, now waving the towel vaguely toward the empty stage behind you. “The comics changed. Everybody’s either angry, smug, too politically shallow or trying so hard to sound detached they forget to actually be funny. Nobody gets up there and bleeds anymore.” Her eyes narrowed on you. “Last night you had people crying laughing while simultaneously wanting to fistfight whoever broke your heart. That room defended your stage time like union workers protecting pensions. Last night was special.”

“It was special, alright,” you replied dryly, fiddling absently with the clasp of your purse. “I probably lost one of the most important people in my life and also my phone, which I’d really love to get back considering I cannot financially survive replacing it.”

She pointed suddenly toward your dress. You frowned and looked down…at the still attached tag, hanging there in plain sight beneath the sleeve like a little paper flag announcing financial instability dressed as elegance.

“What’s that then?” She asked, folding her arms.

“Half the reason I can’t afford said new phone,” you muttered, yanking the tag free with enough aggression to qualify as vengeance. “Six hundred and thirty dollars out of my eight hundred fifty-one dollars and thirty-three cents purchase…with tax.” You held the tag up between two fingers. “Which I need to pay back in two weeks or my next fun evening will end with a judge asking if I understand the charges.”

She stared at you for a long second. “Don’t you live in Midtown?”

You nodded cautiously.

“Can you afford that?”

You genuinely considered lying. Your pride stepped up confidently, took one look at your bank account and quietly sat back down. So after half a second, you slowly shook your head.

Her face tightened with fascinated concern, the same expression people wore while approaching raccoons. “What do you do?” she asked.

You frowned. “What do I do?”

“Yeah,” she said impatiently. “When you’re not flashing my customers for cab fare. Work.... employment…taxes? Human suffering under capitalism. Ringing any bells?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Her voice jumped an octave. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. I’ve never–”

Her jaw dropped open, actually dropped like in old cartoons. “You’re twenty-five and you’ve never worked?!” The disbelief ricocheted around the club. “How do you live?”

You sighed heavily and rubbed your forehead. “A trust fund.” Then immediately pointed at her. “Could I please get my phone back before this conversation becomes legally humiliating?”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, it just lacked detail…massive detail…catastrophic detail but usually “trust fund” ended conversations nicely because people either got judgmental or jealous and both outcomes usually involved them shutting up eventually.

Apparently the woman before you preferred follow-up questions.

“How much money is in this trust fund?” she muttered while crouching behind the bar to rummage through boxes, her voice muffled beneath the sounds of shifting cardboard and clinking glass. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems to be doing a terrible job at funding your lifestyle.”

“Nobody asked it to perform miracles,” you replied under your breath.

“What’s the point of having a trust fund if you still end up shaking your tits onstage?” she called out.

“Nobody forced me to–”

“You were out of cab money!” she shouted back, emerging from beneath the counter carrying a box overflowing with phones. “Trying to get back to your amazing fucking Midtown apartment–”

“You’re making me sound awful.” You said flatly.

“Great! Because I’m jealous of you!” she shot back immediately, dropping the box onto the counter between you. “You wear stupid hats and six-hundred-dollar dresses and don’t have a job!”

You immediately started digging through the phones. The sooner you found yours, the sooner you could leave. “Why am I digging this deep?” you complained. “I was literally here yesterday.”

“Jackie likes to mix them up,” She answered with a dismissive wave before resuming her rant. “So what, you just tap a card and walk around buying hats all day?”

“Where is my phone?!” you snapped, holding up three identical black flip phones like evidence in a murder trial.

“What date’s on the box?”

“What?”

“There should be a date written somewhere on the side.”

You twisted the box around awkwardly until you found faded marker along the cardboard. “Uh…” Your eyes narrowed. “November…2005?” You looked up slowly. “You had me digging in a graveyard, what the fuck?”

“Oh.” She winced. “Wrong box. Give me that.”

She made a grabby motion with her fingers until you handed it over. Then she crouched again, muttering to herself while digging around under the counter like a woman searching through archaeological ruins instead of club property.

“This place is a fire hazard,” you informed the room.

“No argument here.” A second box appeared above the counter. “Try this one.”

And there it was. Your phone sat right on top of a small mountain of abandoned devices, looking strangely accusatory for an object that had spent the night in storage. You snatched it up immediately and turned it on. It had twenty percent battery and many, many missed calls, texts from Jimmy, Cat…Clark.

Your thumb hesitated before tapping into the thread and the deeper you scrolled, the worse your stomach felt.

Where are you?

Please answer.

Jimmy said you left alone.

I’m looking for you.

Sweetheart please just text me back.

Your throat tightened. You could practically hear him in every message, they were careful at first, then increasingly worried, probably typing faster than he usually did, sentences getting shorter as the night dragged on.

Your brain started spiraling immediately. You pictured him searching every street in Metropolis while you were somewhere yelling about dentistry and accidentally exposing yourself to strangers.

“How does it feel to be rich?” The woman behind the counter asked suddenly.

You startled so hard you nearly dropped the phone. With unnecessary speed, you shut it off and shoved it into your purse before looking back at her. “What’s your name again?”

She blinked. “Susie.”

You nodded once, hopped off the stool and offered her a smile so tight it barely qualified as one.

“Susie,” you said carefully, “when you find that out, you let me know.”

Her face softened a little at that…Well, she still looked abrasive enough to fight a parking meter but the sharpness around her eyes loosened.

You held her gaze another second before turning and heading toward the exit, chasing the fresh air waiting outside before your thoughts could start eating each other alive again.

Then you stopped halfway to the door, spun around and marched back in.

Suzie looked up immediately as you stormed towards her, snatched the forgotten hat off another stool and jammed it back onto your head with wounded dignity.

“I forgot my stupid hat,” you muttered before turning sharply and walking back out again, heels clicking furiously all the way up the stairs.

You made your way home for the first time in what felt like centuries instead of hours, exhaustion sitting deep in your bones beneath the adrenaline and leftover alcohol. The city had sobered around you while you still felt slightly untethered from reality, your new heels clicking sharply against cracked sidewalks as if they belonged to a woman significantly more composed than you currently were. 

By the time you reached your apartment building, your feet hurt, your makeup felt too tight on your skin and your stupid expensive hat kept threatening to slide off every time the wind picked up.

The front door to the building was broken again, hanging permanently ajar with the exhausted resignation of something that had given up begging for maintenance months ago. You stepped inside and immediately caught the familiar scent of old pipes, radiator heat, cigarettes and somebody cooking onions three floors too early in the morning.

The elevator, naturally, still didn’t work. You stared at the rusted metal doors for a long second anyway, just in case the building had chosen today to surprise you with progress but nothing happened.

“Fantastic,” you muttered. “Wonderful. Love doing cardio after devastation.”

Then you started climbing six flights of stairs in heels because suffering had become a hobby.

The higher you climbed, the stranger the building felt. Every floor looked crowded, cluttered with half-packed boxes and old furniture pushed carelessly against hallway walls. Lamps, chairs, rolled rugs and framed photos leaning against peeling wallpaper. You greeted neighbors as you passed them, smiling automatically while realizing with increasing concern that you had never actually seen most of these people before.

That alone felt embarrassing.

You had lived in this building for a year and somehow remained the woman who smiled politely in hallways while learning absolutely nothing about anybody around her. Meanwhile these people apparently had children, cats, bad marriages and dining tables they were currently dragging toward stairwells.

Every floor looked the same with boxes stacked outside apartment doors, belongings spilling into hallways and entire lives being condensed into cardboard…and worse, you started recognizing some of it.

The floral chair from apartment 3B. The old record player from downstairs. Mrs. Hernandez’s ceramic rooster collection sitting beside a pile of winter coats.

Your pace slowed, then quickened again the moment you reached the fifth floor and heard muffled struggling followed by a loud thump and a frustrated curse echoing down the hallway.

You started moving faster and that’s when you saw her.

“Imogene,” you blurted, eyes widening at the absolute disaster spread across the hallway between your apartments. Boxes towered everywhere, her front door propped open by furniture and overstuffed bags while she struggled to drag another cardboard box across the floor using all the strength of a woman built primarily from enthusiasm and caffeine.

She looked up immediately and gasped. “New outfit?” she asked brightly, brushing hair from her face before smiling at you with genuine delight. “I liked what you wore last night.”

Your eyes dropped briefly toward the dress.

“The store’s technically holding it hostage until I pay this off,” you admitted distractedly before shaking yourself back into focus. “Wait, where the hell are you going?” You gestured wildly around the hallway. “What’s all this?”

You leaned slightly past her and peeked into the apartment.

Everything was wrapped. The couch, the dishes…even her lamps were covered in newspaper and half the bookshelves were already empty. The place looked gutted, stripped of its warmth.

Imogene let out a tired laugh and disappeared back inside before emerging with another box balanced awkwardly against her chest.

“Should I start with the part where I can’t afford the apartment anymore,” she asked, breathless, “or the part where I can’t afford movers either?”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“A bunch of us terminated our leases.” Her voice lost some of its usual brightness as she nudged the box higher in her arms. “The conditions aren’t getting better and rent’s gone up three times this year alone.”

She stopped beside you and motioned with her chin toward a folded letter sitting on top of the box. You grabbed it automatically and unfolded the paper before reading it once.

Then again…and then a third time because surely your eyes were malfunctioning. Your attention kept snagging on the number printed near the bottom.

“Were you paying that?” you asked quietly, angling the paper toward her as if maybe she’d deny it. “Were you all paying that?” Your voice thinned near the end.

Imogene blinked at you then slowly tilted her head. “Are you not?”

You looked back down at the paper, then at her, then back at the paper again. “Will you take a ten-minute break?” you asked suddenly, already backing toward the stairs before she could answer. “I’ll come back down and help!”

“You don’t have to beg!” she called after you while dragging herself back into the apartment before collapsing dramatically onto her couch.

“What a way to spend a Sunday morning,” she groaned to herself.

You were already running upstairs.

Your hat nearly flew off twice as you climbed, purse smacking violently against your hip while the lease agreement crinkled angrily in your fist. By the time you reached the eighth and final floor, your chest burned and your temper had escalated into something holy.

The eighth floor belonged entirely to one person. The landlord’s son occupied the whole damn level while everyone else downstairs rationed square footage and shared plumbing trauma.

You started pounding on his door hard enough to rattle the frame, your knuckles stinging immediately beneath the force of it. When it finally swung open, you nearly punched him by accident because your body had fully committed to violence before your brain caught up.

He stood there holding a phone to his ear, startled enough that he instinctively stepped backward and opened the door wider.

You marched straight inside without invitation, heels striking the hardwood furiously while your chest still heaved from the stairs.

He laughed awkwardly into the phone. “No, man, the Metropolis Sentinels had that game. I won fair and square. If you’re too much of a pussy to pay the–”

You grabbed the phone directly out of his hand and launched it back into the hallway before kicking the door shut.

“What the fuck is your issue?” he demanded, voice pitching upward from shock.

“What’s my issue?” you repeated incredulously, waving the lease agreement directly in his face. “You misogynistic, green-bill-sucking prick, this is my issue.” You shoved the paper closer. “I want my lease and proof of payment for the last year. All of it. Now.”

“I’m busy,” he muttered weakly, motioning vaguely toward the front door and presumably, his phone lying somewhere beyond it.

“You were busy,” you corrected. “I solved that problem for you.”

You pointed toward the couch and he stared at you for one long second before finally moving toward his laptop with the exhausted posture of a man realizing this confrontation was no longer optional.

Meanwhile, you started pacing around the apartment…and noticing things.

“Oh, I see you don’t have a shower in your kitchen,” you called out loudly while wandering farther inside. “How lovely!”

You entered the hallway and froze dramatically.

“A hallway!” you exclaimed. “Wow. Incredible concept.” You started counting doors out loud. “One…two…three…four…five?”

Your voice echoed through the apartment while he hunched miserably over his laptop.

“And the paint isn’t peeling!” You dragged your fingers across a perfectly smooth wall. “Do you know my walls sweat when it rains?” You walked back toward the living room slowly, taking in the massive couch, the expensive rug and polished shelves. “It’s incredible being able to fit a couch in your home, isn’t it?” you asked sweetly, stopping beside him just as he turned the laptop around.

“Here’s your–”

“Give me that.” You snatched the laptop straight out of his hands before he finished speaking and immediately started walking while reading, forcing him to trail after you through his own apartment like a chastised assistant.

Two thousand eight hundred and sixty dollars…monthly.

2,860$.

You stared at the number so long it almost stopped looking real, your eyes tracing over it again and again while your brain desperately searched for the punchline. There had to be one, maybe an extra digit or a decimal point in the wrong place. Maybe Garrett was running some deeply illegal side business involving money laundering and emotionally devastating tenants because there was absolutely no universe where you had been paying nearly three thousand dollars a month to live in two hundred square feet with a shower positioned three feet away from your stove.

You looked up slowly.

“There’s…there has to be a mistake.” You pointed stiffly at the screen before turning the laptop toward him. “I haven’t been paying that.”

Garrett frowned at the screen, then nodded casually. “Uh…yes, you have.” He sat and leaned back into his couch, completely relaxed while your internal organs attempted mutiny. “Every fifth of the month, without fail. You even send it before invoices go out.”

Your brows furrowed hard enough to hurt. “I don’t get mail here.”

“Not from me.” He shrugged. “You always pay before I need to send anything over. No point wasting paper.”

“No, you don’t understand.” You shook your head, stepping closer with the laptop. “That money’s not–.”

“Lady, I don’t care if you have a sugar daddy,” he interrupted, looking you up and down with irritating confidence. “Honestly, considering I’ve never seen you repeat an outfit, I figured–”

“I don’t have a sugar daddy,” you snapped immediately, your voice cutting straight through his sentence. “And this fucking money isn’t mine.” You shoved the laptop back toward him hard enough to nearly drop it. “Is there a way to see who sends it to you?”

Garrett hesitated before taking back the laptop and clicking around through several tabs, muttering to himself while opening payment histories and digital copies of checks. You sat next to him impatiently, your heel tapping rapidly against the hardwood floor while your pulse climbed higher with every passing second before he stopped.

Your stomach tightened instantly as he slowly turned the laptop toward you…and there they were. Two names signed neatly at the bottom of every payment.

Your parents.

Your blood went cold so fast you swore you could feel it. For one dizzy second, your knees nearly buckled beneath you. You probably would’ve fainted too if you hadn’t been absolutely certain Garrett cleaned his belongings with expired milk and bad intentions.

You stared at the names while your thoughts crashed into each other violently.

Every argument and ignored phone call.

Every smug “How are you managing out there?” from your mother and every time your father asked if you were “done proving your point yet.”

Oh, they must’ve loved this. Funding your rebellion from a distance while waiting for you to crawl back home exhausted and grateful.

Garrett grinned from the couch, entirely too pleased with himself. “Looks like my mommy and daddy aren’t the only ones with money.”

You slowly lifted your eyes toward him, held his gaze then snapped the laptop shut directly on his fingers making him yelp loudly. 

“Get fucked, Garrett.” You stood and immediately marched toward the front door while he clutched his fingers dramatically behind you. “I’ll be gone by the end of the week!”

The door closed gently behind you despite your fury. Your mother had spent too much money on etiquette lessons for you to start slamming doors now. You stomped toward the stairs, muttering furiously under your breath while your mind spiraled around the realization that your entire independence had apparently been curated by your parents the same way museums handled fragile artifacts.

Then you spotted Garrett’s phone lying abandoned in the hallway. You stopped and noticed the screen was still lit.

“…Hello? Garrett?” a muffled voice called from the speaker.

Slowly, you bent down and picked it up. 

“Garrett?”

“Hey,” you replied sweetly. “Garrett’s a little busy right now, but he told me to place a bet on his behalf.”

There was a pause. “Uh…sure.”

You leaned your weight on one heel, smiling to yourself. “So tell me…what team’s guaranteed to lose?”

The man on the other end chuckled confidently. “Next game? Gotham Ravens for sure.”

“Great.” Your smile widened. “Garrett’s feeling brave today, so put ten grand on the Ravens winning.”

The silence between you stretched. “Are you sure?”

You looked toward Garrett’s apartment door then smiled wider. “Certain.” Your tone turned syrupy. “Have the day you deserve.”

You hung up immediately afterward, calmly dropped the phone onto the floor…and stomped on it with your heel. Once, twice…and one more for clarity and good measure.

You never listened much to those etiquette lessons anyway…

The screen cracked beneath your shoe with a satisfying crunch before you continued downstairs carrying the kind of peace usually associated with meditation retreats.

The rest of the day disappeared into cardboard boxes and staircases.

You helped Imogene carry half her apartment down six flights while she alternated between apologizing profusely and threatening to leave her mattress on the sidewalk for society to deal with. You watched her spend what little money she had left on taxis to a storage unit across town while you packed more dishes in newspaper and taped up boxes labeled things such as BOOKS?? and KITCHEN BUT NOT KNIVES.

At one point she cried over a lamp…at another point you nearly died carrying a small bookshelf downstairs in heels because apparently neither of you possessed practical footwear?

By the time you finally dragged yourself back upstairs late that evening, your entire body ached. Getting into your apartment required turning sideways through the front door because of the clothing racks between your bed and the window and far from the sweaty walls.

Your apartment looked less like a home and more like a glamorous hostage situation sponsored by fabric but at least the toilet had its own room.

You dropped your purse onto the bed and stood there quietly for a moment, looking around at the life you had spent the past year constructing piece by piece. You had rented dresses out and sold others. You even auctioned off pieces you genuinely loved, all so you could afford what you believed was the cheapest independence available to you and the entire time, your parents had been secretly footing the bill.

You sat heavily onto the bed and let yourself fall backward until you were staring at the ceiling.

The mattress pressed tightly between the drafty window and the first rack of light-colored clothes because light fabrics faded slower in sunlight. Your darker dresses and delicate fabrics hung farther away, protected carefully from the afternoon sun that leaked through the cheap glass.

You stared upward long enough that the cracks in the ceiling started looking organized and almost readable. They read:

Option A: Go home.

Thank your parents for secretly financing your apartment and gracefully allow yourself to be married off to some rich, intelligent man whose hobbies probably included polo and disappointing women emotionally.

You groaned immediately and rolled onto your side toward the window.

Option B: Go running back to Clark.

Ask to move in with him. He’d say yes before you finished asking because…well, he’s Clark. Then you’d spend every morning pretending not to flinch every time Lois’s name entered a conversation while slowly dying inside over his delicious pancakes.

Horrifying.

You rolled again, now facing the rows of clothing hanging beside your bed.

Option C: Since selling your remaining valuable pieces wasn’t an option anymore, you could always dig your trust fund card out of wherever you’d hidden it, carefully tape it back together after cutting it up a year ago and finally use the obscene amount of money sitting untouched in your account…Untouched being a technicality. 

You hadn’t spent a single cent from it.

Your eyes narrowed thoughtfully…all that money, more than enough to solve every problem currently suffocating you, just sitting there and waiting for you to…

“Nope,” you announced firmly to the room before temptation could settle in properly.

You exhaled hard and faced the ceiling again, flopping back against the mattress dramatically. “I need a job,” you informed with grave seriousness.

The room remained silent. Though honestly, one of the coats looked judgmental.

It had taken an unreasonable amount of restraint not to run after you right there on the sidewalk Saturday morning, not to ignore the way your voice cracked around sincerity and grab your wrist before you disappeared into the crowd entirely. Every instinct in Clark had screamed to follow, to insist you stayed long enough for the two of you to talk properly before whatever this was stretched and soured over the following days.

It took even more effort not to show up at your apartment Sunday morning carrying flowers and enough baked goods to feed half your building. Clark knew you too well for that or at least, he thought he did.

He could usually read you with terrifying accuracy. You wore your emotions everywhere despite believing the opposite. They sat in the way you walked, in how loudly you closed doors, in whether your jewelry matched your mood or fought against it entirely. Half the time Clark swore he knew what you were thinking before you did and what had screamed at him Saturday morning, while you stood there barefoot and furious in smudged makeup and scraped-up Prada heels smelling faintly of smoke, alcohol, expensive perfume and the exact same shampoo you used in college, was painfully simple.

Stay away from me.

Clark hated it but loving you had always required patience and trust too, so he stayed away…at least physically.

The rest of the weekend disappeared into replaying every second of Friday night with painful precision. Clark sat alone in his apartment for hours letting the memories run through his head over and over until they practically sharpened into film reels. Every expression and laugh, every strange pause that suddenly seemed important now.

He’d picked you up Friday evening.

You made him wait on the third floor landing because, according to you, “it’s the cleanest one,” though Clark privately suspected that wasn’t the real reason. You had never invited him all the way to your apartment door, not once. He respected it without question because whatever embarrassment sat underneath that boundary clearly mattered to you.

You had nothing to be ashamed of. He knew your upbringing, knew the kind of wealth you came from so he understood what this life probably looked like through your own eyes. You had grown up surrounded by polished floors, a maid and a doorman and now you lived in a building where the walls groaned all year round and somebody permanently smelled faintly of burnt toast.

He also knew you, knew how stubbornly independent you could be once your mind latched onto something. You planted your feet and suffered through things long after anybody reasonable would’ve accepted help…except where fashion was concerned.

Fashion apparently existed outside the laws of human survival.

Clark could still hear your footsteps descending the stairs toward him that night. He counted them absentmindedly because listening to you had become second nature years ago. Forty-two steps total, interrupted briefly by the six softer ones across the landing between floors.

Then came the stumble between the fifth and fourth floor followed immediately by your irritated muttering.

“For fuck’s sake,” you had hissed somewhere above him, voice echoing down the stairwell. “If your relationship requires this much screaming maybe just break up and save us all the acoustic trauma.”

Clark smiled despite himself just remembering it.

Then you appeared and honestly, the sight of you nearly stopped his heart.

You wore a vintage cocktail dress he’d never seen before, fitted perfectly through your curves before flaring softly at the hips whenever you moved. Your heels matched the dress precisely because they always did, you treated color coordination with the seriousness of military strategy. Tiny clip-on earrings glittered beneath the hallway light and one of those miniature purses dangled from your wrist, the kind barely large enough to hold lipstick and emotional instability.

You looked beautiful…hopelessly, devastatingly beautiful and Clark, despite all his abilities, had never once developed immunity to you.

“Hey, you,” you greeted brightly once you spotted him waiting below.

Clark nearly missed the words entirely over the sound of his own heartbeat. He blinked hard, forcing himself out of the trance long enough to step toward you and offer a hand over the final few stairs. Officially it was to help you descend safely in those heels…

Unofficially, he just wanted you closer faster.

“You look–”

You immediately looked down at yourself before he could finish, smoothing your hands nervously over the skirt.

“Is it too much for a bar?” you asked with sudden concern. “Because if somebody spills alcohol on this dress, I will have a heart attack and I haven’t kept up properly with the whole writing-a-will thing.”

Clark opened his mouth to reassure you but you kept going, suddenly resting one solemn hand against his forearm as if discussing state matters.

“My dresses go to you,” you informed him seriously. “But only to stare at. I don’t want you stretching them with your…” You motioned vaguely at his chest. “You know. Outerworldly physique. So…strictly visual appreciation.”

He bit back a laugh.

“My shoes go to Mrs. Alston,” you continued, counting carefully on your fingers. “That way I can continue supporting her business posthumously if she decides to sell them.” You paused thoughtfully. “Though honestly she might just keep them, and good for her because I’d take them to the grave myself if there were enough room in a coffin for both me and my footwear collection.”

Clark’s mouth twitched immediately.

“But I also need enough space to roll over laughing every time my parents get proven wrong,” you added with complete sincerity, adjusting your purse higher onto your wrist. “Priorities.” Then you sighed dramatically. “Besides, the woman has arches older than some countries and still walks better than me in heels. She’s earned them…And any money you find in my pockets or purses goes to Ricky,” you added firmly. “But distribute it slowly. I don’t want him thinking I became a better customer after death. That feels emotionally manipulative.”

Clark laughed softly then, warm and helplessly fond. “You’re never too much,” he told you, voice gentler now. “And you’re not dying.”

You looked unconvinced, then his eyes lifted toward the top of your head and he frowned immediately. “No hat?”

You straightened proudly. “No hat tonight. I’m exploring my horizons.”

Gosh. Clark genuinely thought he could melt straight through the staircase. His brows lifted as he fought a smile. “Does this bold new era mean we can eat at the bar instead of going to an actual restaurant first?”

You gasped in genuine offense. “No. I’m not a savage.”

You brushed past him dramatically, heels clicking down toward the next landing while Clark stayed frozen for one disastrous second trying to recover from how pretty you looked when pretending to be outraged.

Then your voice floated back up the stairwell. “Wait,” you called, turning halfway toward him. “You’re taking me to dinner?”

Clark finally started moving again, following after you while trying not to think too hard about how domestic that sounded coming from your mouth. “You handle martinis better on a full stomach,” he answered carefully.

He heard your smile before he saw it.

“You know me so well…it’s infuriating.”

Now it was Monday and Clark sat at his desk with his office phone pressed to his ear, listening to hold music that had looped so many times since nine in the morning that it had stopped sounding musical altogether and evolved into psychological warfare. The same tinny instrumental melody dragged through the receiver while he stared blankly at his computer screen, one elbow planted on the desk and the other hand rubbing slowly at his jaw hard enough to leave it pink.

“Hello?” the voice on the line finally asked.

Clark straightened immediately, blinking himself back into the present so fast his chair squeaked beneath him. “Yes. Yes, hello, I’m still here.”

“You said the heels were brown Strada?” the man repeated, his accent thick enough that Clark could practically hear the shrug accompanying it.

Clark closed his eyes for half a second. He looked down at the legal pad covered in increasingly desperate notes written in his own cramped handwriting. 

“Prada,” he corrected carefully for what had to be the tenth time. “They were Prada. Black leather.” He glanced at the translation open on his phone beside the keyboard before attempting the French again with disastrous pronunciation. “Uh le…le cuir. Cuir,” he repeated slowly, sounding deeply unconvinced in himself as he rolled his chair even closer to the monitor. “Your website says they’re still available. I can give you the product number.”

On the other end came a long thoughtful hum delivered with devastating Frenchness, which somehow worried Clark more than outright rejection.

“I can pick them up today,” Clark continued quickly, lowering his voice despite nobody paying attention to him anyway. “Paris, right? I can make it.” His eyes flicked toward the watch on his wrist automatically while calculations started running through his head. “Twenty minutes. Thirty tops and I can tip you…thirty percent?” He hesitated. “Do you guys do that kind of thing?”

Another pause. Then, “Désolé, monsieur. The website has not been…” Papers shuffled somewhere near the receiver. “…comment on dit…updated. Voilà, we are very sorry. Bonne soirée.”

The line went dead before Clark could answer. He sat there another second staring at the phone before slowly pulling it away from his ear. “H-Hello?”

Nothing.

Clark exhaled heavily through his nose and leaned back into his chair with the sort of careful restraint usually associated with men trying not to punch drywall. His eyes drifted toward the bright green word still glowing mockingly on the website listing.

“Disponible.” Even he knew that meant ‘available’.

“Apparently not,” he muttered darkly.

He dragged both hands through his curls before letting them fall over his face for a moment while he thought. There had to be another solution. He could offer to pay for the repairs he had very accidentally noticed while he stood opposite you on the sidewalk that morning but you’d reject his money before he even finished the sentence. He could sneak into your apartment while you were gone, find the damaged heels and take them to be repaired himself.

That idea lasted approximately four seconds before he discarded it.

First of all, you would notice immediately if somebody touched your things. Clark genuinely believed you could detect disturbances in your apartment the way bloodhounds tracked scent trails. Secondly, you owned enough nearly identical shoes to turn the entire operation into a nightmare and he would absolutely bring back the wrong pair by mistake. Third…and this felt most dangerous, he could never take them to your regular shoe repair woman because eventually, months later, she would absolutely mention in passing that a six-foot-four broad-shouldered man had arrived looking deeply guilty while swearing her to secrecy over your shoes.

And finally, Clark valued his life.

He was almost certain you possessed the capability to kill him with your bare hands if you discovered he had interfered with your closet.

“Any luck?” Lois stopped beside his desk holding a coffee in one hand and a stack of papers in the other, eyeing him with growing suspicion while Clark sat there looking one inconvenience away from spontaneous combustion.

Clark sighed and rubbed both palms down his face. “No. The heels aren’t available anymore.” His shoulders sagged. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Lois frowned immediately. “I meant with tracking down the witness for my piece. You said you’d help.”

Clark went completely still.

Right…work. His job at the Daily Planet and his very human responsibilities. Keeping this job meant ‘money’, the thing required to buy replacement apology Prada heels.

“Right,” he said quickly, standing so abruptly his knee hit the desk. “Right, I’m on it.”

He started rifling through the disaster zone of papers scattered across his desk searching for the Post-it note he swore he’d written her information on sometime earlier that morning before becoming emotionally consumed by luxury footwear.

Lois watched him carefully while he searched. Her eyes drifted slowly toward his computer screen just in time to catch the fifteen open tabs displaying identical Prada heels before Clark panicked and started closing windows at superhuman speed disguised very poorly as normal typing.

“I could’ve sworn she already owns those shoes,” Lois noted casually.

Clark nodded once, distracted. “They got damaged the other night.” He swallowed. “I’m trying to…fix things.”

Lois leaned lightly against the edge of his desk, coffee still in hand and glanced toward the empty chair beside it. Your chair.

The one you occupied almost every morning when you burst into the newsroom overdressed and overcaffeinated, carrying gossip, complaints or existential crises while talking everybody’s ears off for an hour straight before wandering back out again. The bullpen always felt louder when you were there…easier too and now the chair sat untouched.

Lois checked the time on her watch before her gaze drifted toward Jimmy across the room. He had apparently been listening because the second their eyes met, he slowly widened his own and shook his head with deep seriousness.

“Don’t you dare ask,” Jimmy mouthed silently from across the bullpen, his expression grim enough to suggest national consequences if ignored.

So…naturally, Lois ignored him.

“Where is she, Clark?” she asked, setting her coffee down on Clark’s desk without bothering to ask permission first. “It’s almost ten. She’s never here after you.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Honestly, you’d think she got paid to arrive on time with how committed she is to barging in exactly three minutes before you sit down.”

Clark barely seemed to hear her. He was still searching through the same pile of papers he had already searched at least twenty times that morning, lifting folders only to stare blankly at whatever was underneath them before putting them back in entirely different places. There were sticky notes stuck to his sleeve, three pens uncapped beside the keyboard and an entire legal pad covered in names of luxury consignment stores across Europe.

He looked exhausted. Clark could survive weeks without sleep if necessary but this somehow looked worse…and emotional, which Lois didn’t do.

Finally, after another few useless seconds pretending to search for something that clearly wasn’t there, he exhaled heavily through his nose and looked up at Lois. “Couldn’t make it,” he admitted quietly before gesturing vaguely toward her. “Would you mind writing down again what you needed?”

Lois blinked. She had known Clark for years now, she had seen him walk calmly into interviews with dangerous politicians, survive impossible editorial deadlines and handle newsroom disasters with less visible defeat than whatever this was.

Her expression softened almost immediately.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said carefully. “I’ll figure it out. You just…” Her eyes flicked toward the ghost of the fifteen rapidly minimized browser tabs on his computer screen. “…keep doing whatever this is.”

Before Clark could answer, Cat entered the bullpen carrying her bag over one shoulder and immediately locked onto him the same way surgeons spotted active emergencies.

Clark straightened so fast hope practically radiated off him. “Cat, please tell me you found them–”

His voice died halfway through the sentence the second she shook her head. If he dropped back into his chair any harder, the darn thing was going to collapse before lunch.

“I’m sorry, Clark.” Cat grimaced sympathetically while setting her things down. “You know she’s terrifyingly good at finding rare pieces. I called everyone I know.” She crossed her arms. “Can’t you just get her something else?”

“Maybe a dress,” Jimmy offered carefully from his desk nearby, trying to sound useful. “Or a hat.” He nodded to himself, gaining confidence too quickly. “A fedora maybe…A very nice one. That ought to cheer her up.”

The silence afterward was immediate and devastating. Clark and Cat both looked at him with identical expressions usually reserved for witnessing small animals get hit by traffic.

Jimmy froze beneath the weight of their horror while Clark genuinely looked offended on your behalf.

Cat slowly lowered her empty coffee mug. “A fedora?” she repeated faintly.

Jimmy swallowed hard. “Isn’t that…” He looked between them nervously. “A style of hat?”

The look Cat gave him could’ve stripped paint off walls as Clark dragged one hand down his face.

Lois glanced between all of them now, her concern deepening rapidly as the atmosphere around Clark’s desk continued resembling hostage negotiations instead of workplace conversation.

“What is going on?” she demanded.

“They broke up.”

Steve appeared seemingly out of thin air directly behind Lois while sipping casually from his coffee mug, startling her hard enough that she physically lurched sideways.

“What are you talking about?” Lois snapped. “Broke up?”

Steve nodded solemnly. “Broke up,” he repeated. “Like the Beatles.” He took another sip. “Only worse because this affects me personally.”

“They didn’t break up,” Cat corrected immediately, refusing to allow terminology inaccuracies into the situation. “To break up they would’ve needed to actually be together first.”

Steve pointed dramatically toward the empty chair beside Clark’s desk and everybody looked at it…Clark specifically and the sight clearly hurt him spiritually.

“That feels like a breakup,” Steve insisted.

“It was more of an argument,” Jimmy corrected quickly, trying desperately to regain control of the narrative before Clark collapsed entirely. “A disagreement. That’s all.” He nodded too many times. “Right? We’re fixing it.” He looked toward Clark expectantly. “When she replies to our texts. Right, Clark?”

Clark did not answer. He stared down at his desk instead, jaw tense while everybody waited for him to reassure them and himself simultaneously.

The silence stretched long enough that even Lois stopped looking skeptical and started looking worried.

Steve cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped closer. “So…” he began cautiously, “am I still allowed to text her?” He pointed at himself. “I have a date tonight and I need fashion advice.”

Clark’s desk phone rang then and he practically attacked it. The receiver barely completed half a ring before Clark snatched it up so fast the cord nearly whipped off the desk.

“Yes, hello?” he answered immediately, voice carrying so much hope it made Jimmy wince sympathetically as everybody watched that hope die in real time.

Clark’s shoulders dropped inch by inch as whoever spoke on the other end continued talking.

“…Wrong desk,” he said eventually, quieter this time and hung up gently. The bullpen remained silent for another beat while Clark stared blankly at the receiver still in his hand before slowly placing it back down.

“She might not have found her phone yet,” he reasoned aloud, though the sentence sounded more directed toward himself than anybody else. “We don’t know.”

He had been trying not to overwhelm you. That was the problem. Every instinct in him screamed to go to your apartment, knock on your door and stay there until you opened it but the memory of your face outside the precinct kept stopping him cold. The exhaustion, the anger and the very clear don’t follow me written all over you.

So instead he had settled for restraint…and a handful of texts but no calls, or showing up uninvited with groceries and emotional support pancakes.

Clark was suffering immensely.

Lois stared at him with growing disbelief. “She doesn’t have her phone?” she repeated. “She checks auction sites more than I check the news.”

“She’ll answer eventually,” Jimmy offered weakly, though he sounded unconvinced now too.

Lois pointed directly at Clark. “Whatever you did, fix it.”

Clark looked vaguely stricken by the implication he had done something.

“Steve needs help,” Lois continued firmly, gesturing toward the man currently nodding solemnly into his coffee mug. “And we cannot all be single.”

Steve raised his mug slightly. “Morale’s already low.”

Lois inhaled deeply, visibly collecting herself and straightening. “Back to work. All of us.” except nobody moved. She narrowed her eyes then. “Now.”

Papers shuffled immediately across the bullpen while people reluctantly returned to pretending they were functioning professionals and not heavily invested in Clark Kent’s emotional crisis.

Clark stared at his computer another moment before quietly reopening the Prada tab.

You wore flats on Monday.

Not because they matched the outfit better, though they obviously did and not because your feet still hurt from the weekend, though they absolutely did. You wore flats because job hunting required stamina, resilience and occasionally the ability to flee with dignity from establishments pretending they’d “keep your résumé on file.”

You expected the day to go terribly…you had prepared for ‘terrible’. Still, you wore a cute dress and carried a structured little purse because unemployment was already humiliating enough without looking defeated on top of it.

By eleven in the morning, your optimism had died outside a bakery in Midtown.

You had walked up and down avenues for hours handing out résumés with the frantic determination of a suburban parent distributing Halloween candy nobody wanted. Except apparently the candy you were offering was sugar-free, joyless and made entirely from recycled fruit peels because nobody looked excited to receive it.

Most people barely glanced at the page before setting it aside politely. Some accepted it with the expression of someone being handed religious pamphlets in a parking lot and others skimmed the top line, saw your nonexistent work experience and immediately developed urgent tasks elsewhere.

At one point you realized you had been recycling the exact same copy of your résumé all afternoon because every employer kept handing it right back after pretending to read it. The edges had bent slightly by now and the paper no longer looked white to you and you had printed fifty copies.

Fifty.

There were currently forty-seven in your hands reminding you that apparently not even thrift stores wanted to hire a twenty-five-year-old woman whose primary qualifications included “good posture” and “knows the difference between ivory and cream.”

By lunchtime, desperation had started guiding your decisions.

You sat in a tiny coffee shop downtown and tried convincing yourself the refill they gave you tasted burnt because the beans were artisanal and not because the universe hated you. When they messed it up a second time, you briefly considered using your résumé to wipe the wet bottom of the mug out of spite and you actually did it too.

Then came the restaurant incident.

You had attempted to trick your way into speaking with the manager by pretending to ask detailed questions about wine pairings before casually pivoting into employment. Unfortunately, the manager had apparently been “on his way” for nearly an hour while you sat there slowly consuming a thirty-dollar pasta dish you absolutely could not afford anymore.

By the time he finally emerged from the kitchen only to say they “weren’t currently hiring,” you left with enough rage in your body to power small machinery.

You did not leave a tip…but you did leave a terrible Google review accusing the establishment of emotional negligence and overcooked linguine…which you deleted five minutes later while standing outside because guilt attacked quickly and viciously.

The afternoon continued in much the same fashion until eventually you discovered an awful truth…All roads in Metropolis somehow led back to the Daily Planet.

You stood across the street from the building staring up at it while taxis rushed past and your reflection floated faintly in the glass doors.

You could still turn around. Actually, you could sprint away if necessary because you were wearing flats, which made escape significantly more realistic than usual but if tomorrow resembled today even remotely, you were never going to find a job on your own. You needed help…advice and possibly divine intervention.

Unfortunately, all three of those things lived inside that building.

As you crossed the street, you prayed for several highly specific scenarios simultaneously.

Maybe Clark had left after lunch the way he usually did.

Maybe he’d called out sick, though the likelihood of Clark Kent oversleeping and simply deciding not to go to work ranked somewhere beside spontaneous meteor showers and pigs obtaining pilot licenses.

Maybe he was out saving someone.

Or maybe, and this possibility sat at the absolute bottom of the list, rancid and unwelcome, he had finally taken a personal day because Lois Lane had looked particularly good that morning and post-lunch temptation had apparently overpowered his fragile Kryptonian morals.

Yeah. Right…You nearly turned around again. You could run this time! And you had prepared.

Oh, you had prepared for Clark…Ever since the weekend, you had been operating under the assumption that he might appear at your apartment at any moment armed with concern and devastating eye contact, so you adapted accordingly.

You wore perfume he’d never smelled before. You wore dresses that hadn’t gone near your usual dry cleaner, mostly because you could no longer afford his services but also because Clark associated scents frighteningly well. The man could probably identify your emotional state by detergent alone. You also slathered yourself in heavily scented lotion in what felt less like skincare and more like predator evasion…and finally, and this part genuinely wounded your spirit…you wore a baseball cap.

A. baseball. cap.

You looked like a woman actively avoiding the media after committing tax fraud. Every time you accidentally caught your reflection in a window, nausea hit immediately. The cap alone felt criminal on your head, so you kept your eyes forward and pretended the sunglasses obscuring half your face also impaired your own vision.

You eventually slipped into the building or at least convinced yourself you had.

In reality, you probably looked deeply suspicious.

You knew the Daily Planet well enough to navigate it blindfolded, which only made your bizarre sneaking behavior worse. You kept your head down, walked quickly and avoided eye contact with such aggressive commitment that one intern physically stepped aside for you in alarm.

You made yourself smaller somehow despite the outfit, despite the purse and the fact that nobody in human history had ever described you as subtle.

The elevator ride nearly killed you. You stood in the corner clutching your purse and résumés while staring hard at the floor numbers, praying nobody from the bullpen stepped inside. The second the doors opened on Clark’s floor, you moved immediately but not toward the bullpen…absolutely not.

You took the long route to Perry’s office, which involved weaving through quieter hallways, ducking around corners and once crouching beneath a glass office window because you swore you heard Jimmy laughing nearby.

At one point you flattened yourself dramatically against a wall while an accountant walked past carrying folders but finally, after what felt like a hostage extraction mission, you spotted Perry entering his office muttering to himself while carrying a stack of papers beneath one arm.

Before he could fully close the door, you slipped into the office behind him with the speed of somebody avoiding both the IRS and confrontation. Your hand caught the edge of the door before it clicked shut and you gently but insistently pushed Perry farther inside while closing it carefully behind you, already twisting back toward the small glass panel to make sure nobody had seen.

“What the f–” Perry started around the cigar hanging from his mouth.

You shushed him immediately, one hand raised sharply while the other cracked the door back open two inches so you could peek through it. Reporters moved through the bullpen outside carrying folders and coffee cups and absolutely none of them seemed aware that you were currently conducting a deeply underfunded espionage operation in Perry White’s office.

Satisfied for the moment, you shut the door again and turned toward him dramatically.

“Perry,” you announced in a voice so unnaturally deep it scraped painfully against your throat. Dear fuck, you sounded like a detective from a radio drama who smoked tires recreationally.

His brows furrowed instantly, face twisting in confusion bordering on concern. You could see the exact moment recognition hit him and before he could say your name, you cut him off again with another aggressive shush.

“I’m here on official, very important business,” you informed him gravely. “I’d appreciate my identity being protected.”

Perry stared at you for a long second before slowly removing the cigar from his mouth. “Why are you talking like that?”

You cleared your throat hard enough to nearly cough up a lung and forced the voice lower again despite your vocal cords begging for mercy. “Secretive business,” you explained. “I have reason to believe figures associated with your current workplace are plotting against my client’s future success, emotional stability and potentially her very livelihood.”

You shoved the stack of résumés toward him with excessive seriousness.

“Furthermore,” you continued, “it appears my client is destined for greater things but is currently struggling to communicate that potential to the…” Your voice cracked midway through the sentence and collapsed fully back into your normal tone. “…working world.”

You winced, cleared your throat again and lowered your voice with renewed determination. “You, as a letter and…word professional, are uniquely qualified to tell me what’s wrong with that.”

Perry looked down at the résumés, then back up at you with absolutely no belief in anything currently happening.

You rolled your eyes and slid your sunglasses down just enough for him to see your face. “It’s me, Y/n.”

“I know it’s you,” he deadpanned immediately. “The only people dressing like that daily either live in Gotham penthouses or stand in front of cameras reciting lines approved by fourteen sober writers and one man named Leonard.”

He took another slow drag from his cigar while you sighed and dropped the ridiculous voice entirely before permanent damage occurred. “Can you just tell me what’s wrong with my résumé?”

Perry glanced back down at the pages in his hand. “You mean besides your name?” he asked honestly. “Because otherwise this is mostly decorative whitespace.”

Your frustration hit immediately. “No, it isn’t,” you argued, stepping closer to snatch one of the résumés back from him. “It has my education, I speak French and Russian, I’m excellent with textiles, I can cook…” Your words started picking up speed the more defensive you became. “I can identify archival runway pieces by touch alone and apparently none of that matters because I’ve walked half the city today handing these out and nobody wants them.”

You held the paper up accusingly. “I spent thirteen ninety-five printing these,” you informed him bitterly. “I’ve essentially been robbed in broad daylight by a copy shop.”

Perry shrugged without sympathy. “Why didn’t you print them here?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You can print things here for free.” He gestured vaguely around the office. “Long as I don’t catch you.”

Your jaw almost dropped. “Do you think I’d be dressed like this,” you hissed, motioning at the thrifted sunglasses and baseball cap currently destroying your style, “if I wanted to be seen entering this building?”

Perry narrowed his eyes slowly. “Right. Because my employees are apparently hunting you for sport.”

“Well…let’s keep all allegations hypothetical,” you muttered quickly. “I can’t afford a defamation lawsuit right now.”

“I was wondering why everyone turned their morning deadlines in on time,” he mused casually while taking a copy, handing the rest back to you and moving toward his desk.

You snatched them from his hand, removed the sunglasses fully and stared at him in disbelief. “So?”

Perry sat down heavily in his chair and looked over the résumé one more time with surprising attentiveness. “Visually? They’re fine,” he admitted. “You clearly know presentation but experience matters and right now you don’t have much of it.”

Your shoulders dropped slightly despite yourself.

“At your age, you’re missing about three years of practical work history,” he continued. “Nobody knows what to do with somebody whose qualifications are expensive taste and multilingualism.”

“That feels reductive.”

“It’s accurate.” He pointed at the paper. “Still, somebody’ll eventually take a chance on you. So keep trying.”

You nodded slowly even though the advice felt deeply unsatisfying considering you had hoped for a magical answer involving immediate employment and maybe free soup. “Great,” you muttered flatly. “Fantastic. Thank you for your wisdom, chief.”

You gathered that copy back into your stack and turned toward the door but paused before opening it, pointing sharply at him. “I was never here.”

Perry shrugged.

“And open a damn window or light a candle,” you added while wrinkling your nose. “This office smells like cigar ash and expired ambition and it’s seeping into your cashmere blend vest.”

You opened the door. Behind you, Perry looked down at his vest suspiciously before pinching the fabric between two fingers and lifting it to his nose. He frowned immediately.

“You’re not the boss of me,” he called out defensively.

“Clearly not,” you replied over your shoulder. “Since I lack experience.”

Then you shut the door behind you and immediately inhaled deeply once you hit the hallway again, the comparatively fresh air feeling heavenly against your lungs.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath while adjusting your cap lower over your face. “I need a cigarette.” And with that, you started toward the elevators again using the long route, peeking carefully around corners and avoiding the bullpen as if you were escaping federal surveillance.

Once you reached the elevator, you jabbed the button for your floor with enough force to suggest betrayal. Then you waited, very impatiently. Your leg bounced violently beneath your dress while you stared at the glowing numbers overhead as if hatred alone might drag the elevator upward faster. It sat one floor below yours for several agonizing seconds before finally groaning into motion and honestly, if modern technology had emotions, this elevator absolutely resented you personally.

When the doors finally slid open, the cab stood empty before you and relief hit immediately…clean, beautiful relief.

You stepped inside at once, pressed the button for the lobby and turned toward the doors while exhaling slowly through your nose. Your mission was almost over, you had survived the bullpen, Perry’s office, several near heart attacks and prolonged exposure to this baseball cap, which still felt spiritually offensive every time you remembered it was in contact with your scalp. Honestly, the possibility of lice had started sounding less upsetting than seeing your own reflection in it again.

The doors started closing and victory sat right there, just inches away…when a broad hand shot between the narrowing gap and stopped both metal panels with terrifying precision before they could meet fully in the center, the alignment so exact your mathematician father would’ve probably wet his pants at the mere sight of it.

Clark…of course.

He stepped inside calmly, pressed the button beside yours and took his place next to you while the doors résuméd closing before you both with a soft mechanical sigh that sounded suspiciously smug.

You were failing, catastrophically.

Your skin still felt sticky from the heavily scented lotion you’d practically bathed in before leaving your apartment, your dress scratched faintly against your waist because it hadn’t gone through your usual cleaner and your scalp had started itching beneath the cap approximately three minutes after putting it on. Your heart beat hard enough to qualify as a public announcement and the worst part, truly the very worst part, was that Clark could hear every single humiliating thud of it.

You adjusted your posture immediately and hugged the stack of résumés tighter against your chest.

“Hi,” Clark said softly. He kept his eyes ahead, which somehow made everything worse. He wasn’t looking at you because he clearly suspected direct eye contact might make you combust.

“‘Wassup,” you answered. The word felt disgusting leaving your mouth. Hell, you heard it yourself and apparently Clark did too because his head turned toward you almost instantly, confusion flashing across his face before he managed to hide it.

Clark looked you over as discreetly as possible. You smelled different, that itself was unfamiliar. Your perfume usually arrived before you did, expensive, soft and undeniably you. Now you smelled aggressively floral, like somebody had panicked inside a department store cosmetics aisle. Your dress looked less polished too, the fabric sitting differently across your body and…

“You’re wearing flats,” he noted carefully. Then his eyes lifted. “And a cap.”

His tone carried the same cautious concern people used while approaching injured deer beside highways.

“I’m aware,” you replied quickly and moved the résumés behind your back at once.

Clark’s brows lifted for half a second. “Has the vintage hat factory exploded?”

Your chest rose briefly. Fuck! There it was, that awful almost-laugh. Any other day, you would’ve laughed immediately and very loudly too. You knew it…Clark knew it and he also knew that you knew he knew it and suddenly the elevator felt approximately the size of a coffin.

“Funny,” you muttered flatly.

“What are you hiding?” he asked as he angled slightly, trying to look around you without making it obvious. He could’ve asked why you were acting suspicious. Why you were dressed like a woman evading both the media and tax fraud allegations and why you smelled so differently and looked exhausted and had avoided him for days but Clark knew you.

If you were hiding something, pressing too hard would only make you dig your heels in deeper…well, metaphorically speaking today since you lacked them. 

“Nothing,” you answered immediately. “Can you be normal for two seconds?” You turned and stabbed the elevator button again, once, twice and three times. “Why isn’t it moving?”

Despite every instinct warning him not to pry, Clark’s eyes dropped toward the stack behind your back anyway and widened almost immediately once he caught sight of the papers by using his annoyingly accurate x-ray vision.

“Are those résumés?”

You groaned and whipped toward him so fast the cap nearly slipped off your head again. “What the hell did you do to the elevator?” you demanded.

“Nothing.” Clark shrugged far too innocently.

You pointed aggressively toward him. “Clark Jonathan Kent, I swear to God if you’re making yourself heavier again to keep me trapped in here, I will scream so loud this entire building’s going to think we’re–”

“Are you looking for a job?” he interrupted and tried very hard not to sound stunned.

Unfortunately for you, Clark was absolutely making himself heavier, carefully enough so the elevator wouldn’t immediately fail but enough to stall the mechanism between floors. If he admitted that out loud, however, he’d also have to acknowledge the fact you had just used his full name and that alone threatened to turn his face pink and this was not the time to blush.

You stared at him, momentarily thrown by the question despite the fact you should’ve expected him to figure it out eventually. He could probably locate hidden government files by accident so hiding a stack of résumés behind your back inside a four-foot elevator never stood a chance.

“Can you not say it like that?”

He frowned. “Like what?”

“Like that,” you said immediately, motioning vaguely between the two of you. “With that weird inflection between the O and the B. It’s a job…Jobs are normal. I’m twenty-five, I should have a job. Jobs are good.”

The word started sounding less convincing every time you repeated it. You ripped the baseball cap off your head and crushed it in your hand with visible resentment.

Clark looked genuinely concerned now. “Why are you saying job so many times?”

You scoffed instantly. “Why are you saying it so many times?” Then you folded your arms tightly over the résumés before turning away from him altogether. “You already have one,” you muttered. “Respect the rest of us suffering through unemployment.”

He went quiet for a moment and you could practically hear him thinking, carefully choosing words the same way bomb squads approached suspicious wires.

“Why do you need a job?” he asked gently.

“Stop saying it like that,” you mumbled firmly.

He nodded once, considering again. Honestly, if preserving your dignity required him accepting responsibility for the weird tone, he would gladly take the fall.

“Okay,” he agreed softly. “Why do you need a J-O-B…question mark.”

You took a deep breath, mostly to buy yourself time, jaw tightening as the word landed anyway, spelled out and unavoidable. Smartass.

A believable lie required structure, confidence too and preferably less panic than whatever currently ricocheted through your nervous system every time Clark looked at you for longer than three consecutive seconds.

“Well…” you began carefully. “In an effort to become less like my mother, despite apparently inheriting her relationship with fashion at a genetic level, I’ve decided I won’t be financially supported by a man or a trust fund.” You nodded once, firmly and professionally. “So in order to fund my lifestyle, broaden my horizons and meet new people I can eventually classify as friends, I’m pursuing employment.”

There. Short, controlled and surface-level enough to survive scrutiny.

Clark nodded slowly, though his expression didn’t relax. He repeated your explanation silently in his head while watching you. You looked exhausted beneath the sarcasm and defensive posture, your heart still hammered unevenly against your ribs, fast enough he noticed immediately because he had spent years memorizing the ordinary sounds of you without really meaning to. Usually your heartbeat steadied around him but right now it stumbled all over itself.

So he chose his next words carefully. “What do you need from me?”

“Nothing.” You shook your head immediately. “Besides making yourself lighter and letting me off this elevator.”

Clark’s eyes stayed on you anyway because unsurprisingly, he needed more. More honesty, more explanation and more than the polished little speech you had clearly assembled out of panic and stubbornness five seconds earlier. Unfortunately, you didn’t know what you could give him without everything else spilling out afterward.

“I’m an independent woman, Clark.”

“Asking for help doesn’t mean you aren’t.”

You ignored that entirely. “I’m figuring things out,” you continued quickly. “I’m making mistakes and that’s okay. You don’t need to constantly save me like you do everyone else.”

Clark’s face softened almost immediately. “You’ve never needed me for that.”

“Exactly.” You nodded at once, relieved to finally grab onto one sentence that didn’t emotionally threaten you. “Great. Wonderful…we agree on something.” You turned and pointed sharply toward the elevator doors. “Can we also agree this thing needs to move?”

Clark didn’t even glance toward them. “Did you get your phone back?”

“Nope,” you answered, popping the P with excessive innocence…about three seconds before your phone rang loudly inside your purse.

The silence afterward turned catastrophic. Clark’s eyes dropped instantly toward the sound and you watched the exact moment suspicion crossed his face. Knowing him, he was probably already using x-ray vision in the name of friendship, concern and gross violations of personal privacy disguised as emotional support.

You swallowed. “It’s borrowed.”

The elevator lurched suddenly back into motion and your stomach dropped with it. You stared ahead while the floor numbers flickered downward one by one and tried very hard not to think too deeply about anything currently happening in your life. You didn’t know what you were doing anymore. You just knew you wanted your existence to belong to you fully, not to your parents or Clark, or to the humiliating orbit of longing and avoidance and pretending everything felt simpler than it actually did.

Beside you, Clark stood painfully still. He was trying hard to be gentle with you, careful and patient while every instinct in him wanted to push harder, ask better questions, solve the problem immediately and carry half your life upstairs himself if necessary but he kept forcing those instincts down because you clearly needed room to stand on your own feet.

Even if those feet currently wore flats.

The ride down passed in silence.

Once the elevator reached the lobby, you stepped out immediately and Clark followed close behind. The building entrance stood only a few feet away now, late afternoon sunlight bleeding faintly through the glass doors while people crossed outside along the sidewalk.

Clark stayed behind you with both hands shoved into his pockets, head lowered slightly as he watched his shoes move across the lobby floor.

You turned toward him before you could lose your nerve and tried not to be dramatic about it either. Your dress barely moved with you. Good, this moment did not deserve cinematic elegance.

He looked up immediately and straightened. God, he looked so hopeful…your sweet, terrible Clark.

You inhaled deeply and forced the words out fast before your survival instincts convinced you to flee. “I found out my parents have been paying for my apartment.” Your throat tightened immediately but you kept going. “Which means they’ve known where I’ve been living this entire time.”

Clark opened his mouth but you cut him off before he could speak.

“Not only that,” you continued quickly, “they’ve been doing so while I spent the past year struggling to make rent every month.” You laughed once, dry and humorless. “Rent I wouldn’t have been able to afford anyway, apparently.” Your grip tightened around the résumés. “So I have to move.”

He couldn’t keep quiet anymore and reacted instantly. “I’ll go get my things,” he said without hesitation, already motioning back toward the elevators. “We can have you packed and moved into my place tonight.”

You shook your head before he even finished. “No. Absolutely not.” Your voice stayed calm, which honestly made the refusal feel worse somehow. “This is the part where you tell me ‘good luck’ and I go deal with my own issues by myself.”

Clark’s expression tightened slowly, every word visibly hurting him. “This doesn’t have to be me saving you,” he said carefully. “Just think about it as a storage unit and a spare bed.”

You almost laughed at that. Almost. “Like I said, Clark, I’m not turning into my mother.” Your voice softened slightly. “I’ll figure it out.” Then you pointed toward him. “I’m only telling you because eventually you would’ve kicked down the door to my apartment after I moved out and traumatized the next tenant while he showered beside his turkey bacon.”

Clark blinked hard, face scrunching in confusion. “What?”

“My shower is placed three feet from the stove,” you explained flatly. “I never let you inside because you physically do not fit in that apartment.” You gestured vaguely with one hand now that the confession had started rolling downhill against your will. “I have so many clothes in there that I'm forced to sleep between the window and my fur coats.”

Clark stared at you silently. You pointed at him again before he could say anything compassionate and devastating. “I found that place without help and I’ll find the next one without help too. Financial or otherwise.” You paused briefly, fingers tightening around the crushed baseball cap still hanging from your hand. “I’ll text you the new address when it’s done…”

“From your…borrowed phone,” He guessed carefully, except the phone wasn’t borrowed. 

He had already seen the case while snooping in your purse, the half a photograph tucked beneath the plastic casing. The two of you crammed together inside some photo booth months ago, your face angled toward his while he looked hopelessly distracted by you instead of the camera.

Clark owned the other half. It sat beneath a magnet on his fridge beside grocery lists, takeout menus and a new postcard from his Ma that he still hadn’t answered.

You nodded anyway. “And it’s not an invitation,” you clarified quickly, backing up another small step across the lobby floor. “No showing up at my door with baked goods or brisket or emotionally supportive side dishes.” Your mouth twitched faintly despite everything. “It’s literally just a ‘don’t panic, I’m alive’ situation.”

He watched your face carefully, eyes following your movement.

“You deserve that much.” Your eyes had started watering and you clearly didn’t realize it yet. You kept retreating slowly toward the glass doors while speaking, like your body had already committed to leaving several minutes before the rest of you emotionally caught up. “You actually deserve a lot better than me not having the balls to text you back,” you admitted quietly.

The sniffle afterward nearly stopped Clark’s heart outright. He followed instinctively when you stepped backward again, brows pulling together while he tried to understand where exactly the conversation had collapsed into this. Five minutes ago you were arguing about jobs and elevators and now you looked like somebody standing too close to the edge of a cliff pretending not to notice the drop beneath them.

“And I’ve been really mean to you,” you continued quickly before he could interrupt. “Which honestly feels unfair in retrospect because the elevator weight thing was uncalled for but it also was at the playground when you did it on the seesaw and forced me to experience genuine frustration for the first time in my life.”

Clark blinked once as he nodded at your words because he simply did not know what else to do.

You pointed accusingly through glossy eyes. “I’m serious. I hated that…both times.” Your voice wavered harder now. “And I’m experiencing it again currently so maybe raise your standards for me a little and get angry already, so it’s easier for me to ignore you.” You sniffed hard and motioned vaguely back toward the elevators. “Go back upstairs, go to work and be emotionally responsible while I figure my life out.” 

Then you pointed directly at yourself. “Me. By myself.”

Oh. Clark saw it immediately then, it sat all over your face beneath the mascara and stubbornness and trembling composure you were trying desperately to maintain and the realization hit him so hard his stomach turned violently. 

You were preparing to disappear.

You had already done this once before with your parents. You ran when things became unbearable, untangled yourself quietly and figured everything out afterward from somewhere nobody could reach you, except this time the emotion underneath wasn’t anger, it was grief, deep enough Clark couldn’t even locate the bottom of it.

His hand lifted instinctively toward you before stopping midway because suddenly he didn’t know what would happen if he touched you right now. Whether you’d stay or break apart completely or apologize for crying while doing both simultaneously, so he hesitated and that hesitation cost him.

You turned before the tears could fully fall and walked toward the doors with your chin lifted stubbornly high despite the shine gathering in your eyes. Sunlight hit briefly across your face once the glass doors opened and Clark stood rooted in place watching you leave while every instinct inside him screamed to follow.

But you had asked for space and Clark Kent loved you enough to let that request wound him.

The doors closed behind you as Clark stared at them another second before dragging one hand over his face slowly, breathing hard through the pressure building in his chest.

He needed to find a replacement for those shoes…and he needed to do it fast.

You honestly didn’t know how you ended up back at the Talon.

Somewhere between forcing unwilling business owners to accept your résumé and deciding flats technically transformed walking into a financially responsible decision, your body had apparently chosen the destination for you. Cabs cost money and money had become an abstract luxury reserved for people with employment, stable emotional conditions and refrigerators containing more than expired yogurt and half a lemon you kept pretending still had purpose.

By the time you reached the Talon, the sky had darkened fully and your feet hurt in that dull, persistent manner reserved for long days and bad weeks. The baseball cap remained shoved bitterly into your purse where it belonged and the stack of résumés beneath your arm had started curling at the corners from overhandling. Honestly, the pages looked exhausted too.

The guy working the tiny booth in the hallway barely glanced up before holding out his hand automatically. “Phone and ten bucks.”

You ignored both requests completely.

“I’m not staying,” you assured him while flashing the stack of résumés at chest level like legal documentation. “I just need to leave one at the bar and then I’m gone.”

The poor man looked at you, looked at the papers and then made the deeply reasonable decision not to get involved in whatever emotional catastrophe this clearly was.

The second you stepped inside, the atmosphere hit you all over again.

The Talon wasn’t large but it clearly didn’t need to be. Noise packed the room tighter than furniture ever could. People crowded around tiny tables balancing cheap drinks and louder conversations while cigarette smoke clung stubbornly to the ceiling despite several very obvious fire regulations being violated simultaneously. Somebody laughed too hard near the back wall and glass clinked somewhere beside the stage. The room carried that warm, restless energy unique to bars filled with people trying not to go home yet.

As you moved toward the mostly abandoned bar, Susie’s voice cut sharply through the crowd.

“We don’t want your godawful impressions out there tonight,” she snapped.

You glanced toward the stage area just in time to see her physically withholding the microphone from a lanky man arguing passionately about his time slot. “You said I had ten minutes!”

“I’ll respect your ten minutes when the place is empty and I stop paying electrical bills,” Susie shot back while shoving past him. “Next time bring a guitar or a visible talent.”

The man continued protesting behind her while Susie marched toward the bar muttering to herself under her breath with the exhausted fury of somebody one inconvenience away from arson.

You slipped onto a stool near the end of the counter and quickly lowered your stack of résumés onto the bartop, trying to hide them beneath your arm before she noticed…too late.

“If you’re here to ask for the secret behind my financial success, we’re gonna need to reschedule,” Susie said while stepping behind the bar, then her eyes landed on the papers. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.” You exhaled heavily and rested your forehead briefly against your hand. “I’d ask for a drink but unfortunately I’m currently participating in poverty.”

Somebody beside you elbowed your arm while reaching for peanuts and you moved farther down the stool with visible annoyance.

Susie looked down at the résumés again, then toward the stage…and then back at you.

Her scheduled act had apparently vanished, the crowd noise had started thinning near the entrance and Susie possessed the survival instincts of a raccoon guarding trash behind a casino. She recognized a crisis immediately.

“Get up there.”

You blinked. “What?”

She grabbed the microphone from beneath the counter and dropped it directly in front of you. 

“I thought I made myself very clear when I said I’m not a comic.”

“Yeah, I remember that part.” Susie nodded. “I also remember the part where you said you don’t have a job.” She lifted your stack of résumés in one hand like a police officer displaying evidence to a jury. “And from the looks of this little tragedy,” she continued, shaking the papers once, “you need one. Or at least money.”

Her eyes widened pointedly at you, aggressively fishing for common sense. “So get your ass onstage. You save my ass tonight and I won't take a cut of your earnings.”

You looked toward the stage.

A few people sat scattered around the tiny tables beneath the dim lights. Somebody near the front laughed drunkenly at absolutely nothing. One woman smoked with the exhausted posture of somebody midway through a divorce and the microphone stand looked deeply judgmental under the spotlight.

Then you looked back at Susie and shook your head immediately. “I can’t go up there.”

“Why?” Susie frowned. “Because you’re emotionally stable?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “Because I’m sober and a coward.”

Susie stared at you for one second before turning away and returned with a shot glass. “Not water,” she informed you while setting it down firmly in front of you. “And it’s on the house if you get your tits up there.” Then she pointed vaguely toward your chest. “Without showing them this time, preferably.”

You blinked hard, almost insulted because…well, your tits were great. “Preferably?”

“Unless you want to.” Susie shrugged. “Modern times.”

You looked down at the vodka shot. Honestly, your entire life had already collapsed enough today that adding alcohol and public humiliation into the equation barely registered anymore. The worst thing that could happen was bombing in front of strangers and currently strangers already rejected you professionally across half of Metropolis.

You grabbed the glass and threw it back immediately.

The vodka burned straight down your throat and settled violently in your stomach like a threat from the gods themselves.

Liquid courage…or mild poisoning. It really depended on perspective.

You swallowed hard, grabbed the microphone and pointed at Susie with it. “Do I still get paid if nobody laughs?”

Susie shook her head and shrugged at the exact same time. “Bold of you to assume there’ll be money either way.”

You exhaled once before leaving the bar, walking onto the stage and immediately regretted possessing legs.

The platform barely lifted you two feet above the room but somehow that tiny elevation transformed every person in the club into a potential witness against you. Most people didn’t even look up right away. A couple near the back kept arguing over cigarettes, somebody laughed too loudly at the bar and one man sat fully sideways in his chair.

You stood there gripping the microphone with both hands and looked at them all. To the tired eyes, cheap drinks, wrinkled collars, women fixing lipstick in reflective spoons and the men pretending they weren’t staring at those women while staring hard enough to develop migraines. 

Nobody in the room looked carefree and nobody looked untouched by life either and suddenly your own humiliation stopped feeling that special.

Tonight, you weren’t jealous, you weren’t even angry…you were just another failure.

“I’m twenty-five and I’ve never had a job.” The microphone carried your voice farther than expected and slowly, conversation around the room began thinning. Heads turned toward you one by one, curiosity spreading unevenly through the crowd.

You nodded once as the silence settled heavier. “I’m twenty-five,” you repeated carefully. “And I’ll probably be homeless by the end of the week whether or not I find one.”

A few people laughed instinctively before realizing you weren’t technically joking yet, the silence afterward felt enormous.

You looked briefly toward the back wall instead of directly at anybody because if you made eye contact too early, you might actually die onstage and honestly that would create paperwork for everyone involved.

“Any of you ever run away from home?” 

A voice answered immediately somewhere near the back. “Yeah!”

You pointed toward them. “See? Thank you.” You paced once across the tiny stage, warming into the movement. “Whether your family was rich, poor, loving, terrible, emotionally constipated or weirdly obsessed with matching Christmas pajamas, running still means the same thing.” You shrugged lightly. “It just comes with different branded luggage.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room.

“I found out recently my parents have secretly been paying for my apartment.” You paused. “An apartment I have personally been struggling to pay for over a year.”

That statement got attention. “Oh yeah,” you nodded. “No, I was suffering. I sold shoes…purses and dresses I genuinely loved.” Your hand flew dramatically to your chest. “Do you understand the psychological warfare involved in selling a vintage Dior piece to make rent and then seeing some woman named Brenda wear it with orthopedic sandals?” The crowd burst into laughter.

“I struggled every month trying to pay twelve hundred dollars for what I genuinely believed was the most decent two-hundred-square-foot shoebox in Midtown Metropolis.” You held your fingers out narrowly. “And by shoebox, I mean if I inhale too deeply near the window, I get a whiff from the sewers down the street and the smell clings to the walls and develops over time like Eau de Parfum…It’s French…but the smell isn’t.” Laughter spread louder now. “The front door to the building stays broken eleven months out of the year. Not consecutively either….It’s better when it’s random…It keeps you humble.” You nodded seriously. “And the elevator worked once.”

People laughed already, sensing the rhythm now. “One time. One singular glorious morning after Friendsgiving.” You lifted one finger. “I got inside carrying leftovers and suddenly the machine discovered ambition.” You pointed toward the ceiling. “That elevator moved with purpose. It had dreams of grandeur…Also French.”

The room erupted.

“And then it died forever.” You spread your arms. “Gone. It never moved again and honestly? Looking back I should’ve taken more mashed potatoes because if I’d gotten trapped in there longer I could’ve sued the building and financially recovered.”

People barked laughter around the room now, shoulders shaking into drinks and tables.

“Instead,” you continued, leaning lightly against the mic stand, “my landlord Garrett keeps raising rent while smelling aggressively like blue cheese and unpaid child support.” The laughter exploded harder. “Oh, Garrett…” You sighed deeply. “Have I mentioned I got sent to etiquette classes growing up?”

A few groans of recognition came from women around the room. “Oh, you know.” You pointed immediately. “See? Survivors…all in the same place.” You straightened your posture instantly into stiff perfection. “They teach young girls how to sit upright.” You demonstrated elegantly. “How to crouch while wearing dresses if you drop something.” You bent carefully at the knees with mechanical precision while people laughed. “And of course they teach you how to keep your legs closed before marriage.”

You paused. “Curiously, they never teach boys this skill despite the fact every man on earth sits like his balls contain classified government documents requiring airflow.”

The room detonated and half the men immediately corrected their posture while women laughed loud enough to rattle glasses.

“They also teach us how to politely request services.” You smiled tightly. “‘Pretty please, may I see proof you’re robbing me blind?’” More laughter rolled through the room while you paced farther from the microphone stand now, confidence slowly overtaking panic.

“Because half the tenants are moving out after Garrett raised rent from like…” You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Two thousand dollars to almost three.” The crowd groaned. “Exactly.” You pointed. “And the place is falling apart. I mean, I shower three feet from my stove.”

People laughed already. “No, no, no. I’m serious.” You held up your hand solemnly. “One time I dropped conditioner into boiling pasta and genuinely considered whether a bay leaf might save it.” The room burst apart again. “Because it adds that…you know…and if you don’t, trust that the bay leaf does know.”

You paused, soaking in the laughter. “Only take that risk when inviting terrible people over obviously…” You nodded thoughtfully. “Like parents.”

People laughed and applauded simultaneously. “Not that mine ever visited,” you continued quickly. “The window for reconciliation closed somewhere around the fifth hidden rent payment.”

You could feel the room wasn’t just listening but also leaning in, even the people near the bar had stopped talking over you entirely. “Meanwhile Garrett lives beautifully.” You sighed dramatically. “Whole building’s collapsing but this man owns leather furniture and places sports bets like he’s funding organized crime.” 

You looked out over the room. “Who’s losing next week?”

“Gotham Ravens!” several people shouted immediately.

“Oh really?” Your face lit up maliciously. “That actually improves my evening because I placed ten grand on Garrett’s behalf that they’d win.”

The room exploded into screaming laughter and you lifted both hands immediately in surrender. “What? I had to get my money’s worth somehow!” You defended yourself through laughter. “And before anybody judges me, understand this happened during an emotionally charged moment involving his laptop, some crushed fingers…my heel, his phone…also crushed, by the way and the power of feminine rage.”

Somebody near the front almost choked laughing. “We’ll find out the results soon enough.” You nodded seriously. “Either he comes downstairs demanding money or he collapses so hard onto his floor that I hear the echo of empty pockets from my apartment.”

By now people were clapping between laughs. You breathed it in, actually and almost stupidly so, breathed it in. The fear had started melting somewhere around the pasta joke and now every reaction from the crowd hit your chest like oxygen after days underwater.

“I don’t know if any of you were here the other night when I accidentally publicly spiraled about Mr. Kent.”

Several people cheered loudly. Your eyes widened. “Oh my God.” You pointed accusingly. “So you’re all alcoholics, ‘cause that was barely seventy-two hours ago and you’re still wearing the same shirt.”

The room roared and people turned fully toward the stage now, even bartenders paused to listen. “I tried ignoring him.” You nodded seriously. “Very maturely too…I avoided texts and calls…I changed detergent and perfumes like I was fleeing the mafia...Yeah, very mature.”

Laughter crashed immediately. “But unfortunately I ended up at his workplace today after a long sequence of humiliations involving résumés and a baseball cap that made me look like I sold counterfeit cigarettes behind gas stations.” You mimed the cap and the room erupted again. “And somehow we got trapped in an elevator together.”

Whistles shot through the room instantly.

“Not like that.” You pointed sharply. “Although honestly if I die in a confined space, I’d prefer it happen beside a six-foot-four farm boy built like God lost restraint halfway through.”

The laughter turned almost violent and you bent slightly over the microphone, laughing too now.

“No because this man looked at my résumés like I’d confessed to crimes against humanity.” You shook your head. “He’s seen me wear dresses and heels to a farm…while sitting on hay bales like a deeply impractical Disney princess.” People clapped laughing. “He knows I don’t work!” you continued. “And somehow him finding out I needed a job made me more worried...and him even more handsome too.”

You widened your eyes dramatically.

“This man offered to house me, immediately. Practically offered financial sponsorship because apparently he believes Superman can save humanity but not society after I repeat an outfit publicly.” The room exploded. “And the worst part?” You laughed breathlessly. “I should’ve been offended…I wanted to be offended.”

You paused. “But then he looked at me with those stupid puppy-dog eyes and suddenly I started considering becoming a housewife…”

Groans and screams erupted everywhere, you laughed so hard you had to step away from the mic briefly.

“By choice! Which makes all the difference but still…It was humiliating.” You pressed your hand against your chest. “I practically collapsed right there near his perfectly polished shoes.”

Then you pointed firmly. “Which I will not be shining.”

The crowd cheered. “Guys, please.” You lifted your hands innocently. “I couldn’t even afford the vodka shot that got me up here. I need this manicure to survive the recession.”

You held your hands up while laughter rolled again and again through the room, then your expression softened slightly. “In that moment…” You exhaled carefully. “Him and my parents suddenly sounded the exact same to me.”

The room quieted instinctively.

“Not morally,” you added quickly. “Fuck no. My parents say it with old-money misogyny. Like true modern-day monsters.” You widened your eyes. “He says it like a golden retriever who accidentally gained muscles on his way to fetch the ball.” The room erupted again. 

“But still.” Your voice lowered slightly. “What happens when the monster loves you?”

A few murmurs drifted through the room now.

“No, seriously.” You paced slowly. “Whether it’s parents forcing a future onto you or a gorgeous farm boy asking you to move next door…” You shrugged lightly. “What are you supposed to do? Keep running? Stay close and hope love magically stops hurting?”

The room stayed quiet enough to hear glasses clink. You eventually sighed.

“Although honestly when the farm boy has broad shoulders and arms the size of civil engineering projects, your pulse starts relocating south and critical thinking becomes difficult.” 

The room lost its collective mind. People shouted, whistled and hit tables while laughing and you stood there grinning helplessly while the noise swallowed the room whole.

“That’s my issue!” you defended yourself through laughter. “Every time I almost develop emotional maturity, the gods send me a man shaped like good decisions and even better sex.”

The applause came immediately. You shook your head dramatically.

“If I had a nickel for every time that thought process improved my life financially–” You looked around the room slowly. “Well, obviously I wouldn’t be here begging strangers for rent money!”

The laughter rolled through the Talon one final time while somebody passed around the tip basket near the front. “Unlike Garrett,” you added quickly, pointing at it, “please contribute willingly.”

People applauded while dropping bills inside.

You looked out over the room then, properly this time. You stared at the smiling faces, at the people wiping tears from laughing so hard and at the way bodies turned fully toward you and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you didn’t feel invisible.

“Thank you,” you said softly, still smiling through the adrenaline. “Seriously…and goodnight!”

The roll of applause hit all at once, it was loud and immediate. Truly genuine as it swallowed the room so completely you almost forgot to breathe while standing there beneath the lights, soaking it in with stunned eyes before finally glancing toward the bar.

Susie stood there applauding too as she gave you one sharp nod.

You smiled at her and returned it. 

You’d worry about your living situation once your ears stopped ringing from the applause. You’d maybe think about texting Clark back eventually too, though you were certain that loaded task required hydration, sleep and at least one controlled nervous breakdown beforehand. 

But if this was what happened after spending months begging to be seen, then maybe you should seriously consider investing in better hats…bigger ones preferably. Because if you kept talking like this, there was a very real possibility the entire city might start looking back at you…instead of up.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

You sat at the opposite end of the bar, one that pretended it wasn’t sticky while discreetly gluing your elbows to every surface, eyes fixed on Clark as if you could bore a hole straight through that stupidly charming skull of his. 

He laughed, head tipped back just enough to show off that big, farm-boy grin that could probably convince a tornado to reconsider its trajectory. It warmed your insides in a way that would’ve been romantic if it wasn’t currently competing with the acidic churn of jealousy and cheap rum sloshing around your stomach. And then there was Lois, draped against him like she’d been created to ruin your evening, her hand resting a little too comfortably on his arm as they laughed…together, like some kind of infuriatingly attractive sitcom you hadn’t agreed to star in.

You took a last, aggressive swig of your mojito, less “sip” and more “act of war” and tapped the glass on the bar with the finality of someone signing divorce papers.

“You know, you’d think with how different they are they wouldn’t get along so well.” Jimmy started beside you, his voice cutting through your internal spiral like a cheerful little knife. You startled because tonight your nerves were strung tighter than the bouncers' patience. “And she’s not even that drunk yet.”

“That makes two of us,” you murmured, already waving the bartender over with the urgency of a woman about to make several regrettable but entertaining decisions. “I need something stronger. Dry martini, two olives.” You sniffled, eyes tracking his every movement like this drink was about to determine the fate of your entire emotional stability. You leaned forward conspiratorially. “As dry as you can make it. Think…that time you probably tried to jerk off beside your snoring roommate in college or like that girl I believe you tried to impress earlier by shaking her cocktail too hard before the shaker slipped from your hands. Bone dry.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the nearby patrons, a low, delighted chuckling that said oh, this is going to be a night. Your attention flickered away from Clark, blessed with temporary relief, toward the small audience you’d accidentally acquired.

“Babe, I don’t think that’s gonna help him get it right.” Cat said, nudging your side with her elbow, her tone equal parts amused and concerned. She was practically watching a train wreck, hoping it might somehow end gracefully.

You leaned even closer to the bartender, lowering your voice like you were sharing state secrets instead of actively ruining his evening. “I’m glad you changed your shirt, by the way, I wasn’t a big fan of the print on it. I mean…I almost jumped right back in the cab when I saw it, but whatever…You should know that the drink splashed on the front of your pants.”

You watched him glance down, his expression shifting into something between horror and existential dread. The stain did, in fact, look deeply unfortunate. It looked like he ejaculated in his pants.

“It’s fine, I don’t think she saw it and if she did, I can fix it with a quick talk to her and hopefully get you a phone number by the end of the night. You might still get fired for the mess though, so you might want to hurry up on that drink.” you added helpfully, pointing toward who you assumed was the bar owner, a woman who looked like she ate weak men for breakfast and tipped herself.

“Hey–” Jimmy tapped you, dragging you back before you could escalate into full public menace. You sank back onto your stool, posture loose but eyes still sharp. “Didn’t you say you’d take it easy tonight?” he pushed, clearly unaware he was negotiating with a woman currently fueled by heartbreak, alcohol and spite.

You turned to look at him, actually considering it for half a second, just long enough to make it dramatic. “Right…” Then you pivoted back to the bartender with renewed conviction. “Let’s change it up then. I’ll take an Inferno Martini with that. Maybe that’ll help me die faster.”

“What’s up with you tonight?” Jimmy asked, his voice softening as confusion knitted his brow. “I thought we were celebrating.”

“You are!” you said brightly, patting him on the back with the exaggerated enthusiasm of someone definitely not fine. The bartender set the dry martini in front of you and you immediately took a large gulp, letting it burn all the way down, trying to cauterize your feelings. “Being the most read newspaper in several states is big. I’m here for moral support.”

“As a great friend to all of us.” Cat insisted beside you, her tone warm, sincere and unfortunately timed.

“Friend.” You repeated, the word rolling off your tongue like it had personally offended you. You finished the martini with impressive speed and went for the olives just as the inferno martini was placed in front of you, its color practically daring you to make worse decisions. “Seems like it’s all there is for me, isn’t it?” you said, sarcasm dripping thicker than the alcohol. You chewed the olives with unnecessary intensity. “Feels like playing twister with that one guy in your friend group who gets boners for everyone except for you…me, in this case.” You turned to her, eyes deadpan. “Even I get boners for you and I don’t have a dick.”

She paused as if her brain had to take a second to process the sentence, then burst out laughing with the very kind of laugh that made people turn their heads and wish they were in on the joke.

You reached for your inferno martini and downed it in one go, your expression flat as you stared at her over the rim of the glass as you realized you were the punchline.

“Do you want me to go get Clark? Maybe he could drive you home?” Jimmy insisted, his voice threading through the haze in your head like an annoyingly reasonable suggestion and against your will…truly, against your better judgment…both of your eyes lifted toward where Clark stood beside Lois. 

He was talking to her softly, his posture bent just enough to suggest intimacy without quite crossing the line, and oh, that was new!...his ears were pink. His ears were actually pink and he was leaning in like gravity had requested his participation for the first time in his darned life and your brain, already swimming in alcohol and bad decisions, latched onto that detail like it was evidence in a trial you were absolutely losing. Why was he leaning in? Why were his ears pink? Why did that feel like a targeted attack?

You forced your eyes shut because if you didn’t, you were fairly certain you’d either start crying, screaming or delivering an unsolicited monologue to the entire bar about emotional negligence and farm boys with selective blindness.

“Nope! I’ll walk myself home.” You said abruptly, grabbing your purse with the determination usually reserved for heist movies, your fingers fumbling inside until you pulled out a handful of crumpled bills that looked about as put together as you felt.

“Don’t. He brought you here, I can go get him–” Jimmy insisted, already moving, pushing through the crowd like a man on a mission he absolutely should not be on.

“No. Can’t have him playing hero again and keeping me from diving into goddamn traffic, tonight of all nights–” you shot back, pushing your stool away in the tiny pocket of space you occupied, your balance questionable but your intent crystal clear.

“What!?” His eyes widened, his entire body halting mid-step as he turned back to stare at you like you’d just announced a career pivot into arson, which might’ve been the better option.

“Don’t look at me like that, James! It’s a joke! Can you take a fucking joke?” you insisted quickly, though the words sloshed slightly with the alcohol as you stumbled forward, catching yourself on the bar with a gracelessness that would haunt you later. “Holy fuck…he might not be able to give a show but those hands sure were easy on the gin.”

“That was a terrible joke.” he said far too loudly, his face contorting as he groaned through it as though he could physically feel the secondhand embarrassment.

“Well thank god I’m not a fucking comedian then.” you exclaimed, louder than necessary and with the confidence of someone who had, in fact, just been unintentionally workshopping a set all night. You pushed through the crowd, shoulders bumping into strangers, laughter and chatter fading behind you like a curtain dropping on a performance that had gone wildly off-script.

The door gave way under your hand and suddenly you were outside, the cold air hitting your face with a slap that felt both deserved and deeply appreciated. The noise of traffic replaced the bar’s chaos, it was less intimate, more indifferent and for a moment you just stood there, breathing in and out, trying to remember how lungs worked.

You nodded to yourself, once, as if that settled anything at all and started walking.

Your steps were quick, fueled by something between anger and humiliation, heels clicking unevenly against the pavement as they struggled to keep up with the pace your emotions had set. You made it past another shop before your stride faltered, your balance wobbling just enough to force you to stop, arms dropping slack at your sides as the adrenaline began to argue with the alcohol.

“Don’t be a dick.” you muttered under your breath, the words aimed squarely at yourself as logic began to seep back in through the cracks. You’ve known him for years. That one landed heavy. He’d never hurt you. That one hurt worse. So what if he makes her laugh? Your jaw tightened.

You almost stomped your heel into the ground like a petulant child denied dessert, the internal argument reaching a boiling point before your brain, traitorous thing that it was, made the decision for you.

You turned around. Fine! You’d go back, you’d be normal. You’d say a proper goodbye, maybe even make a joke that didn’t make Jimmy look like he was reconsidering your sanity and then you’d leave with dignity or at least something wearing dignity’s coat.

Be the bigger person, right?

You walked back toward the bar, each step dragged, approaching a scene you already knew you wouldn’t like. You stopped at the front window, peering in through the glass as your eyes searched the crowd and of course found them immediately because your misery apparently had a tracking system.

Just in time, they turned toward each other, the movement smooth and seemingly inevitable and Clark’s lower back met the edge of the bar as he leaned down…slowly, as though the world had narrowed to a single point that was Lois and your stomach dropped in perfect synchronization. 

Lower…and lower, his head tilting to the side, surely sporting that stupid, soft expression on his face, one you’d memorized even though it had never once been directed at you, until…

You turned fast. So fast it almost made you dizzy, breath catching sharply in your throat like it had hit a wall, your body already making the decision your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You fled and it was far from graceful. You just turned in the opposite direction you’d originally chosen and moved, your legs carrying you rapidly down the sidewalk, heels clattering against pavement in uneven rhythm as you tried and failed not to hyperventilate. The air felt too thin and your chest too tight, each breath coming in shorter than the last as the image replayed anyway.

You walked and walked, surely mumbling under your breath like a madwoman whose entire concept of romance had been shattered, thoughts racing so fast they tripped over themselves, circling the same humiliating, nauseating image until it practically burned behind your eyelids. 

You turned corners without thinking, pacing up and down familiar blocks like your body had taken over navigation while your brain hosted a very loud, very unhelpful panel discussion and before you fully registered it, your spiraling mind had dragged you somewhere you knew far too well, lit far too brightly, stocked too chaotically and staffed by a man who had unfortunately seen you at your absolute worst more than once.

You pushed the door to the bodega open with more force than necessary, the bell above it jangling loudly and immediately your tongue got loose. Tonight your dignity had taken a day off.

“He kissed her.” you announced to the man behind the counter, not even bothering with a greeting as you stepped around the poor guy in front of you who was just trying to buy a deeply depressing frozen dinner and a six-pack. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, sir. Small store! I told him to relocate but he won't listen.” you added, nudging him aside with the urgency of someone who believed her crisis outranked his groceries. You leaned over the counter, peering down as you spotted Ricky crouched beneath it like a man hiding from an active shooter. “Ricky, are you hiding from me?”

“What’d’ya think?” he shot back as he straightened up with the weariness of someone who had absolutely predicted this exact scenario. He began scanning the man’s items mechanically. “I could hear ya yelling from around the street. You’re scaring potential customers.”

You turned, giving the man beside you a slow, assessing once-over before shrugging dismissively. “He doesn’t look scared. This is a grown man,” you said, as if that alone granted him immunity from your chaos. Then, pivoting with alarming speed, you added, “Lovely shirt, though. Color suits you. Don’t you think, Ricky?”

Ricky groaned, already regretting every life choice that had led him here, as he shoved the man’s items into a bag. “Why were ya yelling?” he asked, finally glancing up at you and immediately recoiling. “And what the fuck happened to your face? It’s terrible.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown, before wandering toward the back corner of the shop where that slightly warped mirror hung, one Ricky used to keep an eye on potential shoplifters but which now served as a brutally honest witness to your current state. You looked up and winced. Mascara had run down your eyes in uneven streaks, staining your cheeks like abstract art made entirely of poor decisions and it hit you that you hadn’t even noticed when you’d started crying.

“Bad taxi drivers,” you muttered, as you wiped under one eye with the back of your hand, only making it worse. “I almost got run over because my heel got stuck on a sewer grate and the guy was in a rush.” You kicked off the offending and now damaged heel and carried it back to the counter, holding it up under the fluorescent lighting and presenting evidence in a very petty trial. “Vintage Prada…all fucked because he kissed her, Ricky. Can you believe it?”

“The taxi guy kissed your vintage shoe lady?” Ricky asked, not even looking up as he handed the bag to the customer, who now seemed deeply invested in staying as long as possible…but he still left.

“Mrs. Alston? No, she’s seventy-nine, can you fucking focus for a second?” you snapped, your patience hanging by a thread that had clearly been cut several blocks ago.

He leaned forward on the counter, fixing you with a look that said he was about two seconds away from charging you by the hour. “Y/n, I’m not your goddamn therapist and if you need me to be it that bad, it won’t be for free,” he drawled, his tone slow and unimpressed.

You groaned, already digging through your purse with frantic, uncoordinated movements, pushing aside receipts, lipstick and what might have been a granola bar from last year as you did a quick mental inventory of your finances. Your eyes flicked up to the shelves behind him…Hennessy, twenty-eight dollars, Vodka, thirty-three before taxes…Jack Daniel’s, thirty…Jameson, also thirty and you winced, realizing that heartbreak was not budget-friendly. 

You still needed money for a cab home, assuming you didn’t dramatically collapse somewhere before then and after a moment of aggressive mental math, you landed on two crumpled twenty-dollar bills.

So you slapped one down on the counter in a way that suggested negotiations were about to get weird.

“I have twenty dollars and murderous ideation…your move, broski,” you said, staring at him with unwavering intensity. This was a completely reasonable business proposition and definitely not the beginning of yet another story Ricky would absolutely tell at your expense.

“Broski? He’s really got you fucked up.” Ricky mumbled, giving you a look that suggested he was reconsidering ever learning your name in the first place. He turned, reaching for a bottle and set it down on the counter with finality, his hand lingering on the neck like he didn’t trust you not to lunge for it like a raccoon in a convenience store.

“Wine?” you questioned, staring at it as if it had just insulted your entire lineage. “Are you kidding me? What kind of fucking therapist are you? I’m heartbroken.”

“You got a twenty, lady. This is the only thing you can afford.” he shot back without missing a beat, his tone flat, unimpressed and deeply committed to financial realism.

“I thought we were friends,” you slurred slightly, your indignation wobbling just enough to betray the alcohol in your system. “I was gonna tell you to put it on my tab.”

“Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out as he leaned both hands on the counter, locking eyes with you like a disappointed accountant. “Last time I let you open one, it took you three months to pay 147 dollars and 98 cents and honestly, it looks like you’ve had enough to drink.”

You reached for the bottle anyway because boundaries had clearly stopped applying to you sometime around your third drink but he pulled it back just out of reach.

“You’re just terrible, awful,” you muttered, your voice dipping. “I’m mourning here.”

“Great. Let all of Metropolis know about it on the bodega’s Google reviews,” he replied dryly, not even flinching. Then he glanced down at the bottle, then back up at you, his expression changing just enough to suggest he was actually paying attention now. “Where are you headed with this?”

“Home,” you said immediately, too quickly and when he raised an eyebrow like he’d just caught you in a lie you hadn’t even fully committed to yet, you doubled down. “I’m going home. Do you really think I want to be seen out like this?” you insisted, gesturing vaguely to your face, your shoes, your entire unraveling existence.

He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you and you stared back, the two of you locked in a silent standoff that lasted exactly long enough for your composure to betray you completely.

You broke first.

A hiccup escaped you, followed by another and then your throat tightened in that awful, familiar way that meant you were about to cry whether you liked it or not. You tried to hold it in…you really did but your eyes burned and your shoulders started to shake and suddenly you were crying anyway, right there under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.

“I saw…” you managed, your voice catching as you wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, smearing mascara further into something tragic. “He kissed her and I was there. I was gonna tell him tonight.” Your shoulders trembled harder now, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting all evening for this exact moment.

Ricky exhaled slowly, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a reluctant surrender.

“Look, kid,” he said, his tone losing some of its edge. “If he didn’t consider your presence, then he ain’t worth your tears in the first place. Do you hear me?” His eyes moved over you carefully, taking in the smudged makeup, the disheveled hair, the single shoe in your hand like a symbol of everything that had gone wrong tonight. “Now I know you probably spent the damn afternoon looking for a nice dress and those Prado shoes and thank fuck someone convinced you not to wear those fucking hats of yours like we’re back in the fifties, but–” he added, shaking his head as if the mere thought exhausted him.

“Prada,” you corrected quietly, your voice small but firm. Even in emotional ruin, you had standards.

“What?” His face scrunched, equal parts confusion and annoyance.

“It’s Prada. With an A, not Prado. You’re thinking about that Toyota SUV you’re always talking about,” you explained, the correction almost comforting in its familiarity.

“Whatever,” he waved it off, already over it. “My comment still stands.” He nudged the bottle toward you again, this time actually letting it go. “Now take this…and fuck off home. When he calls…because he will, tell him Ricky told him to fuck off too.”

“He doesn’t deal well with profanity,” you added, your grip tightening around the bottle.

“What is he, the pope?” Ricky shot back immediately. “This is Metropolis, give me a fucking break. You tell him to watch what he does around you before you end up locked up for murder. I don’t like dressing up to go to court…for nobody, not even you,” he added, pointing a finger at you for emphasis. “And I’m a terrible liar.”

“And therapist too,” you muttered, finally pulling the bottle fully into your possession, clutching it like it was both a prize and a coping mechanism. You turned toward the door, your movements slower now. “Thanks, Ricky.”

“Get outta here before my customers go do business somewhere else,” he called after you, his tone gruff and dismissive but not unkind. Somewhere underneath the sarcasm and complaints, it translated clearly enough to ‘Take care of yourself.’

You didn’t bother waiting to get home before opening the cheap bottle, patience had clearly abandoned you several blocks back, so you twisted the cap off with clumsy determination and took a long, unapologetic sip right there on the sidewalk, the wine sloshing a little too freely as you started walking again. 

It wasn’t graceful, none of this was, but it was effective in the way a bad idea sometimes is when you commit to it fully. 

You made it a good forty steps before you remembered with a delayed spark of practicality, that you were still missing a shoe, so you stopped, wobbling slightly as you fumbled the heel back onto your foot, steadying yourself against a lamppost. Then you kept going, your path home becoming noticeably less straight with each step and each sip, your body drifting slightly left and then right while you negotiated with gravity instead of obeying it.

It was good, though…dangerously good. Your mind, which had been screaming all evening, finally quieted into fuzz, like Ricky had thrown a heavy blanket over your thoughts and told them to sit down and behave. The sharp edges dulled, the replaying images slowed and you were fairly certain…proudly so, that you had stopped crying at least a block ago, which in your current state felt like a remarkable achievement. 

The city seemed to change around you as you walked, the traffic thinning out, the noise softening, everything lowering in volume and intensity until it felt like you’d wandered into a different layer of the night entirely.

Which was probably how you ended up there.

The club loomed ahead of you, its neon sign cutting through the dark with confidence. The Talon, bright enough to make you squint, its glow practically swallowed the street, casting everything in that artificial, slightly seedy light that suggested whatever was happening inside was either very interesting or a terrible mistake.

Naturally, you headed straight for it.

You stumbled down the stairs, one hand brushing the wall for balance, your heel catching slightly on the edge of a step before you corrected yourself with a muttered curse. You pushed toward the entrance, already halfway inside in your mind, when a voice cut through the narrow hallway and stopped you mid-step.

“Lady! Access is ten dollars and you have to hand in your phone.”

You blinked, turning toward the source of the voice. A guy stood behind a small window cut into the wall of an adjacent room, his silhouette was framed by dim light and a steady curl of cigarette smoke that filled the hallway.

Your eyes widened, even through the haze of alcohol. “Ten whole dollars? And why would you need my phone?” you demanded, the outrage arriving right on schedule, even as your hands were already digging into your purse with the resigned motions of someone who knew she was going to pay anyway.

You pulled out your last twenty-dollar bill and slid it through the opening in the wall.

“Artists’ club,” he said, shrugging as he took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling lazily as he gave you a slow once-over. “It’s out of respect for their craft or whatever bullshit.”

You stared at him for a beat, then handed over your phone. “Fantastic,” you muttered. “I’m being robbed with consideration. How cute.”

“You’ll get it back after,” he added, already unconcerned.

In exchange, he handed you a ten dollar bill and a bracelet with a number on it, reaching to fasten it around your wrist with surprising care as this seemed to be the most legitimate part of the entire operation. 

“You also can’t go in with that,” he said, nodding toward the wine bottle still clutched in your hand.

You lifted it slightly. “Will I also get this back after?” you asked, your words slurring just enough to make the question feel deeply sincere.

“It’s unlikely,” he replied, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m kinda thirsty.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound echoing slightly in the narrow hallway as you reluctantly handed it over, your fingers lingering on the bottle for a second before letting go. He took it without hesitation, already victorious but you didn’t move.

You just stood there, swaying slightly, eyes drifting to the cigarette between his fingers, the glowing tip cutting through the dimness like a tiny beacon of bad decisions.

“Can I get one of those?” you asked, tilting your head toward it, your voice hopeful.

You walked inside the club with a freshly lit cigarette wedged between your fingers like you’d been doing this for years instead of, quite literally, not since that one disastrous college party where you coughed so hard everyone thought you needed medical attention. 

You took your first drag anyway, committed and determined…and immediately regretted every decision that had led you to this exact moment.

“Holy shit–” you choked, coughing violently as the smoke hit your lungs, whole body recoiling as your eyes watered all over again for entirely new reasons. It did, however, wake you up in the most aggressive way possible, your nervous system having been slapped back online without consent.

Between the thick haze of smoke hanging in the air and the dim, shifting lights that seemed designed to disorient rather than illuminate, you were effectively blinded for a moment, the room coming into focus in uneven fragments. 

Low laughter rolled through the space and you quickly realized it wasn’t directed at you which was a small mercy but at the guy on stage, who seemed to command the room from where he stood.

You moved between the tables, weaving slightly as you went, your hip brushing the backs of chairs and the occasional person who either didn’t notice or didn’t care. You approached the bar out of instinct more than intention, then immediately reconsidered as your brain did a delayed financial audit and came up with absolutely not. Your pace slowed as you began mumbling under your breath, quietly cursing yourself for your increasingly impressive ability to make irresponsible choices in rapid succession.

Right as you were spiraling into that thought, scattered applause filled the room, rising and falling as someone new was apparently called on stage.

That, however, gave you a different reason to approach the bar. “Hey, excuse me?” you called out, leaning slightly over the counter as another round of applause echoed behind you. “Hi, sorry, could I–”

“What?!” the woman behind the bar snapped, whipping around rapidly. “You’re not the only drunk walk-in. If you want to throw up, there’s a shared bucket in that far corner. Try not to be too loud while you do it and do not choke, it always fucks up the mood.”

Your gaze followed the direction she pointed in, landing briefly on what you could only assume was the bucket, before slowly returning to her, your expression caught somewhere between offended and impressed.

“I don’t want a drink,” you clarified, blinking slowly as your eyelids threatened to stage a full shutdown. “I’m actually trying to sober up.” Your speech was, objectively, slurred but since you couldn’t hear it that way in your own head, it didn’t count. You took another drag of your cigarette, this time slightly more cautious while you negotiated terms with it.

“Well, lady, you might be too far off for that,” she said, giving you a long, assessing look from head to toe, taking in your stance and smudged makeup. “Not even prayer can help you, though I can slap you across the face for free if you’d like.”

You blinked at her.

“Sure you’re not lost?” she added.

You very much ignored the slap offer, mostly because you suspected she’d follow through without hesitation. “What’s this place?” you asked instead, your curiosity cutting through the fog.

“Did the big sign up front not give it away?” she shot back, already turning to wipe down glasses with a rag that had seen better days. “It’s a club. Live music, comedy, cheap booze and a good time.”

“And a communal bucket of vomit, apparently,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes drifting around the room again as you tried to recalibrate your situation. You rubbed your temples, attempting to calculate just how far a drunk, emotionally compromised version of yourself could reasonably walk in high heels and a broken heart. It wasn’t looking promising.

“How far are we from Midtown Metropolis?” you asked, the cigarette now resting between your lips as your words came out slurred.

“Midtown?” she repeated, her eyebrows lifting before she let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Honey, we’re below downtown.”

Your eyes widened, the realization hitting you with sobering clarity. The ten dollars you had left wouldn’t even get you halfway to where you needed to be. “By ‘downtown,’ you mean ‘downtown’ downtown or just…downtown?” you pressed, each repetition of the word somehow sounding like a completely different concept.

“You saying it with a different inflection every time doesn’t change the meaning of the word,” she said flatly, though there was a flicker of concern in her expression now. She filled a glass and set it in front of you with a soft but decisive clink. “We’re probably as close to purgatory as it gets.”

“Vodka?” you asked automatically, already picking up the glass and downing it in one go.

“Water,” she corrected dryly, watching you like she’d seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before. “And guess what? It’s on the house.”

You set the glass back down, exhaling heavily as you took another drag of your cigarette, your shoulders rising and falling as you tried to settle yourself. “Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now, gaze drifting back toward the crowd, toward the stage and the man currently holding the room in the palm of his hand. “Hey!”

“You don’t need to scream. I’m right in front of you,” she snapped immediately, barely even looking up.

“Where, exactly?” you asked, waving your hand vaguely in front of your face like you were trying to clear up fog. “You have two heads right now…and six eyes if I blink too fast.”

“Focus on a single pair then,” she shot back. “Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head right now.”

“Right,” you hummed. You stubbed your cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar with exaggerated care, missing slightly the first time before correcting it, then lifted your hand and pointed toward the stage…about to make a terrible decision again. “How much do I get if I go up there?”

She followed your gesture, her gaze landing on the stage where the current performer was wrapping up, then flicked back to you with a look that hovered between curiosity and concern. “Singer?” she asked.

You shook your head.

“Dancer?”

You shook it again, this time with enough enthusiasm that your balance betrayed you entirely, your body tipping sideways before she reached over the bar and grabbed your arm to steady you.

“A simple no would suffice,” she muttered, letting go once you were upright again.

“No…” you said, dragging the word out as you tried to organize your thoughts into something resembling coherence. “Just need money to get home.”

“Well…” she considered, tilting her head as she assessed you, a questionable investment. “Given you don’t know where you are, I’m guessing you don’t have a slot.”

Your face scrunched immediately, your brain latching onto the wrong implication with impressive speed. “Not one I’d like to show you right now. No offense,” you added, raising a hand slightly as if that softened anything. “I was hoping for someone else tonight.”

“A time slot,” she corrected flatly, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice. “You can check with that guy over there,” she added, pointing somewhere into the crowd. “He’s next. He might give you five minutes of his…five minutes on stage if you’re lucky.” She paused just long enough for the sentence to almost behave, then added, “Maybe shake your tits at him and the odds might just be in your favor.”

Your hands immediately flew to your chest in a defensive reflex.

She continued anyway, unfazed. “While you’re up there, we pass a basket and you can keep anything in it. Again, if you’re lucky, you’ll get all of five dollars. They’re pretty stingy with the tips around here.”

“Tits up, then,” you said, straightening as much as your current condition allowed, which was… optimistic at best. There was a flicker of determination buried under layers of alcohol and emotional damage but present nonetheless!

You pushed through the crowd toward the guy she had pointed out, weaving between tables and shoulders but somewhere between your third step and your fourth, your attention derailed completely. The previous performer stepped off the stage, applause scattering through the room and instead of finding the guy, you found the stairs…and then you were on the stage.

Just like that.

You stepped behind the mic, blinking rapidly as the bright lights hit you full force, momentarily blinding you but, surprisingly, in a way that helped, because at least now everything was just bright instead of doubled.

“What a fuck-awful night to not pick waterproof mascara but have the neurons to pick a matching set of lingerie,” you muttered to yourself, squinting into the lights as you tried to force your eyes to adjust.

The microphone caught every word and a ripple of laughter spread through the room, soft at first then building as your private misery accidentally became public entertainment.

“Hey, it’s my turn!” a guy complained from somewhere off to the side, his voice cutting through the moment.

“Shut up!” someone yelled from the back aggressively, earning another round of laughter.

Your gaze drifted across the room, moving from table to table, taking in the audience in uneven fragments. From people in their twenties to thirties, to a couple of exhausted-looking moms who had clearly escaped something loud and sticky at home, a handful of lonely men clutching drinks like emotional support objects and then, front row, slightly to your right a couple…kissing.

It wasn’t polite at all…no, this was a full commitment, her legs draped over his, his face buried so deeply into hers it looked less like affection and more like a medical procedure.

“Not even the dentist looks that deep,” you said, mostly to yourself, your voice drifting into the mic again. “Or that thoroughly either and that’s coming from someone who enjoys having fingers in her mouth.”

The couple pulled apart abruptly, blinking like they’d just been yanked out of a dream, as laughter filled the room spreading from table to table. Your eyes followed the sound, widening slightly as you realized what you were doing. 

“Talk into the mic, sweetheart!” someone called from the back, their voice carrying easily through the room.

You looked toward the darkness where the voice had come from, then down at the microphone before you lifted it properly. “I said that my favorite part about the dentist was the fingers in my mouth,” you repeated into the mic, clearer this time and the reaction was immediate. Whistles, laughter and a few claps thrown in like punctuation.

Your gaze drifted back to the couple, who were now sitting a respectable distance apart, exchanging soft, affectionate looks as if they hadn’t just been publicly dissected.

“That’s what I thought I’d be doing tonight,” you added, pointing lazily in their direction. “I put on this killer dress, matching lingerie…got out of the house and went to meet friends at a bar to celebrate an achievement that isn’t even mine.”

You nodded to yourself, a little too firmly, as if sealing a deal with your own unraveling thoughts, your gaze sweeping across the crowd now that you could actually see them.

“I’m hot, young, got a good style, some great tits and a personality I’m sure any man could bear…except for my father. There’s no fixing that.” you said, the line landing with a clean ripple of laughter that rolled through the room, encouraging in a way you hadn’t expected. “And apparently the guy I liked…the guy that I still like, because a half-drunk twenty-dollar bodega plastic bottle of wine couldn’t take that away.”

The laughter came again, louder this time and you felt it settle into you, cutting through the haze more effectively than the cigarette had, sharpening your thoughts enough to keep your footing mentally, if not physically.

“So this guy…Kent.” you continued, pacing slowly across the stage, your steps uneven but purposeful, your hand occasionally brushing the mic stand as if to steady yourself. “We’ve known each other for a while. Grew up together when my parents didn’t have me shipped off to some faraway country and I’ve sort of always liked him.” You paused, squinting slightly as you gathered your next thought, your brain catching up in pieces. “Have any of you ever been around a farm boy?”

The reaction was immediate with whistles, scattered cheers, a few enthusiastic claps. You pointed toward the loudest offenders, your face lighting up with vindication.

“Yeah…whew… hot, right?” you said, fanning yourself once for emphasis as people called back in agreement. “But way too damn respectful and I mean aggressively respectful, the kind that makes you question whether every mirror is lying to you. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve had my eye on him. Time passed…we moved to the city…I dated other people while he…” you paused, letting the beat stretch just enough, “...spent time at a local animal shelter. It’s adorable, it is! I can’t blame him.”

That earned a bigger laugh, rolling across the room as you nodded solemnly, as if confirming a tragic fact.

“And he’s…he’s gotten glasses since and he still can’t see me,” you went on, your tone sharpening with amused disbelief. “Trust me, he has good sight…great sight, even and the second we turned eighteen, I started pushing my luck. Changing in front of him was normal until I grew these–” you grabbed your boobs without hesitation, “–and even before that, he’d turn around, close his eyes, cover them with his hands and stand as close as he could to the opposite wall. So imagine what could have happened if I started dangling them his way!”

You demonstrated it, pivoting dramatically, pressing yourself toward an invisible barrier with exaggerated stiffness, a hand clamped over your eyes and the room burst into laughter again, even louder than before and clearly more invested.

You turned back around, shaking your head. “I pulled out the big guns tonight…No! I didn’t show him my boobs at the bar, relax!” you added, digging into your dress with zero shame as the crowd chuckled, your fingers disappearing for a second before reemerging with a handful of small crystals that caught the stage lights. That did it and laughter erupted instantly.

“The girls know, right?” you said, pointing toward a group of women who were already nodding, some of them laughing so hard they were leaning into each other. “Rose quartz, garnet and carnelian…Now I know what you’re thinking…‘Why the hell would you have those in your bra if you were hoping he’d take it off?’ Which is a fair question, I’ll give you that.”

More laughter rolled through it was practically continuous now.

“I was actually hoping he’d be brave enough tonight to get a little handsy,” you admitted, lowering your voice slightly as if confiding in them. “He’s the kind of guy who gets red when you tell him you like his tie.” You nodded, dead serious. “Then he’d feel the lumps, panic and insist on a closer inspection. Genius, right? I don’t know if that’d make him an empath or a pervert.”

The whistles came back, mixed with laughter that bounced off the walls and for a moment, you stood there in it, letting it wash over you.

“But no.” You cut it clean. The room followed you into silence almost instantly, the shift so sharp it felt planned even if you weren’t entirely sure how you’d done it. “He was too busy talking to his coworker.”

A dramatic chorus of boos erupted and you nodded slowly, savoring the solidarity.

“While I sat across the room at the bar…already five drinks in, and guess what?”

“What?” voices called out, uneven and overlapping as people leaned in, curious and obviously invested.

“His ears were pink!” you declared and the reaction hit like a wave with laughter, shouting, people clapping too hard and you lifted a hand, pacing again, riding it.

“So I left…” you said, pausing just long enough to let the room tilt forward with you, “but then came back!” That got them shifting in their seats as their attention tightened. “And I saw them kissing!!”

The explosion of sound that followed was bigger than anything before it and for a brief, dizzying second, you felt it surge through you, lifting you like you were standing on something higher than the stage.

You nodded, slower now. “I thought I was gonna marry that guy,” you said, your voice threading between humor and something just a little too honest for a stage like this. “Even if our lives are so…so fucking different. I mean, I’m here in Metropolis hiding out from my parents because it’s 2026 and they still want to marry me off to some aristocratic family and with all of the confidence in the world, I said–” you straightened, pitching your voice upward in mock defiance, “–‘No, daddy! I want to marry the farm boy!!’ from Kansas, at that! Lovely but…it’s still Kansas.”

The laughter that followed was deep, almost overwhelming, a few people doubling over as it hit them and you let it breathe before snapping back in. “Well, fuck that!”

That nearly broke them. “I’m still not going back to my parents, though,” you added, pacing again, your voice gaining strength as you went. “Because if there’s anything I hate more than being wrong…it’s them being right.”

More laughter came, punctuated with whistles and applause.

“So fuck it,” you said, leaning into the mic now, your tone sharper and bolder. “And fuck him too!…in a way that would bring him no pleasure at all.” A wave of approval rolled through the room then. “I’ll think about letting this go when I’m less drunk and less tempted to use that communal bucket in the back there,” you added, pointing vaguely behind you, earning another round of laughter as heads turned instinctively.

“But tonight,” you went on, your voice settling, “with what’s left of it and of me…I’ll be Mrs. Kent.”

You nodded once, firm. “Because there isn’t a scarecrow alive filling out a dress like this,” you added, gesturing down at yourself with a crooked sort of pride. “You can’t un-plow that field.”

The room erupted and it wasn't just the same laughter from before but actual eruption. It rattled through the floorboards and bounced back at you twice as loud, it filled every inch of the space until it felt too big to hold…and you were right in the center of all of it.

You felt cold first in an awfully deep and uncomfortable way, followed closely by the slow, punishing awareness of your own body. 

Your head pounded even in your sleep, a dull, relentless ache that throbbed behind your eyes and your skin felt tight, stretched thin from dehydration as if your entire system had been wrung out and left to dry overnight. 

Somewhere in that haze, your mind tried to bargain with you, softening the edges of reality into something kinder. This was a dream…it had to be. One of those strange, vivid dreams where if you concentrated hard enough, if you reached far enough back into memory, you could summon something better like endless Kansas fields stretching under an open sky, the rich smell of wet dirt after rain and an angel-faced boy who, inconveniently, looked far too much like Clark to be considered harmless.

All that hope simmered to nothing as something loud and metallic shattered it entirely.

The noise cracked through your skull unforgivingly, dragging you violently out of whatever fragile peace you had managed to find. Your body jerked and before you could even orient yourself, you were falling, literally, off the narrow surface you’d been sleeping on, landing with a graceless thud onto a floor that smelled so aggressively unclean it felt historical, as though it hadn’t been properly washed since the fifties and had simply been accumulating regrets ever since.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your limbs heavy, balance questionable and vision still struggling to catch up with reality and then you saw them…the bars.

You were in a cage.

It took a second…several, honestly, for that to fully register, your brain lagging behind your eyes as you stared at them in confused silence. Somewhere in that delay, your body apparently decided to act on instinct, because before you even realized what you were doing, you were standing there…saluting.

The officer on the other side of the bars looked at you with a mixture of concern and poorly contained amusement.

“At ease, showgirl,” she said, laughing as you slowly lowered your hand, your brain choosing that exact moment to implode inward on itself as if someone had struck it with a frying pan.

You sank back down onto the bench behind you with a groan, moving carefully only to immediately press your hand into something wet which made you freeze.

“What the–why’s that wet?” you asked, your voice hoarse, eyes squeezing shut because every light in the room felt like an interrogation lamp and every sound echoed directly through your skull, including her laughter, which now seemed entirely too loud for the circumstances.

“You know, I’ve never seen someone sleep so soundly in a holding cell…or drool like that while doing it,” she replied, her tone somewhere between impressed and horrified.

There it was again, that metallic clanging sensation in your head, each word rattling around painfully even as you could tell she was attempting, unsuccessfully so, to take it easy on you.

“Come on,” she added after a moment. “You made bail.”

“What did I do to end up here?” you asked, pushing yourself up again with significantly less enthusiasm this time, your body protesting every movement. “Is it incriminating to ask? I can’t afford a lawyer.”

She stepped closer, reaching out as if to steady you, though you suspected she was also trying not to laugh again. “What didn’t you do would be the easier question,” she breathed shakily… which didn’t help.

The entire process of signing out passed in a blur, your brain catching fragments but failing to assemble them into anything coherent. Names, papers, a pen that felt too heavy in your hand…until you reached the stairs. That’s when your focus snapped back, sharp and immediate, because something felt off. You looked down and realized you weren’t wearing your heels…In fact, you weren’t wearing shoes at all.

You turned toward the last flight of stairs, your mind finally starting to catch up with your body before you saw him at the bottom. Any other day, you would’ve said there was nothing worse than running into your parents unexpectedly but in this moment, with your head pounding, your dignity in shambles and your entire night hanging over you like a bad smell, this was worse.

He was…so much worse.

“Where’s the communal bucket when you need it?” you muttered to no one in particular, forcing yourself to move anyway, each step down the stairs feeling heavier than the last.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked, already moving toward you, taking the last few steps quickly as he reached out, his hand hovering just close enough to help. You could almost hear him sniffing you. “Are you smoking again?”

You snatched your arm away before he could touch you. “I’m good,” you said, the words coming out sharper than intended as you brushed past him, heading straight for the front desk where a plastic bag of your belongings waited. “And mind your business.”

Your purse was there, mercifully intact, though its contents felt…questionable. You rifled through it, discovering a handful of crumpled bills that you were fairly certain had not come from your own bank account, forty-five dollars and a few coins that looked suspiciously sticky, which you chose not to investigate further. Your heels were inside the plastic bag, along with a club bracelet, your bra…which raised several questions you were not prepared to answer and your collection of crystals, now significantly less mystical under morning lighting.

“You’re clearly not good,” Clark added behind you, his voice careful.

“Excuse me?” you cut in quickly, ignoring him entirely as you looked up at the man behind the counter. “I didn’t have a phone when I came in?” You could feel Clark’s eyes on the side of your face, searching and somehow that made your headache worse.

“You don’t have your phone?” he asked in disbelief. It was practically part of your being.

“Do I look like I have a phone, Jonathan?” you snapped, the name landing with more bite than necessary, your frustration shifting direction and settling into defensiveness, which felt easier to hold onto than whatever else was underneath it.

The man behind the counter glanced down at a sheet of paper, then back up at you, his expression carefully neutral. “No, ma’am,” he shook his head. “It says here that you were clutching your purse and shoes…some colorful rocks and…wearing nothing else on top.”

That tracked…unfortunately.

“Yeah, so what?” you shot back, your voice still rough from sleep, dehydration and the sheer audacity of your own situation. “I allegedly let the girls breathe. Is that a crime?”

“Clearly–” the officer began, already halfway into what promised to be a very official and very unhelpful explanation.

Clark’s jaw tightened before he could finish, his expression going from concern into shock. “Allegedly?” he echoed, his voice low but firm and coated in layers of disbelief. “They’re charging you with public indecency and you don’t remember it?”

“Oh, so now you want to know all about my boobs, huh?” you snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended but far too satisfying to take back. “What are you even doing here? Go to work or something…don’t you have some squirrel to save? Or some other girl to–”

Clark’s hand came up fast, covering your mouth before you could finish, your voice muffled instantly as a few nearby heads turned, drawn in by the rising volume of your spiral. His other arm moved just as quickly, gathering your scattered belongings and pressing them against your chest until you had no choice but to hold them yourself.

“Out. Come on,” he muttered, already steering you toward the exit with urgency, his grip firm but not rough.

The moment you stepped outside, the air hit you hard. It was cool, sharp, sobering in the worst possible way and you immediately smacked his hand away from your face, shoving him once in frustration. It did absolutely nothing. He barely moved, his focus locked entirely on you, his expression tight with worry that felt offensive in its sincerity.

You huffed, crossing your arms awkwardly around the pile of your own belongings. Oh, your poor, painfully earnest farm boy.

“You disappeared,” he accused, his voice was intense like you’d never heard before. “And I couldn’t find you.” You could almost hear a hint of fear in his voice, someone like him, who had never had trouble finding anyone, couldn’t find ‘little old’, newly expendable, you.

“Meaning you looked,” you shot back, a crooked smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “Finally! That’s great, Kent. It means we’re making progress. Anything else?” You looked at him expectantly, as if this were a conversation you could win, completely ignoring the fact that you were barefoot on a busy Metropolis sidewalk, clutching a plastic bag that contained your bra and what remained of your dignity.

“What happened?” he asked, cutting straight through your performance.

“I went to get a drink somewhere else,” you said with a shrug that aimed for casual and landed somewhere closer to reckless.

“And ended up in prison.”

You nodded firmly and unapologetically. “It was a holding cell, not Belle Reve.”

“Without your phone,” he added, brows furrowing. Another nod. “Or shoes.”

That earned a groan. You sighed after, clearly done with this line of questioning and shoved your belongings into his arms with far more force than necessary, mimicking what he’d done earlier. He took them automatically, barely reacting as you pulled your heels from the bag.

Balancing proved more difficult than anticipated. You wobbled as you slipped one on, then the other, body still not entirely on your side. Clark stepped closer on instinct, his hand hovering near your arm, ready to steady you.

“I can do it alone,” you snapped, the word sharper than the situation required, actually, it was sharper than you meant but you didn’t take it back, it was becoming a pattern. Once you were done, you straightened up and snatched your belongings right back.

“Who are you? And where’s my girl?” he asked genuinely, not recognising the person standing in front of him. Not the smudged mascara, the smell of your skin or overly harsh tone.

The question wasn't accusatory, you could actually hear the confusion he was experiencing. It still caught you off guard though, because even now, especially now, he wasn’t matching your edge. He was trying to understand it.

Fuck little old you.

“Like I have an answer for you…” you muttered, your face tightening briefly, the frustration turning inward for a split second before you pushed it away, before a much worse thought cut through everything else. “Did you call my parents?”

That landed harder than anything else had so far, your stomach dropping as you looked at him, the fear sharp and immediate. That would’ve been it, the real betrayal, being handed back, neatly packaged, to expectations you had already fought so hard to escape.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he admitted, voice certain. You didn’t need him to elaborate. You knew how fast ‘fast’ actually was for him, how far he would push it and how little the rules of distance or time applied when he was worried. “You know I would never give you up.”

You looked at him squarely for the first time today and for a moment the anger faltered. He hadn’t gone home, that much was obvious. His clothes were the same, his posture just slightly too rigid, his eyes tired in a way that didn’t come from lack of sleep alone.

“I don’t know anything anymore,” you admitted, the words suddenly less guarded, though still heavy with everything you hadn’t said. There was a long pause before you added, almost automatically, “I’ll pay you back...for bailing me out.”

Your tone softened just enough to make it clear you meant it, even if money wasn’t really the point. You didn’t have much anyway, all because you like a boy.

“I don’t want your money,” he reminded you, shaking his head as he took a step closer, careful this time. He could hear your heartbeat, the way it skipped, the hesitation in your breathing and still, he didn’t push too far, not physically that is.

“I’ve always wanted you to be okay,” he continued, with a tone of voice that made it harder to deflect. “And you do know that. This could never change that.”

That was the problem, it did.

“So, how was the party?” you asked carefully, the question coming out quieter than anything you’d said so far, as if you were testing the ground before stepping on it. The nausea twisted in your stomach again and for a brief, vivid second you imagined yourself folding right there onto the pavement if he said it had been wonderful, if he told you about laughter, about Lois and about a night that had continued perfectly fine without you.

“I wouldn’t know,” he confessed. The answer itself landed strangely between you. “There’s things I can’t do when you go missing.”

You straightened at that, it wasn’t out of pride but instinct, your spine pulling taut as if to reassert something that had never really been questioned except by you. You didn’t need saving, you had never needed saving. You had chosen to leave, chosen every step that had brought you here, even if those choices had been fueled by love.

“How guilty does Jimmy feel?” you murmured, tone detached. He had tried to stop you from leaving alone and you had ended up in prison, which you were sure he believed he could have stopped singlehandedly.

“He stayed up looking for you too,” Clark replied. “I told him to go home.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing that, your gaze drifting somewhere past him, unfocused. “I’ll give him a call.”

“Without a phone?” he questioned, one brow lifting just slightly.

You rolled your eyes, the motion slower than usual but no less intentional, already turning away from him as you began to walk. “I know where it is!” you insisted, your voice gaining strength as distance became your ally again. “About five blocks from where I lost my damn dignity!” you called over your shoulder, not bothering to check if he was following because of course he was. The subtle shift in the crowd said enough, pedestrians unconsciously parting around the two of you as you moved, your pace sharp and steps purposeful.

“Could you just talk to me?” he pressed, closing the distance without effort, his tone insistent. “Isn’t that what we do? You walk away from me, I act like I can’t catch up for a few minutes until you get tired and slow down and then we have breakfast together. So talk to me.” He was practically begging. “Sweetheart, you can’t just–”

You turned sharply, so fast it forced him to stop mid-step, your eyes locking onto his with a clarity that hadn’t been there before. The movement snapped the moment in half, cutting off whatever he had been about to say.

“Did it feel good?” you asked carefully, eyes narrowing in honest curiosity. “Before you realized I was gone? Were you having fun?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He thought about it, his expression changing as he considered your questions instead of deflecting them. Then he nodded. “I–yes…yeah, I was having fun.”

You nodded in return, the motion small and mature, as if you were filing that answer away somewhere permanent.

“That’s good,” you said, your voice softening just slightly, though your eyes betrayed you, glossed over with tears you refused to let fall. “Number one newspaper…soon to be nationwide, I’m sure.” A faint, strained smile pulled at your lips as you pointed at him. “You guys did that, not me. Steve, Jimmy, Cat…Lois.” You paused there, the name catching in your throat for just a second before you swallowed it down. “And you.”

You exhaled slowly, collecting your thoughts.

“I don’t need you to pull me to the top with you,” you continued, firmly now. “Your friend group doesn’t have to be mine, because your passion isn’t either. So I’m sorry I messed up your night but it isn’t the first time I’ve run away. I did it from my parents to go to college for you and from college to come here with you.”

You paused again, watching him and seeing how hard he was trying to piece it together. Your words, your tone and the source of all of this sudden, disjointed honesty.

“I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” You concluded.

The words settled between you and before he could respond, before he could try to fix it, question it or soften it, you stepped forward, closing the distance in a single, decisive motion.

You rose onto your tiptoes, unsteady but determined and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He instinctively leaned down just enough to meet you halfway, his willingness making it easier and harder all at once.

It didn’t linger. You pulled back immediately, the moment already slipping away and turned before you could reconsider, before your body could betray you again. You started walking.

Behind you, you could hear him call your name, his voice cutting through the noise of the street but you didn’t stop.

“Go home, Clark,” you said without turning, your pace steady now and shoulders set. “I’ll find my way back. I always do.” And you kept walking.

Clark stood there, unmoving, watching as you disappeared into the morning rush. The city was already alive with people flooding the streets in that restless, unrelenting rhythm that swallowed everything eventually. He watched until you were no longer distinguishable from the crowd, until the space you occupied became just another gap filled by strangers.

He had more questions now than when he had found you and worse than that…

He had the sinking certainty that somehow, even standing right in front of him, he hadn’t found all of you.

You force yourself to go back to staring at the fading city below you before you could say anything else. You refuse to give him anything. Maybe help him realize that there is nothing that could make up for every cold night where you were left eating alone, sleeping beside cold pillows and waking up beside borrowed warmth. As if he was a ghost in the house the two of you built.

Maybe you were the ghost, hanging onto the last threads of life that he brought you. It was hard to tell.

A few minutes go by, and you could still feel the rigid air between the two of you, thick enough to cut with a knife but not enough to suffocate the life out of you. You really wish it would.

“You’ve been staring out the window for almost twenty minutes,” he says after a moment much too short for your liking, voice calm but tight. “I thought you might want something to drink.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to sound irritated,” he says.

“Maybe I am irritated.”

That finally shuts him up again, much to your relief. 

The flight is a long one, spent in silence as you try to ignore the aching in your heart, the dragging of every beat weighing on your ribs. The silence is occasionally cut by Nanami trying to make conversation, before he's quickly shut down.

“I’m trying,” he says carefully. “This trip is supposed to help us.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Nanami frowns slightly. “We already went over this, didn’t we?”

You keep your eyes locked on a stray cloud out the window, never meeting his. “Did we?”

A tired sigh escapes his lips, no doubt a furrow already forming between his brows. Still, he refuses to give up the ‘sad, regretful husband trying to make it up to you’ act. “We both agreed that time away from work–”

“Your work.” You interrupted, reminding him that he’s the only one who spends ungodly amounts of time on his career. Reminding him that you did everything else while leaving space for him– space he never cared to fill.

His lips purse into a line as his voice comes out a little more strained this time. “–My work, would do good for the both of us.”

“Did you realize that now, or did you know that the entire time?” Came your clipped answer, voice dull as you mulled over your actual importance to the man you call your husband.

Your soon-to-be ex-husband sucks in a breath, glancing around to the aisle opposite of the two of you. “Don’t be difficult, it's hard to do this as it is–”

Your head snapped to meet his irritated gaze. “Hard to do what?”

That seemed to humble him, enough to have him shrink in his seat and look like he regretted even getting on the plane. Good.

“Hard to do what, Kento?” You repeated.

His voice was much calmer this time, much softer. “..make it up to you.”

You lean back into your seat, “Is it?” your arms cross against your chest, tone sarcastic. “I wouldn't have guessed.”

The plane hums steadily around you, the low engine noise filling the silence that follows. Your conversation wasn’t exactly hushed, but you didn’t care if you gave the rest of the passengers a glimpse into some reality show.

Luckily, he finally seems to take the hint and shut up in his seat for a while. By the time the captain announces the descent into Paris, another reason is on your list on why this won’t work.

Nanami straightens in his seat as the plane begins to lower.

“Make sure your seatbelt is secure,” he says automatically. 

You blink. “I’m not a child.”

“Right, sorry.”

When the wheels finally hit the runway, the subtle jolt travels through the cabin. People around you begin shifting, gathering bags, turning on their phones.

Nanami stands as soon as the seatbelt sign turns off.

“Stay seated,” he says, already reaching for the overhead compartment. “I’ll get your bag.”

“I can–”

“I’ve got it.”

Your suitcase comes down a moment later. You let out a short exhale before muttering a quiet “Thankyou.”

He lets you walk in front of him, and as the line advances, he places his hand at the small of your back to guide you forward. You couldn’t help but straighten your back further, but accept the gesture anyway.

Nanami had always done it. In every crowd during every date, a hand is around your waist or on the small of your back. You hadn’t felt it again for months before today, not before you had left divorce papers on the table of his study. Somewhere you knew he’d see, because god knows he’d barely glance anywhere else. You included.

At the airport, you’re practically treated like royalty. As if it were your honeymoon again. He retrieves the luggage, calls a taxi and checks the hotel reservation. 

It made your heart swell to see him so attentive again, yet the feeling was hammered down with the question, ‘how long would this last?’ A month? A year? Would it be the slow fade like before, how every date was rescheduled until there were none at all?

“Are you tired?” he asks as the car drives through the glowing evening streets of Paris. “We can rest before dinner if you’d prefer.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want to see the city tonight or–”

“Kento.”

He stops talking immediately, and you turn slightly in your seat to face him. 

“I’m fine. Let’s just get dinner over with already.”

You almost pity the taxi driver who had to sit in that awkward silence for the 15 minutes that felt way too long.

Nanami chose the restaurant, of course. Something elegant but not overly extravagant, tucked along a softly lit street where the glow of warm lanterns reflected against polished windows.

The dinner was quick, not quick enough though. The whispers of lovers around you and their hushed promises felt like salt on an open wound, all the while neither of you could start a conversation without it adding onto the crumbling weight of separation.

“How was the flight for you?”

“It was a flight.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.”

He nods. You have a piece of your food halfway in your mouth when he tries again.

“The hotel concierge mentioned a river walk nearby,” he says, cutting into his meal. “We could see it tomorrow evening if you’d like.”

You don’t look up from your plate.

“Sure.”

Paris glows around you as you make your way to the hotel, beautifully lit buildings and streets. Yellows and oranges reflecting against cobblestone paths as couples ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ in cafe’s and on the streets themselves. 

Nanami walks slightly beside you rather than ahead, his pace unconsciously matching yours. His hand brushes against yours a few times, and you gently pull away.

The hotel is just as elegant as you expected. Marble floors, tall windows, soft lighting that makes everything feel warm and expensive. The receptionist greets Nanami politely as he confirms the reservation.

It was a beautiful hotel room, one you’d expect from a luxurious place like this. One large bed, a cuck couch instead of a chair, large windows and a marble-white bath. The two of you settle in awkwardly, on opposite ends of the bed as you keep your back turned.

You feel the bed dip closer to you as Nanami’s chest is nearly flush with your back. Your body tenses as he places a soft kiss to the side of your head.

“Goodnight, love.”

You hold in a breath. “Goodnight.”

He stays in place for a while, mulling over his loud thoughts. “Could I.. hold you tonight?”

You bite your lip, hoping he didn’t notice the erratic pounding of your heartbeat. The burn of want and need and love that had been put aside so so many times. “Not tonight, Kento.” Your voice was the softest it had ever been for this entire trip, a fleeting comfort in a sea of awkward and stiff conversation.

“Alright.” He shuffles back to his side of the bed, giving you the space you’d asked for. He knows you don’t want to face him right now, he knows he doesn’t deserve your forgiveness quite yet. Nanami knew that you of all people never deserved to feel unloved when he promised anything but that.

You used to wish for nights like this, once upon a time. Where Nanami would come home early and the two of you would fall asleep together for once, instead of you waking up to shushing and a kiss on the cheek at an ungodly hour.

It takes a while for you to fall asleep, a restless knocking at the back of your head instead of the gentle lull of comfort you used to always feel whenever you slept beside Kento. Sleep came eventually though, a dreamless luxury before sunlight filtered into the room.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Like a kitten crawling its way out of a weighted blanket, all scruff and no thoughts.

Then the faint sound of running water reaches your ears. The bathroom door opens a moment later, and Nanami steps out already dressed for the day. His hair is slightly damp from the shower, suit jacket resting neatly over one arm.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You push yourself upright slightly.

“What time is it?”

“Eight.”

You groan, moving hair out of your face. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I thought you could sleep in for a bit. Yesterday was tiring, after all.” He answers, grabbing his watch and securing it to his wrist. Didn’t you get him that for your first anniversary?

“..Thanks.” You stretch and get out of bed, making your way to the bathroom to wash up. 

“There’s a breakfast bar downstairs,” he starts. “I thought we could go together.”

You pause mid-step, hesitation creeping in before you nod. “Okay.”

The dining area downstairs is bright and lively compared to the heavy quiet that clung to the two of you the night before. Sunlight pours through the tall windows lining the walls, washing the room in a soft golden glow that reflects off polished silverware and neatly arranged glasses. It does well in easing the tension between the two of you, but not by much.

Nanami pours you a cup of coffee, getting it ready just how you like it before making his own.

He slides the cup toward you across the table with a small, almost habitual motion—one that feels oddly familiar despite everything that’s happened between you.

You blow gently at the whiffs of steam curling around and disappearing into thin air. 

“Thanks.”

You sit across from each other again, the table between you small enough that you could easily reach across it if either of you tried. You noticed the way Kento’s hand twitched when your hand rested against the side of the table, almost reaching out before holding himself back.

There's two matching croissants on your plate and his, and tension be damned, you were going to enjoy the damn food of Paris even if it's the last thing you do in this marriage.

And enjoy it you did, you groan at the first bite. A burst of sweetness and tanginess feeling like heaven on your tongue. “God, this is good.”

Nanami finally smiles, small but genuine. “They’re French,” he says. “They’d better be.”

You huff a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself, Nanami’s smile growing at finally hearing it. “Yeah, I guess so.” You answer, biting your cheek before you continue. “You should try yours, it's good.”

He nods before turning his attention to his own pastry, taking a reasonable bite before his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, it is good.”

“See?” you affirmed. “We should get another before going out today.”

Nanami finishes chewing, already eyeing the other loaves of bread and cakes displayed. “That sounds good.” he started. “The staff mentioned a few places we could sightsee today, it would be good to bring some snacks.”

“Yeah.”

It feels nice, getting to talk and open up again. As if everything was normal. The conversation flows for a little while, the itinerary for the next week or so, your preferences for each of them. 

But paradise is a fleeting thing, you’ve come to learn. Nanami Kento is a busy man, and while you are one of his priorities, you aren’t the only one. His phone rings, and it cuts the conversation short.

He glares at the device, before flashing you a pained expression. “I’m sorry, I have to–”

“Go,” Your voice is cold again, a slump to the energy you no longer had. “It’s fine.”

He lets it ring for a moment more, mouth opening and closing again before he picks it up and walks away. His croissant is half eaten, getting colder by the second.

“I’ll only be a minute.”

Minute your ass, it had already been five, and then ten, and then fifteen. The room continues to buzz with life as you feel stuck in the middle of it, the only one left alone in a city made for two.

You sigh quietly, stirring the untouched coffee in your cup even though the warmth has long since faded. 

Eventually, you push your chair back and stand, grabbing your cup only to set it back down again after realizing you’ve lost interest in finishing it. You did finish the croissant though.

If he’s going to be a while– and experience tells you he will be– there’s no point sitting there like some poor housewife waiting for a crumb of attention. By no means were you that pathetic, and even after all these years in that kind of marriage, you still had some self-respect to protect.

You wander toward the hotel lounge area instead, letting the noise of the breakfast room fade behind you as you move into the quieter part of the lobby. You stumble upon a narrower corridor, one leading into a hidden balcony with a beautiful view. 

The street below is already alive with the gentle bustle of the morning. People walking with paper cups of coffee, bicycles gliding past, the distant clatter of dishes from a nearby cafe preparing for the day.

You step outside and rest your hands against the cool metal railing, breathing in slowly.

For a moment, the tight knot sitting in your chest loosens just enough for you to enjoy the quiet beauty of the view. Even if there was something telling you that you weren’t supposed to be enjoying it alone.

A faint sting of cigarette smoke drifts in front of your face, and your nose crinkles instantly. Smoking? This early? The bitter scent hits the back of your throat before you could get any semblance of where it was coming from, and you cough as you step back from the railing.

You wave a hand in front of your face, glancing around until you meet someone else’s eyes. 

A man stands a few feet away near the far corner of the balcony, leaning casually against the rail with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers. He hadn’t made much noise when you walked out, and in your distraction you’d somehow missed him entirely.

“Oh.” His brows lift slightly as he straightens. “Sorry.” Without hesitation, he flicks the cigarette against the edge of the railing and presses it out completely, dropping the remains into a nearby ashtray.

You wave a hand lightly, still clearing your throat.

“It’s fine.”

And it is, really. The smoke fades quickly once the cigarette is gone, leaving only the faint scent of tobacco lingering in the air. The chocolate-eyed man settles back against the railing again, though now with his hands empty.

You take a few steps forward again, leaning against the railing to admire the view. Minus the cigarette smoke. You try to hold onto the calm that the landscape offers.

It lasts all of thirty seconds. Then the weight in your chest comes rushing back.

The sigh escapes before you can stop it, heavy and exhausted as you lean forward slightly against the railing. After another moment, you drag both hands up over your face and bury your forehead in your palms.

God.

What a mess you were.

Beside you, the man glances over. “Long day?”

You huff out a humorless laugh from behind your hands. “What gave it away?”

There's a twitch in his lips, a quiet scoff resting against them. “Well,” he says calmly, folding his arms against the railing beside him, “most people don’t sigh like that while standing on a balcony in Paris, of all places.”

Your hands drop to look at him, and you finally laugh for real this time. “..That’s true.”

The man hums in agreement, you never got his name, but you’d guess it was a pretty one. He was certainly not from around here, a tourist just like yourself. Tired eyes and a crisp suit, gelled hair and a well-shaped nose.

For a moment he seems like he might leave it at that. His fingers tap lightly against the railing as he looks out over the city again, expression thoughtful. “If it helps,” he clears his throat, “you and me both.”

“Ha!” You scoff, wrapping your hands behind your neck. “And it's not even noon.”

He shakes his head, offering a sheepish, almost shy smile. “Yeah.” He faces you fully now, breeze blowing through gaps and into your hair, a greeting of something new.

“Hiromi Higuruma, nice to meet you.” He straightens slightly and finally turns toward you fully, extending a hand in polite introduction.

You don’t know why you did it, maybe it was in shame or embarrassment. Maybe because you already saw something better here. But you slipped your ring off, the band resting against your palm as you took his hand with the other.

You introduce yourself in return, expecting the interaction to end there.

He's quite amusing, polite but charming, in a way. A reminder of what your husband was. But he was a little more jaded, a little more honest with the way he treated the world in front of him. 

It was a nice, easy conversation for once. A literal breath of fresh air from all the strained talks you had with your husband. Husband. The word left a bitter taste in your tongue now, something that you’d rather be replaced with cigarette smoke and tobacco. Not that you’d realize it now.

Right now, it was just a stranger turned acquaintance. Someone to keep you company when the company left you for work calls.

The conversation was cut off by your name being called, and hotel doors sliding open behind the two of you.

You glance back, guilty like a criminal, in shock like a deer in headlights. “Kento?”

⬩➤ ꒰ Chapter 2 ⋮ ONGOING ꒱

🏷️ ⋮ @sweethearticism @veyveyx @martianzmars @yukichan67 @mannythemunchkin @hyukkja @ughitsisabella @cursesandcigarettes @pleaseimastarv2 @sugurusbeloved @viscade @sukunasoneandonly @uhnosav @ssorasky @vividly-vermillion

you keep clark at the edge of a very fine line. you keep him guessing to make sure he hangs on to every word you say.

you don't care if it's mean.

you know what you want, and you know he likes it.

---

it's not like you keep him on a leash or anything -- you're not insecure, and you're not trying to baby him -- you just keep him in check. the whole point is that you can leave whenever you want to. it's up to him to show you he's worth it.

but clark likes the challenge. he's been trying to get your attention since the day he met you. if it weren't for his efforts to go out of his way and act like a gentleman, you wouldn't have given him much more than a few teasing looks.

now, he gets to take you out to dinner and offer his jacket when you're cold. he gets to stain his lips with your lipstick, hold onto your thigh as he drives you home, and intertwine his fingers with yours when he goes down on you.

with all these privileges come responsibilities. so when those responsibilities are not carried through, there are consequences.

---

you quickly realized at the beginning of the relationship that the silent treatment works pretty well for smaller offenses. for example, when clark forgot to text you good morning one day, instead of confronting him, you simply refused to respond to him.

you ignored his "did you eat yet?" text during lunch, avoided passing by his desk all day, ignored the pathetic looks he kept sending from across the room, and ended the night by leaving his "are you home from work, my love?" text on read.

you didn't even get the chance to ignore his usual good night message because he showed up at your door with a pitifully confused look on his pretty face and a bouquet of flowers.

"why didn't you answer me today?"

you tilted your head patronizingly, "why didn't you text this morning?"

your tone made the man shrink with uncertainty.

"this morning--?" clark quickly took out his phone and looked through the messages. you could tell exactly when he realized his mistake. "sweetheart, i promise--"

"so you forgot?"

"i slept through my alarm this morning..."

"oh, i know. i saw you show up to work 10 minutes late."

"h-how can i make it up to you?"

"how do you think?"

he pushed the bouquet towards you eagerly, hoping you'd take it from him. the flowers smelled lovely and sweet, and you knew exactly where to put them.

so you took them with an unimpressed sigh -- as if it were a chore to accept them. (of course, inside you were excited to put them on display to show off to your friends).

"that's a start," you huffed, bringing the flowers inside to put them in a vase. clark stood at the door for a second before working up the courage to ask if he could enter the apartment.

"i guess..."

as soon as you let him into your apartment, your will to keep up the silent treatment quickly faded. the flowers didn't make it to the vase that evening as clark scooped you up to make amends...on your bed.

---

then there's the punishment he hates the most: when you try to make him jealous.

clark kent is a well-known name in the journalism world. he was the first man to secure a one-on-one interview with the superman and the only one to have direct contact with the kryptonian. he's living proof of the american dream: a small-town farm boy turned front-page writer for the daily planet in a mere handful of years!

and it doesn't hurt that he's a cute 6'4" himbo.

you knew going into the relationship that he'd get a lot of attention wherever he went. he's usually unaware of the advances others make toward him and sees their attempts at flirting as friendly interactions. but as clueless as clark is, he still knows when someone is crossing the line.

touching, for example.

if someone cuddles up to him or places their hand on his arm, he's usually wise enough to pull away or brush their fingers off of him.

but a tipsy clark is a different story.

company get-togethers were pretty dull, but mandatory to 'build community and rapport among the employees'. clark didn’t drink often, but while you were stuck in a long, drawn-out conversation with a department head, he found himself alone with nothing to do.

he let one of the daily planet receptionists keep refilling his glass with sweet, fruity drinks, a distraction from your absence.

you kept an eye on them from across the room as they chatted idly about the supers around metropolis. clark, of course, lit up as he rambled about superman's latest battle. The interaction was innocent enough, so you turned your attention back to the conversation in front of you.

when you finally escape the droning debate over photographs and captions, your gaze lands on him -- flushed, glassy-eyed, and looking at someone who isn't you.

it's not his lack of attention that bothers you most -- it's the careless way he lets the woman's hand linger on his arm.

you make your way over, a venomous stare fixed on her hand.

clark’s voice is low and lazy as he speaks, "y'really think superman should have a catchphrase?" he plays with his drink's miniature umbrella, opening and closing it as he ponders what superman should say after a hard-fought battle.

"it would make him more marketable," she replies smoothly.

"superman is already marketable," you scoff. "he's a man who can fly and throw around cars, for fuck's sake." at the sound of your voice, the woman startles -- her hand slipping from his arm, the easy intimacy between them breaking in an instant.

"who are y--"

"honey," clark's eyes light up when he sees you. you're sure if he had a tail, it would be wagging rapidly behind him. you don't want to admit how cute he looks as he pats a chair next to him, wanting you to sit close to him.

"clark." you respond, arms folding against your chest. your monotonous response has him sitting up in his seat nervously.

"is something wrong...?" neither of you noticed the receptionist's silent exit from the table.

"i don't know," you take his half-empty glass and take a sip, nearly cringing from how sweet it is. "would you have an issue if someone were to feel me up in front of you?"

he frowns, "feel--? oh, janet? she wasn't--"

"oh really?"

"she was being nice!" he defends, "she even got me all these drinks! you can't even taste the alcohol."

"so her groping your bicep was just being nice?"

he nods hesitantly, followed by a small: "we were talking about superman the whole time though..."

you sigh in frustration and walk away from him.

"hon--" he calls out weakly.

you find your target: jimmy olsen, one of clark's buddies who often gets dragged into your petty arguments.

you murmur a quick "play along" as you approach him. olsen attempts to dodge you and escape whatever insane plan you had, but your hand caught his wrist before he could go.

"jimmy~" you say loud enough for clark to hear. your hand ghosts over his bicep, not actually touching him as you gush, "have you been working out?" you look over, and clark has an even deeper frown on his face -- his eyes fixed on where you're practically clinging to his friend

"um, no..." jimmy says awkwardly, trying to make eye contact with those around him to help him out of the situation. they all avoid him and let the scene play out.

"well, it seems like you have!"

"okay, enough!" clark tugs at your sleeve, trying to pull your hands away from jimmy. "i get it."

you brush off his attempts to stop you, "i didn't even get to the main part."

"stop." then his hands are on your waist, firm, pulling you away from jimmy. the strength behind it is… a lot. you almost fall against his chest.

"why?" you taunt, "i was only being nice." you try to wiggle out of his hold, but he won't let you.

"let's go home." clark pleads, "i drank too much. i'm a mess." he looks down at you with a remorseful stare, and you hate to admit it, but his sad puppy-ish eyes work on you.

you reluctantly reach up and cup his face, "you are a mess." he leans into your touch, "i can never leave you alone, can i?"

his hand finds your arm, thumb brushing back and forth in a slow, absent motion. the tension in his shoulders eases, just a little, like he's grounding himself.

"please don't."

Before long, the door shuts, and you’re left standing near his desk, awkwardly. Glancing at it, you notice the lack of any speck of dust or mess.

You watch as he silently sits, separating his folders and papers into different piles, and as much as the silence annoys you, you know better than to speak first.

Fortunately, he finishes quickly and glances at you with a small frown.

“Come here,” he says, but you can’t make out the tone in his words. Silently, you walk around his desk and up to him, noticing the furrow in his eyebrow.

“You were staring at the football players outside again, [Name].”

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. He’s fucking jealous, that’s what’s happening. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought that from that tone, he would be pouting right now.

However long ago, you and Nanami had been in a secret relationship where you two only showed feelings behind closed doors.

Not only is his career and reputation on the line, but so is your education.

Despite being older than you, you’ve come to realise just how much he acts like a child sometimes.

He must’ve seen the annoyance on your face because he quickly tries to correct himself.

“You know I don’t like it when you stare at them during their practice, not when I’m up here teaching. Why stare at a bunch of foolish football players when your dear professor is right in front of you?”

When he still sees the annoyance on your face, his face slowly turns to slight panic.

“[Name], talk to me. Why are you being so quiet?”

“What was that earlier?” You mutter, your jaw slightly tense from replaying the embarrassing scene over and over again in your head. The confusion on his face only spurs the anger in you.

“You embarrassed me back there, in front of all my classmates.” You practically scowl, fists clenching when you realise that now your peers may think of you as some air-headed dreamer who doesn’t care to pay attention during class.

Realisation dawns on his face, but instead of apologising, he only smirks.

“You’re mad about that, [Name]?” He lets out a chuckle, almost as if he couldn’t believe your words. “I did it for your own good; there were rumours going around about us. Would you have wanted that on your reputation?”

There’s a small smirk on his face that makes you want to slap it right off. Does he think it's funny that you just endured public embarrassment?

“I practically helped you. You know, instead of getting mad at me like this, I feel like you should owe me an apology for—”

Suddenly, you grab his tie and tug it sharply towards you and slightly into the air. His breath gets knocked out of his lungs as his hands reach for your waist to steady himself.

The scene is the total opposite of what was happening just seconds earlier. With his tie gripped tightly in your grasp, and anger and annoyance written clearly on your face, he can only stay seated at his desk, face lifted up as he reveals his neck for you.

You swear you hear him let out a small groan and a quiet curse.

“Owe you an apology? Don’t make me fucking laugh, Nanami.” Watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your grip on his tie only tightens.

“What? You got jealous that I wasn’t paying attention to you, and you decided to embarrass me?” Annoyance laces your tongue, and Nanami only watches you with widened eyes as you continue to practically scold him.

You don’t notice how he’s gone quiet and how you’re now right up in front of him until you hear his breath hitch in his throat, which makes you pause.

Breathing heavily, you can only stare at him and his now flushed face.

“That’s honestly embarrassing for you, Nanami, getting jealous of guys younger than you.” You raise an eyebrow as you spit out more than what you were planning to.

“Now my classmates think I’m fucking stupid because you decided that you wanted to bitch and be a brat. You think that’s amusing?”

You finally register his silence, and your hand wrapped around his tie loosens as you try to slow down your quickened breath. Tensing your jaw, you eye him up and down in annoyance and displeasure before it lands on a particular spot on his pants.

Fucking hell.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re seriously hard right now, Nanami,” you sneer, nose scrunching up as your eyes stay put staring at the tent in his pants.

Nanami widens his eyes before trying to cover his crotch with his hands, but it's too late, you’ve already seen it, and you’re not about to let it go.

You glance back up at his face as he tries to avoid eye contact, the cogwheels turning in your mind as you try to make sense of this situation.

“You got hard from me yelling at you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. You know he did, of course, he would.

And you swear you see something twitch inside his pants, and you quickly grab his chin to force him to face you.

“Say it, say you got hard from my yelling, Nanami.”

By this point, Nanami is bright red as a shiver runs down his spine. Is it fear? Pleasure? He doesn’t even know himself, but shit, does it feel good when you use that tone on him.

The tone that makes his knees weak, mind fuzzy, mouth dry, but his dick throb in his pants, knowing that he’ll do whatever you say if you order him around like that.

His tongue darts out of his lips to lick them wet, and he almost groans when he sees your eyes follow the movement.

“I-I got hard from your yelling,” he mumbles, but your grip on his chin tightens, and he winces before repeating it clearly.

A moment of silence passes by, and Nanami wonders if he had truly messed up.

“Take your pants off and get on the desk.” Nanami clenches his jaw before immediately following your order, standing up and getting rid of his tailored pants.

Leaving the rest of his clothes on, he quickly sits on the edge of his desk facing you. Immediately, embarrassment hits him because he knows you can see the wet stain on his boxers, exactly where the tip of his dick is. The thought only makes him spread his legs wider for you, and you notice.

What a whore.

Standing between his legs, your hands land on his upper thighs, rubbing circles on the inside, and he has to bite back a low groan. Suddenly, your hand on his crotch has him moan out loud, and his hand quickly slaps to his mouth in horror.

But you only grin in amusement as your hand continues to squeeze and rub the spot, your thumb rubbing circles on the wet spot as you feel his tip underneath.

“F-Fuckk w-wait shit! [Name]!” Nanami cries out in pleasure when you squeeze firmer, and you feel his thighs start to shake, his hips bucking up to your hand. Eyes glazing over and drool already escaping at the side of his mouth, the sight only drives you to want to ruin him even more.

Having been busy recently due to your other classes, you know Nanami hasn’t been getting as much attention and touch from you, and it’s only gotten him pent up. You also know that because of that, he’ll be quick to cum, and the way his whimpers continue to rise in pitch only proves your point. However, you can’t help but tease him.

“Don’t tell me you’re close already, Nanami.” He opens his mouth to reply, but only lets out a moan when you tug his boxers down and expose the sticky mess of his dick to you.

With his dick already slick with pre cum, you wrap your hand around it, and the most sinful, wet sound you’ve ever heard is made when you start to pump slowly. Along with the sound of his whines and whimpers, the wet sounds of your hand on his dick fill the room.

“O-Oh fuckkk mngh i-im gonna- ima-” But before Nanami can moan out whatever words he was going to say next, your hand already leaves his dick and your free hand reaches up to tug his hair backwards. The pricks of pain on his scalp paired with the pain of his hard dick only make him cry out in both pain and pleasure. His eyes roll back to his skull as he babbles out pleas and other words too slurred for you to understand most of it.

Though what you can make out are whiny “no’s” and curses as you watch more beads of pre-cum leak out from the tip of his dick to slide down to drip on his desk. There’s now a small puddle of his pre-cum on the desk underneath his dick, and you can only bite your lip in satisfaction as you watch it grow larger.

Your finger reaches down to swipe some of the mess on your fingers before lifting it to his lips and shoving two fingers in his mouth, watching as he gags lightly at the sudden intrusion. His eyes water slightly as you feel his tongue slide against your fingers and start to lick the pre-cum off your fingers.

You coo as he almost instinctively sucks on your fingers as he gazes at you with glossy eyes and a flushed face. Slowly, you pull your fingers out, and he whines as he watches his saliva connect them with his lips.

You swear you see his dick twitch hard at that.

“Ah, I-I was so close, [Name],” he whines out, and you almost take pity on him. Almost. But you know you don’t have much time left anyway, not when students may be coming back for other classes.

“How about this, I’ll make you cum as long as you don’t make too much noise. Wouldn’t want someone to pass by and hear how much of a slut you are, do you?”

Your hand returns to his dick and wraps around it, though you don’t start moving it yet.

“What if someone were to walk in here? A student, one of your coworkers?” Raising your eyebrow, a grin slowly makes its way onto your face as you see him remember how his door isn’t even locked.

But he doesn’t even care about that anymore. He’s too focused on the need to cum and the fact that the pain in his dick is too much to bear.

He only nods eagerly, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he eyes your hand when it starts moving again.

This time, the speed you choose is absolute torture. Too fast, too firm, that it knocks the breath out of his lungs and makes him groan in pleasure as his hands fly to your shoulders.

“F-fuck fuck nghh f-feels good,” he pants out, hips bucking into your hand eagerly, clearly too fucked out by the pleasure already.

Though clearly still pent up from your lack of attention combined with the earlier edge, he quickly feels the heat rush to his dick as he feels himself getting closer.

Grabbing his tie firmly again, you tug him closer to you as you pump even faster, wanting to hear all his pretty, lewd noises.

“Close, I-I’m close fuck! C-Can I cum, p-please?”

“Go on, make a mess of yourself,” you order, and seconds later, you hear him moan even louder as he throws his head back, eyes rolling back as he cums hard.

Cum shoots out of his dick and onto your hand and drips onto the desk underneath him as you slow down your pace to prolong his pleasure.

Ironically, the very same desk that was so pristine and clean at the beginning of your class beforehand is now stained and covered in his cum.

Soon enough, his breath slows down, and he leans onto you for support, his hands tightening on your shoulder. The sight of your usual stern, stoic, and serious professor, leaning on you after you pumped him dry and turned him into a whining mess, makes you bite back a laugh.

When your hand grazes back against his dick, he whines out pitifully. “Round two, Nanami?”

He only groans at you, his breath shaky. “Oh fuck me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Dont tempt me with a good time, professor.”

ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink

You could feel the two drinks you had run through your body, warming your insides. The base beat from the sultry dance music they were playing downstairs synced with the pound of your heart as his hands were on you. He was a good kisser, licking into your mouth with heat and threading his colossal hands through your hair.

This wasn’t your first time in this situation, you’d gone to a fair share of parties needy and looking for love. Tonight, you’d found someone interesting. He had a smart mouth but still made you laugh. He was charming and knew how to flirt, even if you could feel a pinch of self-doubt behind his words. And, he was HOT. Tall and blonde, pretty eyes hidden behind thick, dark frames. Yes, he was interesting.

You don’t how long it was between you laughing at his snarky remarks and being laid out beneath him. His hand was planted next to your head, arm outstretched to support himself above you, panting slightly. His other hand wraps around your waist, fingers brushing the skin beneath your shirt, and locked eyes with you.

He was so quiet, but you could tell he was trying to ask you something, unsure how maybe. You sat up, slipping off your top, holding eye contact as you bared yourself to him.

A small groan was all you got, his hand shaking as he pulled his own top off and dove back onto you. His lips latched on to your neck and you whined at the feeling, But, his hands remained where they were, resting hesitantly.

You needed more, grabbing his hand and running up your body to your chest, encouraging him. Again, all you got was a small groan. Still not satisfied with the pace, you ground your hips up, meeting him. Letting out a soft moan, you could feel him against your clothed core, hard and long.

“Fuck.” He uttered his first word since being alone in the room with you. His hands reached out for your waistband. “This ok?”

“Yes.” You nodded enthusiastically. With a little struggle he pulled you out of your bottoms. You felt the vulnerability seep into your skin as he stared down at you. His eyes were almost blank, nothing but lust-blown pupils. You felt good, he felt good, but he was a hard read. Outside of your inclining understanding of his inexperience.

He stood there for a moment, staring down at you before leaning down and placing a small kiss to your mouth. “Let me get a condom.” It was a near whisper.

Oh. Already? You’ve grown accustomed to what sex is like with a college guy. A little making out, little to no actual foreplay, and straight to the main event. Still, you’d hold out hope for the next guy to find the clit. You’d been hoping he was going to break the mold. Alas.

He came back, now bare, with the tiny square packet, ripping it with his teeth. Although disappointed, you were all hot and bothered from your make out session. And looking at him fully now, you knew you were gonna be ok.

He was so long, slightly curved, and the tip was just a precious pink. God, what a sight. As he rolled the condom on himself, you could only imagine what your hand would be like instead.

He returned to you on the bed, looming over you. “Ok?” He breathed.

“Yes.” You bring your hand up around his neck. One of his hands lands on your thigh, pulling you apart as the other grips his length, lining himself up.

You knew from the lack of foreplay and the size of him that it was gonna be a little painful. His tip brushed into you and soft groans filled the room. His eyes were squeezed shut, mouth agape. “Fuck.” There it was again, just a single word.

He pushed in just a bit more, causing you to gasp. The stretch was a lot, stinging slightly. “Go slow.” You panted. “Please.”

He nodded. He let you adjust before pressing forward and waiting for you to adjust again. You don't know how long it took before he was completely inside you, hips pressed against yours and his soft swears breathed into your ear.

You were so full, you could feel him so deep. “Ok, please move.” You panted, words breathless. With a groan, he pulled back before smoothing thrusting back up. His hips moved erratically with no steady rhythm.

His breath was coming out faster as he fell to rest on his forearms, caging you beneath him. He was so close to you, but all you could feel was him moving inside you and the heat that radiated off his body.

Your nerves were screaming for him to touch you. Grab your hair, kiss your throat, even hold your hand. But his hands lay steady beside you. It was fine, but you needed more, more, more.

His hips were speeding up now and his breath had gotten completely out of control. His eyes were squeezed shut and you could feel him start to shake.

Was he..?

His hips were thrusting wildly and he let a groan slip out, his whole body shuddering.

Yes he was.

Before you knew it, his hips snapped to yours one final time before pulling out and shooting his load into the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, arms giving out slightly. Before, rolling over and laying on his back, slipping off the condom and tossing it in the bin next to bed.

It was deadly quiet. Just the two of you laying there with heavy breath.

Well, you certainly weren’t satisfied. And, honestly? It kind of pissed you off. You were so tired of your needs never being met. Where can a woman find a good fuck? Was it seriously this hard?

“Was that your first time?” You asked plainly. Sure, maybe not the best thing to say in this situation, but that was a seriously poor performance.

What?” He scoffed at you. “No, of course not.” If you’d look over at him you’d see his face turn beat red, embarrassment written clear as day. He wasn’t a virgin but he also wasn’t someone hooking up on the regular.

“Ok. Well…” You started to sit up and look for your things. “I think I’m gonna get going.”

While putting your outfit back on, he rolled his eyes at you, “Yeah, whatever.”

You tried to flatten your hair before looking dead at him. “You can cut the attitude. Only men who can make me come can talk to me like that.” You snapped at him.

His face tensed and then laid flat. He stood up and slipped his boxers back on. He gave a small smirk, “Well, maybe if I knew you were such a bitch I wouldn’t have fucked you at all.”

You breathed in, anger filling your veins and furrowing your eyebrows. You opened your mouth to spit a remark about whether or not he actually DID fuck you anyway, but decided against it. You didn’t need this.

“Go fuck yourself.” You turned and walked out the door, closing it just a bit too hard.

You were pushing past the party as best you could to find the exit. God, you were so fucking mad. What a dick! Genuinely who the fuck does he think he is.

You spotted the door to the front porch and raced towards it. Men have the absolute audacity, society fails us all I swear.

Stepping outside you were readying to get the fuck out of there. If you ever saw him again, you swore it’d be on sight. God people like that need to be evaluated, I can't believe they just have him–

Your thoughts were sharply interrupted as someone from behind gripped your arm, turning you around.

He stood before you, quickly dropping his hand now that he has your attention. His clothes are back on and he has a pained expression on his face.

“What? I forget something?” Your tone was cool. “Otherwise, you can just leave me alone.”

His face simply turned a shade of pink as he opened his mouth to speak, and then quickly shutting it.

“Just come out with it already.” You huffed, irritated.

“I’m– ‘m sorry.” He quickly spit out turning his head to avoid looking at you. “I’m sorry. Clearly, ahem, that wasn’t good for you. And I shouldn’t have let you leave like that.”

You were surprised, not many men can let their pride go like that. “Yeah, you shouldn’t’ve.” Crossing your arms, stubborn.

“Look, this isn’t exactly easy. I bet you can’t even remember my name” He huffed.

You shut your mouth because he’s right. “Like you remember mine.”

He says your name softly, looking at you quickly before turning back. “And it’s Tsukishima.”

There’s a beat of silence. He shifted his wait around, clearly anxious about the interaction. He turned his head back to lock eyes with you. “Can I ask you something?”

Ok, seriously what was this? “I guess?” Your attitude hadn’t lifted. Thinks he can treat you like shit and then ask you for something.

“You.. I’m not sure how to word this.” He glances nervously. “You have slept with a, uh, good amount of people, right?”

“If this is you trying to call me a slut it’s really fucking stupid.” You responded.

“No. No, I don’t think you're a slut. He said matter-of-factly. “I just was wondering if like maybe you could help me out.” He lets out a small sigh. “In that department.”

“Like, you want me to tutor you in sex?” You ask, deadpanned and confused.

“Yeah.” He says it so nonchalantly, like it was the most usual thing ever.

“What does that even mean? How would I even do that?” You sigh. You can’t believe you're entertaining this conversation. He’s a dick. But, he did have all that… potential. You could probably get something out of this arrangement. Stop going to these parties needy and looking.

“Just like, I don't know, show me what to do to a woman.” His face twists. “It’s not like I’m stupid I just haven’t really done a lot before.”

He was being pretty vulnerable. Coming to you, practically begging. “Sounds like you just want to fuck me again.”

“That’s a definite plus to the whole arrangement.” He smirked. There was that charm from earlier.

You stepped forward, your chest brushing against him and leaned in close. “So, I’ll tutor you, tell you to do whatever I want, teach you how to please a woman and you get to become the star stud you’ve always dreamed of. And, what do I get?” You looked up at him, voice breathless.

You could see the effect you had on him, just standing too close had him breathless, “You’re a human bio major right?”

You hummed, “Yeah.”

“I’ll tutor YOU. You said you were struggling.” You bit your lip. He was the top of your class and you had been struggling. But was that really proportionate?

“We can do that. But, I want something else, too. Let me come up with something.” Your eyes twinkled.

“Fine, we’ll go over the finer details at a later date.” He stated

His hand stuck out, waiting for yours. “Deal?”

The night sky over Gotham shone with its usual smog-streaked clouds faintly glowing orange from the city’s lights.

Inside the Batcave, it was a whirl of activity as the team tried to figure out the Riddler's location.

“We need someone who knows Riddler’s movements—someone who’s worked with his patterns recently,” Bruce said, gaze narrowed on the glowing map display.

Jason leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, helmet tucked under one arm. “I’ve got someone.”

Tim paused mid-keystroke. “You’ve got someone?”

Dick raised a brow. “Someone you’re willing to share with the class?”

“She’s not exactly a people person,” Jason said with a lazy shrug, already turning to leave. “But she’s solid. I’ll get the info.”

“No way,” Damian said flatly. “If there’s an informant involved, we’re all going.”

Jason sighed. “She’s not exactly an informant.”

“But she has intel,” Dick added, voice teasing. “And you just happen to be the one she’s willing to talk to? Sounds suspicious.”

Jason shot him a look that could’ve cracked concrete. “Just stay out of the way.”

They met you beneath the derelict train yard off Kane Street—barely lit, long forgotten, and exactly the kind of place no one stumbled into by accident. The rusted metal groaned in the breeze, and the distant hum of Gotham felt muted here, swallowed by shadows and silence. You were already waiting, perched atop a decaying train car like a sentinel, one leg bent, the other dangling with casual ease.

The moment they stepped into view, you jumped down with fluid grace, boots landing soundlessly on the gravel below. The black and steel tactical gear you wore clung to every sharp line of your body, outlining lethal efficiency. Twin pistols were strapped tight against your thighs, and the half-raised hood left your expression mostly concealed—save for the sharp glint of your eyes.

“You’re late,” You said, voice low and smooth.

Jason smirked beneath the helmet. “Traffic.”

“Uh-huh.” You didn’t sound convinced.

That was when Nightwing stepped forward, all charm and sunshine grins, as if that smile of his could melt any armour. “And who might you be, gorgeous?”

Your eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. “Not interested.”

Tim coughed into his hand, clearly trying to hide a laugh. Damian smirked, crossing his arms with a tilt of smug satisfaction. Both of them had encountered you before—brief run-ins during missions that didn’t last long. You were direct. Cold. All business. No patience for pleasantries or ego-stroking.

It was one of the reasons Bruce was even considering pulling you into the fold. Claiming, he needed more serious people but everyone was sure he needed someone who brooded as much as him. But tonight you didn’t seem as broody.

Jason tilted his head. “Play nice.”

“I am,” You shot back, then turned back to him—and your tone shifted. 

You took a few deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between you and Jason until the toe of your boot nearly touched his. Your fingers reached out, grazing the edge of his chest armour.

“You look good, Hood,” you said, voice low and sly. “Still wearing red for me?”

Jason’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk pulling beneath his helmet. “Figured it hides the blood.”

Your lips curved into dark dangerous amusement. “You always did bleed pretty.”

A cough from behind broke the charged silence.

“I didn’t know you two had met,” Tim said, cautious, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“We’ve crossed paths,” you replied smoothly, gaze still locked on Red Hood like no one else existed. “Several times.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, his stance loose but alert. “She saved my ass once.”

“And he returned the favour,” You replied.

“You got something for me?” he asked, jumping into business.

You reached into her jacket, producing a drive between two gloved fingers, holding it just out of his reach. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

“You know what I want,” You crooned.

Jason’s reply was steady, unwavering. “You know I always deliver.”

That earned a smirk from you. You leaned in just a touch more, voice a soft purr. “You gonna say please, Hood?”

Jason reached out, his hand closing lightly around your wrist. The grip was firm, a warning more than a threat. “Don’t push.”

Your eyes sparked with interest—delight, even. “Oh, but it’s so fun.”

Still, this time, you relented. Slowly, purposefully, you stepped closer and tucked the drive into the utility pouch strapped at his hip. Your hand lingered there longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the gear, grazing the curve of his waist.

“Under Tricorner,” you said quietly, close enough now your breath warmed the space beneath his helmet. “He’s nesting under the old cathedral ruins. You’ll want to take the west tunnel—avoid the gas traps.”

“Appreciate it,” he replied, but his voice was a little rougher now.

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You always know how to say thank you.”

And then, with the same casual audacity you wielded like a blade, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the underside of his helmet leaving behind the faintest mark of your lipstick

Backing away, you turned on your heel, already fading into the fog that clung to the edges of the train yard. But your parting words were clear. “You know how to find me… to pay up, Hood.”

Then you were gone, swallowed by the dark as if you’d never been there at all.

The boys stared at Jason in stunned silence.

He turned slowly, expression unreadable beneath the helmet, and said dryly, “What?”

Dick blinked, visibly thrown. “You and her?”

“I told you she’s not a people person and…” Jason shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “We’ve got history.”

“I—how long has this been happening?” Tim asked, looking genuinely lost.

Jason was already walking past them, shoulders relaxed, “Long enough.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, trailing behind. “What kind of payment is she demanding from you?”

Jason didn’t even look back.

“None of your business, Demon Spawn.”

LATER THAT NIGHT

Riddler had been taken care of and Jason was finally off the clock. But instead of heading to his apartment, he headed over to another.

He slipped through the open window, careful not to get tangled in the curtains as they fluttered in the warm breeze. The light in the kitchen dimmed low. The soft trace of gunmetal and something sweeter, like vanilla lingered in the air.

His armour peeled off piece by piece, left in a silent trail across the hardwood. Chest plate. Gloves. Utility belt. Boots. Until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

The bedroom door was cracked. Light from the street spilled across the bed in thin golden ribbons, illuminating the figure curled beneath the sheets.

She was there. Tucked into the centre of the mattress, tangled in a nest of linen and shadows. His shirt—an old, faded thing he’d once bled in and meant to throw out—was all she wore, slipping off one shoulder and riding high on her thighs.

She always looked like a contradiction like that. Sharp in every moment of the night—cold eyes, cutting voice, touch like a weapon—and soft here, in the early mornings. Laid bare and defenceless in the place no one else got to see.

Jason paused in the doorway, his breath catching for reasons he didn’t want to name. He didn’t get softness often. He didn’t let himself want it. But here… here it waited for him.

Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fanned against her cheeks, one hand curled beneath her chin.

He moved quietly, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he settled behind her. She stirred—just a little—but didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t need to. Her body curved instinctively back into his.

“Mm,” You murmured, barely a whisper. “Thought I felt you…”

Jason’s voice was rough, low against your ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Liar.” Your voice was sleep-drenched, teasing. “You always do.”

He let his arm curl around your waist, pulling you close until your back was flush against his chest, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck.

“Riddler’s out of the picture,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Gotham’s quiet… for now.”

You smiled against the pillow, but it was fleeting—because a heartbeat later, you moved.

With a slow arch of your spine and a shift of muscle, you rolled, tossing your leg over his hip in one fluid, practiced motion that had him flat on his back before he could blink. You were straddling him now, perched above with that smug, lazy grin he’d come to recognize—and maybe dread just a little.

“Which means,” you purred, voice low and velvet-rich, “it’s time for you to pay up.”

Jason huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “You made that up,” he muttered, eyes narrowing like he was trying not to smile. “You spun that whole ‘transactional intel’ stuff just so my brothers wouldn’t find out about us.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence as your fingertips ghosted over his chest—trailing from the dip of his collarbone to the ridges of muscle, your nails skimming along the old scar just over his heart, making him twitch. “Doesn’t matter,” you whispered, leaning down so your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “You agreed to the terms.”

Your voice dropped to a sultry murmur, wicked with promise. “And what I want… is you. All to myself. For the next few days. No patrol. No Bat drama. Just you. That’s how this works, baby.”

His arms encircled you before you could fully retreat, keeping you flush against him. One hand tangled into your hair, possessive and grounding, while the other slid along your thigh, reverent and slow, stopping just beneath the hem of his shirt that barely covered you.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice husky now, low and warm.

“Guilty,” you breathed, lips brushing against his.

And then he pulled you down.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. Deep and warm, burning slow and sure as his hand tightened in your hair and yours slid along his ribs. You melted into him like you always did.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to press his forehead against yours. His voice was barely more than a breath.

“You know you always have me to yourself.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Good. Because I don’t share.”

Jason smirked, voice low and rough. “Wouldn’t let you if you tried.”