𓇢𓆸

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

The air was thick with the scent of June.

Even the bustling streets of Linkon couldn't distract you from it—around you stood patches of freshly-mowed grass, trees standing tall along sidewalks. This month, spring would fold itself into summer. And the warm breeze that passed—curled itself through the branches, tugged playfully at loose strands of your hair—felt proof of it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Casual footsteps.

Heels on the pavement, arms swinging at your side—you walked, and you could fall into sync with the person beside you in a heartbeat.

A familiar rhythm.

It settled between you, a quiet moment amidst the small crowd surrounding. Something like an old melody; one you'd already engraved into your heart for years back.

And above you, the sky seemed to smear with orange and rose—purples, and pinks, and tangerines… The sun began to set beneath the horizon, rosy-golden hue overcast around the street you walked.

Immediately you were drawn back to look at him.

That everlasting melody that your heart murmured.

You caught the light as it reflected briefly in his eyes, the saturated speckles of sunlight dabbling in his hair. He was looking ahead, still, but those colors—in his eyes, they swirled like the sunset itself, that same warm glow. Looking at him like this, you'd think to yourself, that often the sky would come alive in them.

The sky could come alive in him.

That maybe he had become the sky itself.

Those very same colors that painted the evening would spill from his gaze, and the more you looked at him, the more you thought that you could drown—they just held so much.

So much that still, even now, you couldn't quite reach it at all.

Just like the faint sunlight slipping away at sundown; something beautiful left just out of grasp.

Lingering.

And even though you walked beside him now, you could remember that it hadn't always been that way. Now, Caleb was a lot taller. His broad shoulders cast a long shadow across the sidewalk, and you—

You remembered.

For years you'd walked behind him, head tilted up, following his lead. Watching, as he moved through the world with a quiet confidence that you'd once lacked the ability to mirror at all.

Now, the roles felt different.

You felt different, and he felt different.

And you could feel, even in this moment, beside him, the weight of this space that existed between you.

You didn't like that space.

Your fingers curled instinctively around the hem of his shirt.

No, you wanted him…

Closer.

You tugged, and he looked at you.

Eyes softened, lips curled slightly upwards.

Caleb let out an easy chuckle. "It's nice, huh?" he hummed. Whether or not he'd truly noticed the meaning behind your gesture remained unaddressed in the air around you, but you were sure he noticed. He always did. He was likely just choosing not to speak of it. "Walkin' around Linkon like this… It's like it's been forever since we've last done it. But it almost feels like nothin's changed."

Like nothing's changed.

You could feel the wry smile forming on your lips, an almost bitter laugh bubbling at your throat.

How ironic.

Certainly, both of you felt that things had changed—

Didn't you?

"You can't be serious," you huffed. "I mean, that— that movie theater we used to go to isn't even there anymore. The older one, that refused to jump on the OTTO bot train when everyone else did?"

"Oh? Yeah? Well, we haven't visited it in forever, either, y'know. Guess we couldn't have known how long it's been outta business."

"And! And, the one bakery down the block! That one's changed, too. Owner's different, and everything. And they sell, like, gluten-free donuts and more boring things now…"

He raised a brow, "What, no more of those chocolate croissants you liked so much?"

"They're different now! Changed recipe and all, you know? Changed the baker, too, probably… They never taste the same as the last time I had them… with you."

Caleb's laughter came out light and easy, and for a moment, the gap between you felt smaller.

Progress was progress.

Oftentimes spending time with him felt like a ticking time bomb; you'd never know when it would end all of a sudden, nor could you guess when he'd suddenly pull away again. Today—tonight—it was one of the very first times that hadn't happened just yet.

There had been small steps.

More of them.

The gap between you didn't feel so big anymore.

And almost as if in an attempt to finally bridge it, you continued—“Oh! And the playground? The old swings are completely gone. Replaced with those weird plastic dome things that look like modern art sculptures.”

“You mean the new climbing domes, right? They've been poppin' up in a lot of playgrounds recently. I'll say… They are a bit… odd-lookin'…”

"Exactly, right?!" You huffed, rolling your eyes. "The swings looked better. Friendlier, too! Now the playground looks all bland and devoid of life that those plastic things try to fill in with colors…"

"Aw, the kids don't like 'em? They're good for climbin'!"

"Some do… If they're like you, I guess…"

Your voice softened when you looked at him.

"…And the tree," you murmured. "The one in our backyard. You know, back… home. It would've been blooming with lots of fruit by now, if…"

Your gaze moved down.

If it were still around.

Your voice faltered, and you trailed off—the words remained hanging in the air; instead of catching them, you could only let them go in a quiet, almost embarrassed motion.

Too soon.

You didn't need to bring that up.

With a light smile, you cleared your throat, and slipped your hand out away from where you had been clinging to his sleeve.

"But, uhm… sure. Nothing's changed."

Some attempt at damage control.

You couldn't dare look up at him now, and the silence that settled now felt heavier—at least, to you.

You'd gone just another step backward.

Your hands settled in front of you, playing instead with the ribbon on your dress. It was different, from clutching at his sleeve. Already a thing you'd gotten used to, even though you'd been walking without it just a couple of minutes prior. Certainly a thing you had gotten used to, in easier years where you were always with him.

So, so many things you would get used to around him.

And now that split-second letting go of his sleeve had you trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, but how could you ever dream of hiding anything from him?

Even without a glance, you felt the pace of his footsteps beside you change slightly.

A shift, and then—

"Hey."

A gentle nudge.

He bumped your shoulder with his, like a little poke as if to get you back onto your feet. When you gathered enough courage even just to peek back at him, the warmth in his gaze seemed to curl around you like the summer breeze that sifted over you.

"'m glad you spent the day with me, pips," he said, soft and sincere. "It means a lot, y'know? Spendin' my birthday with you again."

"…Well, yeah. Again, right?"

You did gather the courage to turn.

In that moment a car passed on the other side of the street, headlights catching in the sheen of the sidewalk. A sprinkler ticked to life somewhere in the next yard over—closer, now, to the residential areas than the busier life of the heart of Linkon. Here, right now, everything smelled faintly of earth, and evening grass. There was that breeze again; picking up with a carried scent of wood.

Like a normal day.

Like an everyday sort of day.

Perhaps to anyone else, it was a day that meant very little.

Not to you.

Not to him, either.

"It's… well, not the first time. We always spend today together." You kicked at a pebble with the toe of your shoe, watching as it skittered on ahead of you.

"No," he chuckled. "It's not."

"But it feels like it."

Your voice went quieter.

A couple of steps before you paused.

He'd moved a little on ahead—caught on to the way you'd stopped walking, and turned around.

Another car.

This time it passed over on your side of the street, and— you remembered looking at him like this once, on that day.

That day.

With the unset glow; darker this time, instead illuminated extra by the headlights of the car that seemed to paint him in a cooler, more silvery glow.

You were used to seeing him in warmer colors. The sun had that very effect; oranges and reds and occasionally saturated pinks. But now he was dressed in blue—the type to wear cooler greys as to warmer browns, platinum whites to beige and cream. Sometimes his voice felt colder; sometimes that uniform on his person drowned his light into a liquid pearl you weren't used to.

The sun was also a star—but the sun was not quite the moon.

And like daytime settling into night, things could change.

You were reminded.

Things have changed.

Caleb looked at you in that moment. Falling silent, still; choosing to let your words pass.

"…It feels like it," you murmured again, quieter this time. "The first time."

Again, but the first time.

Like a culmination of years of knowing each other, and then… months of not quite.

All day, you'd moved together; two people remembering how to be near one another. Slowly, carefully. Down the street, places you used to visit, things you used to see. Laughter that felt a little bit out of practice. Laughter that had slowly begun to blend from forced, back to natural.

Things have changed, and perhaps that was the very reason you needed to relearn it.

Study the moon.

Fall into its orbit.

Again, and again, and again. As many times as it would take you.

“…I had fun,” he said after a pause, quiet and earnest. His voice was gentle, eyes melted softly.

Those strange, sunset-colored eyes of his—they caught the last of the sunlight; reminded you, achingly, of a version of him that you used to know better. But, this Caleb—dressed up in blue, standing right in front of you, one pace away out of this stupid respect for your supposed personal space—

He was still someone you wanted to learn, too.

You smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

Above you, a streetlight buzzed quietly to life. It was back, again. Albeit artificial, there was that amber glow now on the pavement—on you—on him.

And then he tapped your forehead, took a step closer, and nudged his head in the direction beside you.

"Pip-squeak," he grinned, "look. Your gluten-free donut bakery."

Your head turned.

It was true—you hadn't realized it, but you'd stopped right in front of the bakery in question. It sat quietly on the corner, windows warm with light…

You realized, then, that though you passed this place all the time still, you'd never quite… visited. Less, since he'd started going to Skyhaven, and definitely not since what had happened at Bloomshore District.

So how long had it been, really?

You were right to think that it had changed.

The awning had gone from striped red to a soft sage green; handwritten signs replaced by sleek, branded typography.

But the bones of it were still there.

The door was still painted that dusty white; those little flowerpots still hung under the front windows.

And then, taped to the glass, was a poster—Typed out in playful print, with a little cartoon apple pie in the corner.

Apple Crumble Brioche. This weekend only!

Your eyes caught on it without realizing.

They had one on display—it was smaller, now, and not quite the kind you used to eat during summer break.

But the word apple lingered in your head like a ghost.

That was Caleb's favorite…

You heard a laugh beside you.

"Maann," he hummed, dragging the word out, "I haven't had any of their pastries in so long."

A smile tugged at your lips.

"Not that you're missing much," you rolled your eyes.

But already your smile was widening.

"M'kay, but it's still my birthday. So aren't I supposed to be spoiled a little?"

"You wouldn't be spoiled by anything from this bakery now…"

"Nuh-uh. Would be, 'cause you're right here with me, pip-squeak."

You laughed, then. Shoved his shoulder in a playful manner, before going ahead and pushing at the door. "So Colonel Caleb can be a baby, after all!"

The door gave way with a soft ring.

It quieted the banner, despite the playful looks you'd shown each other.

The bell above still had the same tinkling chime you used to know—impressive, after all these years.

And there it was again. That warmth. Fresh bread, cinnamon, sugar melting into butter... Even now it smelled like a memory that hadn’t quite forgotten you yet.

Like stepping into a well-loved painting; a well-loved book.

Something to welcome you home.

Behind the counter stood someone you didn’t recognize—young, cheerful, and definitely not the older woman with the cloud of white hair who used to sneak you extra apple pockets on rainy days. But the smile they gave was kind.

“Evening!” They said. “Let me know if you need anything!”

Everything looked cleaner now. Neater.

Even as you moved towards the counter, you took in the sight of the more professionally decorated display—elaborate presentations of cakes, and pastries, and desserts…

Behind you, you felt Caleb moving around to take in everything that he could, too.

The shelves in the back had packed croissants, cardamom buns, muffins.

You knew that despite your mourning for the more homely bakery you were used to, in the end it was still a bakery of good standard.

It still smelled a little bit like home.

With a warmth curling in your heart, you smiled at the cashier. "Two apple brioches, please," you gestured, before taking out your walled to fish for a bill.

Behind you, Caleb had paused—something on the side wall caught his eye—a corkboard tucked between the napkin station and the drink menu. A little handwritten sign above it read: Take a leaf, leave a leaf.

Papers in the shape of different colored leaves rested in a tray below, colored pens lined neatly in a box. The board itself was dotted with pinned-up notes: doodles, quotes, confessions half-lost to time.

And while you counted the change, he'd stepped over, pulled a leaf from the tray.

Quick scribbles.

When you'd turned, then, he was just straightening and pinning the note to the board with a casual flick of his hand.

You raised an eyebrow—show off.

“What was that?” You stepped closer to peer at his note, but he held his arm out and steered you out the door. "Hey!"

"Shhhh, that was my birthday wish."

"But a wish is made with candles. You made a wish today! And anyway, you're not supposed to write those down—"

With a grin, he flicked your forehead. "Eeexactly. No peekin', pips."

Perhaps he knew how to silence you.

In the next moment his hand reached down to find yours, gave it a little squeeze—

"Let's go home, pip-squeak."

You thought to yourself that you hadn't quite held him like this, not for a long, long while.

When you stepped back out onto the street, the bakery door tingled shut behind the both of you. Now, even standing out under the awning, you could see that the sky had darkened while you'd been inside. The sun was well below the horizon—dusk had given way to the evening, and in the distance, if you squinted, low clouds seemed to roll in slowly.

"Oh…" you murmured. "Do you think it's going to rain? I don't think I brought an umbrella with me…" You shifted around and rummaged through your bag, only to no avail.

The first drops hit before you'd gotten a reply.

Soft, still. Cautious, almost—as if testing the ground.

And as you peeked out from under the awning, little, sporadic drops fell on your head, dotting your hair with light greetings.

Beside you, Caleb shrugged. "We're not too far. It's probably just a drizzle."

"Guess the birthday boy gets a little bit of rain," you laughed then.

You took the pastries back from him and stuffed the little brown paper bag into your own bag—for safekeeping.

And you could pretend the drizzles weren't there.

Could still walk ahead, a few steps, cross over to the next block as the pedestrian signal turned green.

…But then the drizzle turned bolder.

A sudden scatter of drops soaked into your dress, and you let out a gasp.

"Oh, no…!"

The sky gave in completely.

Thick, heavy rain fell in sheets the next second. Testing period was over—the sky doused the pavement, and you were soaking almost immediately.

Hair, clothes—quickly they began to stick to your skin, both his and yours, and—God forbid—Caleb laughed.

"Caleb! Don't—ugh, come on! We've got to get—"

Despite your obvious indignation, he only reached over to grip your hand in his.

One more time, he seemed to say.

He had that knowing little look on his face, one that slowly, slowly turned into one with mischief and pure joy.

"Race you!"

With an aghast cry of disbelief, you allowed yourself to be dragged along with him—race, he said, yet here he was gripping your hand like a promise not to let go this time.

And you could only laugh.

He always knew how to make you laugh.

"Hey! Caleb, you dummy!"

You would shout through the rain, wet droplets splashing on at the two of you. Caleb was fast, and you were more of stumbling alongthan running. Water, puddles, flared up in arcs from your feet. It soaked through the fabric of your skirt, your socks, your collar—but you thought, nonetheless, that it felt so suddenly free.

You couldn’t remember the last time you'd run like this.

Carelessly.

Breathlessly.

Like it didn’t even matter that the two of you were drenched by now.

Caleb knew how to make you laugh.

Caleb knew how to make you feel at ease.

It was his birthday, and yet, he would still be like this with you.

Shoes slapped against wet pavement, rain streaked down your faces as you rounded the block and skidded into the shade of your apartment complex.

"S- seriously!" You half-laughed, half-panted, resting your hands on your knees as you caught your breath.

You offered a playful glare, "Warn me next time you take me for a ride, captain, geez!"

He ducked under with you, water dripping from the tip of his nose.

And all around you, the rain never seemed once to let up. It only got louder, enough to almost drown out your laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of it—

It settled again, and that giddiness bubbled.

"Ugh, just— You…!" You hunched over with laughter this time, only managing to straighten just to wring out your hair. "It's like you even remember the way here better than I do!"

"Pshhh. What do you take me for, pips? 'Course I'll remember!"

He shook his hair, grinning at the incredulous squeal you'd let out at the droplets that went flicking around from him.

Wet dog, you stuck out your tongue at him.

But he followed your actions after another grin—wringing out bits of his blazer, his tie; untucked his shirt just to do the same.

And then he chuckled.

"Well, it's where you are, so I'll never forget. Even through all that downpour… I'll always know the way home, pip-squeak."

The way he said it felt warm despite the cold beginning to seep through your clothes. But, as if afraid it might once again bring you a step away from him like you had been—you didn't address it.

Instead, you responded with a playful scoff.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Colonel."

With a wave of your hand, you walked rain-soaked steps up to your door, eagerly pushing your thumb to the fingerprint system in way of getting out of your wet clothes and hopefully into much drier ones.

Indeed when the door clicked open, Caleb shouldered it wider, allowing you to step inside first. “Geez,” he muttered, still scrubbing a hand through his wet hair. “I can feel my socks squish.”

You rolled your eyes, "Yeah, and you're the one who decided to drag us through the downpour. Which, happy birthday, by the way."

“Aaand, I regret nothing! 'cept maybe not waterproofing my shoes well enough. But that's another conversation.”

He moved to toe them off to the side, and you hovered by the light switch.

Ah, well, this you'd forgotten.

A second of hesitation.

You took a deep breath, and then—with fingers still a little wet against the plastic panel—you clicked it on.

Warm light spilled into the room.

Not just your living room lights, but soft string lights blinked to life. As the area lit up bathed in that amber light, it revealed strings of lights draped across windows and walls, something like lazy stars, gentle and gold, dancing almost delicately along the blankets stacked on the couch.

Balloons floated near the ceiling. Some were clustered in little groups around the corners of the room; blue, and orange, and red, and purple—Sunny Apple balloons, Sunny Apple plushies, even little Sunny Apple paper cutouts were there, too. The cutouts hung like ornaments—hand drawn, made with care… allowed a little glimpse into the innocence of childhood that you'd both spent together, all these years.

Caleb had stopped.

He'd paused, halfway through peeling off his blazer, jaw going slack. "What…"

A hint of red crept up your cheeks.

With a clear of your throat you padded barefoot across the floor, not even caring anymore as the rain still dripped from the ends of your hair. You could still feel the dress fabric clinging to your skin… but now, you couldn't care less. You barely even felt the cold anymore. Instead, your heart was beating far too loudly in your chest, and you crouched beside the couch, and—

There it was.

The real present.

A small, pearly-white box tucked carefully in the corner, wrapped up in a purple ribbon.

The color of his eyes.

"I… I know," you began, picking up the box and standing still. You couldn't dare back look at him—not now, not just yet. "I know I spent the day with you already… And, I know, that maybe I—I made it seem like that was the present."

Silence.

Not even a shuffle.

When you did turn, Caleb hadn't moved at all. Instead his eyes were fixed on you, watching you carefully, a waver of emotion in those sunset eyes of his that you found that you didn't know how to read.

Slowly you walked the few paces back to him, holding the box between your hands. "It's… I mean, that's not enough of a present. Neither is this, really. But… I wanted to give you something, even if it's small, and nothing compared to… uh…"

A wry smile; you swallowed.

The irony of being nervous in front of someone you'd known for more than half your life.

“You’ve… You've always taken care of me, Caleb. Even when you didn’t have to. Even now, after all this time. Even… Even in spite of everything. You've always been here. And you've said that you don't know, anymore, how to to take care of me like you used to, but you… You still do. You still try.”

The words trembled slightly as you spoke. And then you placed the box in his hands.

"…There's still so much you don't tell me," you said quietly, your expression softening. You watched as Caleb looked down, silently slipping the ribbon loose. "I don't know much about your missions, or the things that you have to do… Or what it's really like, out there in deepspace; even what it's really like when you fly."

The lid came off.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, was a compass. Its face gleamed slightly in the light—simple, elegant, its needle already settling.

Caleb didn’t speak right away.

Instead he stared; a few beats. A couple moments with his gaze studying the eight-point star, before flitting back up to you.

You couldn't read him.

Even now, you thought, there was just so much you didn't know about him anymore, either.

Yet…

“…You always said I knew the way,” he murmured.

And you nodded, almost too afraid to speak in return.

He traced the needles with his thumb, carefully, gently.

"When we were kids, you… You always said you'd thought I was invincible. I had you relyin' on me the whole way, trailin' after me with those stars in your eyes. So, I'd lead the way when I could. As much as I could. I didn't… ever want those stars to go away."

The compass settled down as he reached over to rest it on a little table.

"You don't do that anymore, pips," he said softly.

And you stayed silent, allowed yourself to be gently drawn into him. Again, like always. Again, like he'd make you do.

In the back of your mind, you'd think that Caleb didn't even need his Evol, not when he was with you.

"Now you're this—this diligent, hard-workin' Hunter, best rookie Hunter of the year, and all those fancy achievements... Even made it into UNICORNS, yeah? I couldn't be more proud of you. Just…"

He rest his hands on your waist, pulled you closer just to rest his forehead against yours.

"You're right," he whispered. "Things're different now. All these things keep pullin' us further and further apart… It's like today's the only day we got to be like this. Where things felt like they used to. So when did heaven, and earth start… feelin' so far? When did you become someone I don't have to take care of anymore? When did you become someone I had to let go?"

The weight of his words settled.

In the end, he'd been feeling the same things you did.

"'m not as invincible as you think I am. I can't even accept that you don't look at me like you used to… Isn't that pathetic? Those stars in your eyes were ones I couldn't protect, and I keep messin' up, havin' to—to try to make things right again. But… how am I supposed to do that? I don't know a lot of things either, pip-squeak… All I want is to be by your side."

"Caleb…"

"Only reason I don't drift off into space is 'cause the only home I have's with you. Only reason I come back is 'cause I know you're waitin' for me back on the ground."

Your eyes closed.

Well, through the downpour and morning dew… you're the one I don't want to lose.

"…I'm still here, Caleb…" you murmured. "I'm not going to go flying off without you. I don't want to."

It wasn't even that the hug was particularly comfortable.

Wet fabric against wet skin—he felt cold. Cold, and wet, and—you could pull away.

But he rest his chin on the top of your head, and it was the warmest that you'd ever been.

"You're my home, too, you know." You nuzzled against him, smiled softly even though he wouldn't see it. "So this compass… was me hoping that I'd be yours. If navigation knows only forward motion…"

"…When I'm by you side, I just want to stay still."

You laughed, muffled against his chest. "Yeah. One of your silly quotes."

"Well… When you think about it, you're the only compass I'd ever need anyway, guidin' me back home the way you do." He smiled into your hair—you felt it—before he pulled back a little.

Looked at you properly.

Sunset eyes locked onto your own.

And slowly he reached—brought the necklace back up between your lips, leaned in to share a chaste kiss.

"Maybe this is just a promise," he murmured. "You ground me, pip-squeak. And fate has always guided me back to you… So maybe, yours is the gravity I can never resist. One that I never even plan to."

"My sun?" you laughed softly, "pulled into my orbit?"

"Mm, welll, I think I've only ever reflected the light you shine. Soooo maybe you're the sun. Or the earth. My world, isn't it? That'll fit, too."

"…You're silly."

"Heh. Don't like it?"

"Mn, I've never not liked it."

The necklace fell as you giggled, and your lips brushed together gently.

"You know… I don't know if I can believe in forever," he said, then. "But… Just this moment, here, with you… I want to believe in an eternity with you."

"So let's call it." Your eyelashes fluttered against his. "From this day onward… Caleb, you are my eternity."

And this time, this promise was sealed with a kiss.

Warm.

Steady.

So achingly gentle, it made your breath catch.

And it was a kiss that cradled the very weight of everything you'd shared before this, and everything else that you hadn't dared to speak out loud until this moment. It was a kiss that spoke for you. A kiss that said—thank you. I promise that, too.

So you kissed him back, leaned into him. You felt the way your breath trembled as you did—your hands rose, shaking, pressing lightly into his chest. And it was like breaking the surface, after holding your breath for all these years.

Your fingers fisted, curled, into the fabric of his shirt. Your own anchor. Something to steady you, keep you grounded, remind you no less that despite the weightlessness of this moment, it was still real.

The room faded.

The lights, the windows, the rain…

In this moment, it was just you, and him, and a shared sense of a promised beginning.

When he pulled back, his hands still remained curled at your waist. You noticed the flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes had gone all lidded—glassy, a little bit dazed. And despite the soft, breathless laugh that spilled from your lips, you didn't want to pull away.

You didn't even dare to.

Instead your gaze flitted back down to his lips, watched as the corner of his mouth twitched into a little hint of a smirk.

Caleb tilted his head.

Testing.

And his nose brushed once again against yours, and—

"Mmph—!"

He swallowed your gasp with yet another kiss; this time not as soft, not as sweet.

Hungry.

As if that moment had given him all he'd needed to let loose.

Despite your widened eyes, you willed yourself to breathe, melting like putty immediately in his arms. They'd flutter closed as he pulled you tighter, closer. And your hands slid up his chest, over the soaked fabric of his shirt, clutched at the fabric for yet another reminder of the reality of what was happening.

It was wet, and messy.

Open-mouthed, breathless—you made a noise at the back of your throat, something like a whimper, something like relief, something like—yes, this. More of this.

You felt your heart pounding in your chest.

What had started with a simple kiss had escalated into the intensity he'd pour into you—an intensity you reciprocated; an intensity you dared give back to him, so much so that you couldn't ever think to protest when his hand came up to cup your jaw.

His lips moved fiercely; he continued to press into you.

One step back.

Then another.

Not away from each other, but—towards.

And as the kiss deepened, the backs of your knees hit the couch. It was the only thing that could have made you part—you both toppled over in a tangle of limbs and damp clothing, couch cushions giving beneath you. He landed beneath you—blinking up with a startled look that shone through despite the redness that had reached his cheeks, a little huff of laughter falling at your own lips.

"Geez…" you breathed, one palm flat again on his chest, the other bracing yourself beside his head. “That was graceful.”

Not necessarily addressing the kiss; not necessarily rejecting it.

Instead, you watched as his hands slid along your hips, that smirk of his returning to his features. "Fate ordained it," he hummed. "But I feel like I want to be the greedy birthday celebrant that I am this time."

"Good."

You leaned back down, took a moment to caress his cheek. "You should be greedier with me, Caleb."

His lips against yours were searing.

That hunger was still there.

Fast, and deep, and passionate…

It turned heedy. Open mouths crashing together, again and again.

Soft groans built between sharp breaths and wet noises; there was no need for air, not when you could breathe him instead.

And instinctively, needy—your hips shifted, the gasp between you swallowed into another kiss.

Caleb's hold on your waist tightened. Not to stop you, but to guide.

And that was all the mutual invitation that both of you needed.

Slowly, teasingly, rocking still—you felt him hardening beneath you, felt your own body pulsing in response. You felt a tingle down at your core, already sensitive from the friction of your wet clothes and all this pent-up tension between you. The fabric felt hot, and soaked, and maddening—and even pulling away from him just to breathe took all your effort, and even then you couldn't stop.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice rough and buried against your shoulder. “You can’t move like that and expect me to stay sane, pip-squeak...”

“Oh?” You deliberately moved, eyebrow raised, letting the friction drag right across your clit through the thin, soaked fabric of your panties. A smirk was laced in your voice. “But I thought you liked this?"

His only answer was a strangled sound—half laugh, half moan.

And then he bucked up into you.

Retaliation, perhaps.

Your head tipped back at the sensation, hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm that neither of you were controlling anymore. Your breath hitched each time the ridge of his cock rubbed against you, perfectly caught between the angle of his body and the damp cling of your panties—It was raw.

Desperate.

Each roll of your hips sparked heat in your belly that coiled tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and tighter…

“P-pip-squeak,” he groaned, breath catching against your neck. "You’re damn wet, h-holy...”

You rest your forehead against his, breath coming out in tiny puffs from exertion. "…So are you," you laughed. "We were… ah… We were out in the rai—nnh…"

“Not what I meant.”

Immediately your rhythm grew frantic. Slow grinding turned into more abrupt, hard rolls, the shape of his cock slotting nicely between the outline of your cunt. Your thighs tightened around his waist; his hands slid eagerly down to cup your ass and press you closer.

Caleb had never held you like this becore.

But even now, you looked at him—violet-orange eyes turned a darker twilight from sundown… and he had so much desire in him that you could simply melt.

Sparks shot up through your spine.

Your moans grew louder; swallowed either by his mouth that demanded more, or left completely to echo in your room as you arched your back.

"God, you're so fucking hot, pips," he murmured. This was a lower tone you were far less used to hearing, but it wasn't condescending. It wasn't cold.

It was hot, and searing, and you could only let out a groan of your own.

And eventually your soaked dress became far too much—

You sat up slightly, panting, straddling him still with your own flushed cheeks and unsteady hands.

You lifted your hips—started with the hem of your dress, slowly peeled it upwards.

And then off.

Immediately, Caleb's hands followed.

In heated silence his gaze trained over your body, thumbs brushing reverently along the skin as your dress was thrown haphazardly somewhere in the room. In the next second your bra unclasped, and your panties kicked off, both to join your dress without any more care for being organized.

Because none of that mattered.

Not at all mattered.

What mattered, now, was what was in front of you— all manner of love, and desire, and reverence, all in one gaze. All in the way he would linger, taking in every inch of you with a sweep of his eyes.

All in the way he would speak. Barely a whisper.

But still, enough to make you clench almost pathetically over nothing.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I do right now,” he murmured. “You’re… stunning.”

You felt your heart skip a beat—a couple, before accelerating, bringing an undeniable heat rushing all throughout your body in that moment.

"Then… let me see you, too."

You tugged at his wet shirt, nails scraping lightly at his chest. The motion had him groaning, bucking his hips—his cock strained hard through his pants, grinding against the damp press of your now-bare pussy. The friction of his clothing hitting directly on your folds and had your thighs shaking, Caleb's hands moving up and down over them, eyes now glued to your breasts that hung right in front of him.

It was a reverent sort of scramble.

A struggle to stop, if only for a moment, just to bare your bodies to one another, just to finally, finally be free and vulnerable and real.

Wet fabric slapped to the floor.

No more barriers.

Full of desire.

You pushed him back against the couch cushions, climbed into his lap with slow, sure movements. Immediately your pussy slid over the heavy bulge of his cock, bare, and raw, and skin-to-skin, a place where it belonged and simply felt oh-so-fucking-good.

You gripped his jaw, kissed him hard, and then began to grind—slow, and hard, and so sweetly filthy.

But never as delicious as the sound of his own moans.

"Ah-shit—ah! Y-you're killin' me, baby—"

The new nickname had you jolting.

And he would pull you back down into another kiss—he rocked back against you, groaned into your mouth, hands rubbing over from your ass, to your hips, to the sides of your chests, and back down again—

So delicious.

Your clit caught every motion. The air was thick with the sound of wet skin, of uneven breathing, of whimpers and his whispered curses. His cock throbbed desperately, trapped against your heat, teased by the plush drag of your weeping cunt.

It wasn't enough.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “M'gonna lose it like this, you're so damn perfect…"

You shook your head. "No… Not yet," you panted. You leaned in, teeth teeth grazing that tender spot just below his ear. “I want you inside.”

He didn't speak, then.

Just a flash of something darker in his eyes, and then he lifted you slightly—

Flushed and heavy, your eyes were drawn to his length, watching with a wildly beating heart as he guided you over the head of it.

No rush.

Just the tip, first.

You couldn't resist swirling your hips a little, easing the red tip right into your hole—

"Fuckkkk, yes— Take it deeper, baby…"

Your eyes shot up to meet Caleb's, your own lips parted in disbelief.

His moans were so fucking pretty.

You didn't want to wait any more, either.

The stretch made you moan.

Slowly you sank down, pussy fluttering as you took him inch, by inch, every vein and every ridge burning itself into your memory. Your thighs trembled against his hips—he buried his face into your shoulder, breathing hotly against your skin, fingers grapsing at your ass as he fought to stay still.

"Mmnh… Caleb…" you moaned. Your hands gripped his shoulders then, nails practically digging in enough to earn a moan of his own.

He was just so big.

The fullness of him made your hips stutter. Your eyes rolled back into your head.

“Shit, shit,” you grit your teeth. “You’re… fuck, you’re stretching me so much—”

“I know, pips,” he breathed, shaky. “And you’re doin so, so good. You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven.”

He was throbbing inside you, pulsing against your most sensitive places. You felt every twitch. Every heartbeat.

And then your hips met.

You were shaking—he was all the way in.

Your hands trembled, chest rising and falling in strained breath, trying to adjust to his fill.

It burned, but it felt heavenly.

He was right.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek, your temple, your jaw.

You nodded, swallowed hard. “I just… didn’t know I could feel this full,” you laughed, a little breathlessly. “It’s a lot.”

"But not too much, right, princess? I mean, look at you, so full of me…"

A lazy grin formed on his face, then.

He'd nudged you a little, all so his eyes could rake over you seated over his cock like this. A low whistle escaped from his lips, and his hand snaked over to rest on your stomach. "So, so full of me."

He leaned back up for a moment—

"Move for me, baby."

And it was as if you'd been waiting for such a command.

So you did as he'd asked.

A gentle roll of your hips, first.

"Fuck—! Ngh—!"

The first movement had him falling back to the cushions, giving you more of that delicious delicious moan, and your breath hitched.

There was a light whimper on your lips; the stretch of him still sent aftershocks down your spine, every inch of him rubbing places inside you that made your toes curl—

But you needed more. You really, really needed more.

Again.

And again.

And—

You rocked against him in a slow, tender rhythm; every downward push a sigh, every lift of your hips a gasp. His hands moved to your waist again, holding you steady, guiding you…

And he wouldn't look away from you.

Dizzy eyes, brows furrowed in pleasure—his hair, wet from the rain and from sweat, stuck to his hair, and the way he gazed at you was so lustful and so loving all at once that the coil in your stomach stirred.

"So fuckin' pretty," he drawled, soothingly rubbing into your waist. "Look at you go, pips… Takin' my cock so damn well…"

The slick sound of your bodies filled the space between you. Your arousal coated his length, clenching with every curse that spilled from his lips. You moaned, helplessly, almost, as your hips began to pick up the pace.

"Caleb… Caleb, feels s'good…!"

"Mhm… Yeah, you like it, baby? Feels good, huh? You're damn perfect, princess, made for me."

You near-collapsed. Palms on either side of his body, breath coming out in pants, hips moving up, and down, and up, and down—

His lips found your neck. Your jaw, your cheek.

“Drivin' me insane, pretty baby” he groaned. “Every fuckin' move you make…"

He thrust up into you.

"Caleb—!"

You cried out in pleasure, your movements syncing with the pace of his thrusts.

"That's it, baby… C'mon, c'mon— Fuck, pips—!"

You moaned into his mouth, and your rhythm stuttered, but didn’t stop. You moved above him, caught in that rising, desperate tide, the drag of him hit right where you needed, feeling cock along all your tender places with every roll—

His head tipped back against the couch cushion.

His throat bared; a broken moan escaped him so wonderfully.

“God—fuck, I’m close!" he gasped. His fingers trembled where they held you. “I can’t—baby, I can’t hold it back anymore, I need… fuck—need more than this… Please, lemme have all of you—"

His voice cracked with it, the need, the want.

And you could tell that there was more.

This wasn't about just sex—the way he looked at you held something deep something intense; he wanted you.

And you felt wanted.

You leaned forward, flushed and panting, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Then don’t hold back,” you whispered. “Take all of it. All of me. Use me."

In that moment, you felt it.

He didn't lunge.

Instead, his body froze. A slight, strangled sound escaped his throat—

"Don't… don't say that…"

You paused.

A frown.

His eyes—those bruised-purple, tangerine-flecked eyes—met yours with a kind of haunted sorrow that you wouldn't have expected out of him.

"Caleb…?" you reached a hand out to push his bangs out of his face. "That's not— I didn't mean…"

“No, I… I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m takin' somethin' from you,” he shook his head. Whispered, pleadingly.

And still your bodies were joined, throbbing, waiting—but his hands had gentled, and his gaze searched yours like it ached to be understood.

"Caleb… You're not using me… I…"

"…But how do you know?" he frowned. "If you say it like that, pips, I… I've already taken so much from you."

"What? No, you haven't—"

"Do you really think so? All this time? I told you, I don't know how to take care of you anymore. All these wrong things I keep throwin' around, and you'd still fall back into my arms after a few coddles 'cause that's what I know to do to bring you back…"

"Stop! That's not—"

"I need you so badly, and I keep givin' in to that, pips. Keep thinkin' what if I’m only hurting you by loving you like this? Do you think I don't know? You're just too used to me to—"

"Caleb!"

You shouted his name, frowning, looming over him as your hands gripped his shoulders.

He'd stopped his rambling, but he still spoke.

Again.

A quieter voice.

"…Do I even deserve you, pip-squeak?" he murmured.

And that was the last straw.

You reached for his face, palms warm and trembling where they cupped his cheeks. His lashes were wet. He looked undone.

And you wanted him to stop saying those things.

“Shut up, birthday boy,” you hissed. "And let me fucking love you."

Fiercer.

Your mouth crashed against his for the nth time that day, willing, insisting, to press your answer into him without needing to speak it. Your hands framed his face gripping something so precious, so precious—

And when you pulled away, you glared determinedly as you touched your forehead to his.

Your breaths mingled.

His lips were wet—kiss-swollen.

And your hips moved once, twice… Slow and grounding, and he groaned.

Your hands down to his wrists. Guided them back to your hips.

"…Don't say such things," you murmured. "I mean it, Caleb. You can do with me whatever you want. But you’re not taking anything I’m not already giving you.”

He stared at you, lips parted, half in sheer disbelief.

"…I've been too much," he frowned.

"No, you haven't. You're not."

"…And this is… really what you want?"

"It's always been."

A pause, and your eyes softened. "Do you trust me?" you whispered.

A nod.

“Then I want you to take me, Caleb. I am yours. It's my choice to give you this much. I choose you."

And you watched as he swallowed, looked into your eyes one last time—

He flipped you.

Your back hit the cushions with a soft thump and he settled between your legs, the tip of his cock swollen and poised back at your folds.

His chest heaved.

His hands, placed on either side of your head to brace himself, were gripping the couch so tightly.

His control was slipping, yet he would fight so hard to keep it in.

"Aren't you scared of me?" he said quietly.

And you smiled.

You reached up, brushing damp hair from his forehead, cupped his face again.

He needed an anchor.

You would be one, for him.

"You're too high up in the sky, Caleb," you shook your head gently. "You need to come back down… to me. Me, who's always been waiting for you. Me, who's always loved you. All this time, every moment. I could never be scared of you, Caleb."

Your hands moved, wrapped around his neck, tugged him down closer.

"So fuck me."

And the strings snapped loose.

One thrust—your body had gotten used to him, welcomed him greedily as he sank his length deep inside you.

"Oh—fffuuuckk—pips, baby, shit—"

The angle was different like this.

More curses and moans strung from Caleb's lips as he buried himself to the hilt, and you yourself groaned from the intrusion, eyes immediately rolling back into your head just like earlier.

You could get addicted to this.

"Yes… Yes! Just like that, Caleb…!"

You clung to him, nails scraping lightly down his back.

And this time, you knew he wasn't holding back at all.

Low grunts were punctuated by sharp, harsh thrusts, driving you into the cushions, echoing the obscene sounds of his cock dragging in and out of your dripping hole.

You could feel it—every vein along his length, burning into you like home—the twitch, of his need, pulsing inside you enough to make you dizzy.

Your walls clenched—pulling him deeper, deeper.

It was driving you insane.

"G-god…!" He choked, moaning against your lips as your foreheads pressed together.

The pace of his hips didn't relent.

"You feel so—haah—so fuckin' good, n'wet, you’re— you're pullin' me in—! Fuck, baby, you’re made for this—!”

"Mmh'all yours, Caleb, was made just for yo—uugh—haah! H-harder—!"

Absolutely insane.

Your thighs trembled around his hips, as he held you open, begging, writhing, under the force of how well he'd ruin you.

And you would let him.

You did let him.

"Harder, harder—!"

Caleb hissed as he pushed deeper, driving his cock into you with a wet, thick sound that made both of you moan.

His pace built—whatever you wished—and his hips slapped against you needy rhythm, your body bouncing slightly beneath him with each thrust.

Frantic, your hands gripped his back, then slid upward to tangle in his hair, then down again—once more, your nails raking hard enough to leave proof of everything.

"H-hnghh—ah—! Cal-e— C-Cal—!"

"Mmm, that's a good, good girl f'me—haah—such a good princess, fuck— pussy's milkin' me, baby, you're gonna make me cum like this!”

Moaning loudly, you arched into him. "Yes, yes! Wanna feel it! Wanna feel you so deep—" With his hips angled perfectly, you felt the tip of his cock nudge your g-spot, and you cried out. "Caleb!"

“Fuckin' hell, say my name like that again, pip-squeak."

And he slammed into you, taking the way you desperately continued to claw at his back.

Just one more thrust, and then you caved.

"Caleb! Caleb…!"

Crying out his name in messy sobs, your back arched, and you trembled—spasmed—gripped him for all that you could. "I'm… c-cumming…!"

His hips stuttered, moans getting higher, the sound of your own cries like a catalyst to his release.

“Fuck!” he gasped, voice breaking. “Me too, pips— I’m gonna— I-I can’t—!"

“Yes—yes—yes!"

You wept, drawing him in, begging for him. "Cum in me. Please, please, I need it—need you to—!"

He crashed into you, burying his face into your neck with a loud cry.

"F-fuck! Baby, princess…!"

Nicknames, pet names, words blurred into sounds of your name.

His cock pulsed hard inside you as he emptied himself, long hot ropes of cum and every twitch and throb leaving you shaking.

"C-Caleb…" you gasped, crying still, tears stinging your eyes from the intensity of your coupling. "Caleb, Caleb, Caleb, Caleb…"

His whole body trembled above you, his back taut under your hands, his face pressed hard into the crook of your neck like he could disappear inside you.

"M'here, pips," be mumbled. "I'm right here. Right here… Attagirl, now…"

So gentle, his words, and yet the slick between you was so filthy.

That slick wet noise of your joined bodies, your pussy fluttering around his cock as you clenched him in deeper, holding every drop… This way, his cum stayed in deep. Thick, and warm... Like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

In your heart, you knew that he did.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, that stupid, stupid grin on his face that made you pout. "I think you just entirely rewired me," he laughed breathlessly.

You made a face, smacked his arm lightly. "Well, good."

And your eyes softened. Took in the sight of him, wet with sweat and water, and all these messy things… Yet still, he smelled like rain, and skin, and a heat that was entirely just him.

He smelled like home.

And you loved him—God, you loved him.

He caught your gaze, and smiled.

"…Hey, pips?" he murmured.

"Mh?"

"D'you believe in forever?"

You shifted, tilting your head to look at him properly. "Well… you don't, right?" you said slowly.

"…I want to, though."

So you chuckled."Then, I want to, too."

"So… we do, then."

"We do."

You nodded, snuggled into him, kissed his chest. "Maybe, we just… have to be the authors of our own story. Say that we will have forever. And things, like… how forever feels like… this. In your arms. Here."

You heard a quiet yawn.

"Forever must be perfect then, huh?" he sighed.

"Mn… I think that it could be."

You poked him lightly. "So what'd you wish for?"

Caleb didn't answer immediately. For a moment there was a silence, and then came a soft laugh.

"You, 'course. And that no matter what happens, I'll always know my way back home to you, pip-squeak."

The thunder outside was as loud as this moment with him was quiet.

"…Happy birthday, Caleb."

an : i know the moon imagery might be like. a stretch. but oh my god. like. i find it so interesting the possible analogies that could be used to describe it and settled on the moon wkjhkghkdjfg something something how the moon falls into the earth's gravity? something something the light of the moon is only reflected from the sun??? like it FEELS so caleb to me ok WKJHKJGDS anyway i hope if you've read this far that you've enjoyed it! <3 not as much of a caleb character study as i wanted it to be, but i guess it's as close as i could count without going insane- at 9k this was already a lot im CRYING.... caleb i hope you know that you are so loved... and i hope that for any of you reading this you can feel that he's loved through this as well <3 once again !! happy birth week to us <3 and happy gemini season!

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