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Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

“Sunflowers are too yellow,” you’re saying to Lois, passionate in your discussion about flowers and which kind is the best to receive. Clark’s been listening in, for research purposes. “And roses are too red.”

Lois laughs, “You can get roses in other colours, you know.”

“I know,” you say defensively, sticking your chin out at her. “But I’ve only ever gotten red. They’re so boring.”

“Well, what flowers do you like?” Lois asks, sounding amused, and Clark perks up.

“Hmm,” you tap your chin thoughtfully. Then, after a moment of thought, “I like lilies. The pink ones are so pretty.”

That’s how Clark ends up late to work the next day, a big bouquet of pink and white lilies clutched in his hand, their stalks strangled in his nervous grip. The cellophane crinkles against his suit as he weaves through bustling colleagues towards his desk. In his other hand is a brown paper bag, still warm, smelling of sugar and almonds.

Clark’s surprised, and a bit alarmed, to find you already standing at his desk, poring over your notebook. His heart suddenly picks up speed, and he considers turning tail and running the other way, but you look up as he approaches. Too late.

“Oh, Clark, you’re here. I just wanted to ask you about—“ You stop short as your gaze lands on the flowers cradled to his chest. You raise a brow, “Who’s the lucky girl?”

Clark feels suddenly really nervous. He wishes he could wipe his sweaty palms on his suit jacket, but his hands are full. He swallows.

“Um,” He starts lamely. His glasses start to slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with the hand holding the flowers. “You?”

You blink at him, looking understandably confused. “Huh?”

Clark flounders for a long moment. This is not going how he’d hoped it would.

“Uh.” He clears his throat and steels his nerves. “They’re… they’re for you, honey.”

He offers the flowers to you. Your features are still screwed up in skepticism, and Clark is immensely grateful when you take them from him, your fingers brushing his as you go.

“Oh.” You gaze down at the flowers, then back up at Clark, blinking rapidly. Clark wonders if you’re as nervous as he feels. He doubts it. “What for?”

Clark’s not really sure himself. He doesn’t know why he got them, he just knows that he likes you, and you like lilies, and maybe the logic got a bit lost in the process, but sue him for thinking you deserve nice things.

He shrugs. “I’m not sure. No reason, really,” he rubs the back of his neck with a warm hand. “I just thought you’d like them. Do you?”

You nod vehemently. “I love them, Clark. They’re so pretty, how’d you know lilies are my favourite?”

Clark hesitates. He’s not about to tell you he’s been listening in on your conversations. One, it’s definitely borderline creepy, and two, Clark Kent isn’t supposed to have super hearing.

He just grins, sheepish. “Dunno,” he says. “Just a lucky guess. I got you this, as well.”

He holds out the paper bag before he can psyche himself out. You put the flowers down on his desk, gentle as ever, and take the bag from him, opening up the top and peeking in.

“An almond croissant?” You say, sounding surprised and pleased at once.

Your shoulders start to creep towards your ears, and you bite the inside of your cheek like you’re trying not to smile too big. Clark knows almond croissants are your favourite. He heard you raving to Jimmy about the ones at the bakery down the street last week.

Before Clark can give you another lame explanation for his conveniently suitable gifts, you surge at him, throwing your arms around his neck with a pleased giggle. Clark, startled, catches you with his hands on your waist. His heartbeat goes suddenly frantic.

“Clark,” you gush, and his name sounds unbelievably sweet in your mouth. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know you skip breakfast most days,” he says, sheepish and a little bit panicked. His face feels like it’s on fire, worse when you pull back and smile at him like he’s hung the sun. “I figured you’d be hungry. I was going past the bakery, anyway. It’s no big deal.”

He’s rambling, but he can’t help it. You’re so close, and your smile is bruising.

You give him an exasperated look. “You’re downplaying it. Almond croissants are my favourite!” You steal your arms back from around his neck and hit him on the chest gently. He doesn’t feel a thing, but it’s cute anyway. “What are you, psychic?”

Worse, Clark thinks. He shrugs. “I told you. Lucky guesses.”

You squint at him, and Clark feels the heat of a million suns on his skin under your gaze. He almost spills his guts right then and there, but before he can, you break into a big smile.

“You’re cute, Kent,” you say decidedly. Before Clark can react, you push up onto your tiptoes, press a hand to his chest, and kiss his check sweetly. “Thank you.”

Clark goes a bit blind. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was steam gushing out of his ears right now. He’s gotta do this more often if you’re gonna react like that.

You turn back to the task at hand: organising cans of tinned, chopped tomatoes. To your left is a stack of bags of rice and to your right, bags of pasta. It’s quick work as you separate them by flavour: garlic and herb; chilli; regular…In the background you overhear chatter of fellow volunteers. Where should I put this? Who had the plastic bags? This was your happy place. 

‘The Stirring Spoon’ is what you had called it. It was your passion project born out of daydreams. A collaborative, community effort, providing food to anybody and everybody, free of charge. It wasn’t a traditional food drive. Instead, it was like a potluck dinner that you hosted every Wednesday in the late afternoon, running into the evening. People brought whatever dish they had prepared, or any ingredients that they had going spare which you and a handful of other volunteers whipped up into mains and desserts. Tomato soup and lentil curry and meatball subs and rainbow brownies and chocolate chip cookies. You’d even managed to rope a few local establishments into it. Any leftover bakes that they had when the workday was over, or things that were just a smidge out of date by a day or two, you took and offered out. Today? Cinnamon buns that were baked yesterday at a humble cafe in the town centre, just shy of Figure Eight. Food health and safety laws were strict but you could stretch them for The Stirring Spoon. After all, you weren’t technically selling a product so no harm done. People were clued in about the supposed “risk”. 

You lift up a can of tomatoes and study the ‘best by’ date on the metal lid. A month in the safe zone. Perfect. As your mind flicks through recipes of what you could cook up, a voice stood out amongst the chatter nearby. It was like a siren’s call; distinct and damning. You could pick it out even when deaf. 

“I gotta delivery here for y’all.”

“What’s in it?”

“Fresh sorta stuff. ‘Tatoes and that kinda thing.”

“Over there, I’d say.”

As the footsteps approach you can feel your heartbeat quicken. It taps nervously in your ribcage like you’re sixteen all over again. Your focus remains on the task at hand until a slight shadow casts over you, and you know you can’t stall any longer.  Your hands freeze over a can of tomatoes. Looking up, standing in front of you, clear as daylight and bright as dawn, is JJ Maybank. He’s dressed in his usual attire of a worn-down t-shirt and shorts; his fingers and wrists decorated with metal rings and beaded bracelets. If you squinted, it’d be like no time had passed at all. He doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him and yet, he’s entirely changed. In his hands is a large cardboard crate of various fresh produce. You smile. 

“JJ.”

It comes out in a breath as though you’re seeing something supernatural before you. In a way, you are. How long has it been now? Two years? Nearly three?

His own surprise mirrors yours on his face. But JJ was always better at hiding his emotions, once he had a chance to catch them. It was like a teasing glimpse before he closed the curtains. His recovery is quick as a smile starts to show, and he says your name like he’s practised it everyday. 

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask.

“Brought some deliveries,” JJ says, hitching the box. “Kiara mentioned something ‘bout a community kitchen drive y’all do and we thought we could contribute and stuff.”

“Well, that’s nice of y’all. Thank you,” you reply. 

You shuffle some stuff out of the way on the pop-up table in front of you to make space for JJ’s box. It’s hard not to watch his arms as he lowers it down, the way the biceps flex and tense beneath the skin. It’s hard not to think of other times his arms have looked that way, wrapped around your body, tugging you closer. You blink the memories away. 

JJ’s hands slot into his short pockets. He rocks on his feet. “Looks like it’s a pretty popular thing, huh?v This food drive, I mean.”

You glance around at the bustling volunteers. Smiling, you say, “Yeah, I guess it caught on pretty quick. Could say the same about y’alls tackle-and-bait shop you got going. It’s the talk of the town ‘round here.”

JJ grins with visible pride and it isn’t until you see it that you realise how much you missed his smile. You wonder if he’s surveying your face and body the way you are his, as if looking for some inconsistency or change since the last time you saw him. 

“Yeah, it’s coming together pretty nice. Helps having a bunch of us working on it, though.”

“I bet,” you say. You’d heard the chatter on the island about the Pogue’s latest venture. The sneers of the kooks and the curiosity of the locals. Their bets and wagers on whether the business would sink or float. You’d wanted to wander down and check it out for yourself but you always chickened out. Truth was, you’d been avoiding JJ Maybank like the flu, and now here he was in front of you, putting all your quarantining to shame. Your eyes flit down at the crate and you gently rifle through the food for a distraction. Tomatoes and potatoes and bunches of fresh berries and fruit. 

“I, uh, don’t know if there’s much in there that y’all need but–”

“No, no, this is great,” you assure him, smiling. “It’s really generous of y’all. Every contribution is appreciated.”

“Happy to help. To be honest, it’s Kie and Sarah you should be thanking.”

“Yeah, I didn’t peg you as the gardening type,” you tease. 

“Well, only for the stuff that matters,” JJ grins with a wink. You consciously try to fight away the warmth running to your cheeks. Damn it, you weren’t sixteen anymore. “So…how have you been, then? Since we last…y’know–”

“Baby!”

It’s a reflex reaction to turn at the sound of Mark’s call. He comes bounding over with a wide grin. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and flour is dusted on his khakis. It’s a reflex to close your eyes when he dips his head to plant a kiss to your lips, too. You rub them together after as you prepare yourself for what might be the most awkward interaction you’ll ever go through. 

“JJ,” you say, turning to the blonde haired boy. “This is Mark. Mark, this is JJ. We used to…uh…Well, we used to hang out.”

“JJ - pleasure,” Mark says sincerely. He sticks out his hand and for a painful moment you genuinely worry that JJ might never take it. But he does, shaking it. 

“Likewise,” he says. 

You feel Mark’s spare arm slide around your back, his palm placing itself respectfully on your side. That was Mark: respectful. Righteous but not in an arrogant way. He was kind and caring without judgement, like the sort of Christian boy your nana would want you to bring home. The sort of guy who would bring your mother flowers and play golf with your father on the weekends. The kind of face you’d see flash on the television during the six o’clock news as the reporter relays a daring and heroic tale of saving orphaned kittens from a burning tree. 

“This is the guy that’s started the tackle-and-bait shop. Y’know, the one with the surf store and stuff,” you say to Mark. Realisation dawns upon Mark and he wags his finger at JJ. 

“Wait, wait, JJ as in JJ Maybank? One of the gang who found El Dorado?” 

You roll your eyes at the pure awe in his voice. JJ chuckles somewhat nervously and nods as he says, “yeah, uh, that JJ, I guess.”

“Holy shit! Baby, why didn’t you say!? Oh man, I read all about that. It sounded freaking incredible! I have so much to ask you, I mean-”

You place a hand to his chest and laugh, slightly embarrassed by his fangirling. “Baby, baby! Cool it a second, yeah?”

Laughing, you glance at JJ. And you catch it. That emotion he lets slip just before correcting himself. His eyes dart to yours in a second but they were looking elsewhere before. They were looking at your hand on Mark’s stomach. 

“Nah man, it’s cool. You guys should stop by sometime and I can tell you all about it. The other Pogues too, yeah,” JJ cordially replies. 

“Oh sick, man. That’d be great,” Mark beams. You smile at JJ and nod. 

“I’d love to see what you guys have done to the place,” you tell him. JJ smiles but it falters, like a flickering lightbulb that’s fighting to stay on. An awkward quiet passes and you clear your throat and glance around at the voluntary effort. “Well, I should probably get back to work.”

“No, yeah, course. I ought’a get back to the shop,” JJ replies. 

“Thanks for the stuff though. We really appreciate it.”

“You brought this?” Mark wonders, picking a strawberry out of the crate. He pops it in his mouth and hums happily. “Damn, those are some fresh strawberries.”

“Yeah, man. All from our local garden we got going.”

“This place sounds like the dream,” Mark tells you. You smile up at him. He takes the crate in his broad hands and lifts it easily into the air. Being sandwiched between two toned-up guys had you feeling as brittle as candyfloss. “I’ll take this over to Nancy. Nice meeting you, JJ.”

“Yeah, you too, man.”

You watch him wander off a moment before turning back to JJ. He offers you another smile. “I’ll come check out the shop soon,” you promise. 

JJ points at you, playfully warning, “you better!” before walking away. You watch him with every step he takes and the moment he’s out of sight your head drops. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your entire body feels as though it’s vibrating; your heart running laps in your ribcage. And the funniest part of all is the strange thought that races around your mind, he’s real. It had been so long since you’d seen JJ, let alone heard from him, that it felt like a daydream. The memories were so hazy now that they’d been painted over in sepia and you wondered if you’d imagined the whole thing. But no, here he was, knowing you and recognising you, and talking to you. The two of you back in Kildare, seemingly for good. 

“Baby! Can you give us a hand?”

The call drags you out of your thoughts. Your eyes fall onto your boyfriend. He stands a good head taller than most people. He’s almost lanky in build but not ungainly; broad shouldered and slim nosed. His eyes are those of an otter: nearly black with how brown they are; beady and shining, even from over here. There’s a smattering of freckles over his cheeks which is adorably boyish in contrast to his stubble on the jawline. He’s smiling at you in a way that all girls want to be smiled at. Unashamed in his admiration for you. It grounds you from the dizzying interaction with JJ and you walk over to him, ready to help out in any way you can. 

The rest of The Stirring Spoon passes without a hitch or unexpected visitor from the past. It’s as popular as always, with locals and tourists stopping by. The lentil and tomato soup that you whipped up disappears within the first half hour, alongside the nearly stale but still delicious cheese bread. Mark stands by your side the whole time, smiling as he serves. He whispers little jokes in your ear that have you giggling in the quiet periods of the food drive. Then came the evening rush, with people stopping by after work. The culmination of it all meant JJ was pushed out of your thoughts and back into the long-term store, where he’d been haunting before. That is, until you’re tidying up. 

“That JJ guy seemed nice,” Mark says from the table to your right. You look up from the plastic snack-bags you’re tidying away. “You said you guys used to hang?”

“When we were sixteen,” you reply. 

“How come you stopped hanging out?” he wonders. 

You look down at the bags and obsess over the colours of the labels as you debate how best to word your reply. What do you divulge to him? There’s an index of memories labelled JJ and you know not all need to see the light of day, let alone enter the mind of your boyfriend in scarring reenactments. 

“We just grew apart. He was going through some stuff, I think, and then he got really into that whole treasure hunting thing,” you tell him. It was true enough to not be a lie. Mark hums in thought. 

“That’s a shame.”

You quirk a brow, amused. “Why? Cause I could have cashed in on the gold too?”

Mark shrugs and you laugh. “What!? I’m just saying, some people are worth staying friends with!”

But that was the thing. You and JJ weren’t just friends. Shaking your head, you close the cardboard box of repacked snack-bags and carry it over to the table where he’s working. You held him wrap individual muffins in napkins before placing them in a large tupperware box. 

“Hey, y’know what’d be nice?” Mark says. 

“What?”

“If we took them over some leftovers. I mean, we made most of this stuff with the ingredients they gave us anyway. And there’s still some of those cinnamon buns going spare.”

You take pause and look up at him. He’s obliviously working away, head tucked down to look at the muffins. There’s an easy smile that’s permanently etched into his face, as if he came out the womb cheesing away. That wasn’t why you fell for him though. No, it was his kindness. His offhand generosity that came so naturally to him it was almost offensive. Pressing up onto your toes, you cup his jaw and press a kiss to his cheek. He chuckles quietly. 

“You’re wonderful,” you hum happily. “I think that’s a great idea.” 

“You go wrap up some cinnamon buns then. I’ll pack up some of these muffins for them.”

You do as he asks and soon enough, there’s a box of miscellaneous leftovers from your food drive. Mark drives. The sky is a delicate colour of amber and pink warning of soon nightfall. Colours like that always make you feel relaxed. It helps ease the nervousness of seeing JJ again. You weren’t sure why it was making you so antsy. It wasn’t as if you and JJ parted ways on bad terms. You suppose it’s just a bitter-sweet memory. All memories of JJ came with that sour coating now, like sherbet lemons on your tongue. You wonder if you’d feel the same way if Mark weren’t around. 

But he is, and you’re glad he is. 

Looking over to him, you reach out your hand to capture his, resting on his thigh. He glances over at you and smiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just happy, s’all.”

“That’s good,” he says, looking back to the road. Like something from a music video, he raises your interlocked hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Means I’m doing something right, if you’re happy.”

It’s impossible not to do a double-take as you pull up to what was formally the Maybank property. It’s as if new life has been breathed into it. More than just a lick of paint, there’s two brand new buildings alongside a pretty sturdy looking pier and dock. There’s a handmade charm to everything that makes it all the more enticing and impressive. Mark seems to think so too because he whistles as the two of you pull up the driveway. You look to your left and see the Twinkie. A relic from your past, of memories half-naked, rolling around the back with JJ, sharing a blunt in a post-orgasmic haze. Your thoughts shut off with the engine. 

Mark takes the lead, his hand in yours, and carries the box of leftovers up to the house. You both wander up the porch and Mark knocks twice on the door. Your eyes look at everything, taking it in, admiring every detail, until someone opens the door. It’s Kiara. 

“Hey. Can I help you?” she asks your monolith of a boyfriend. You poke your head from around his body. 

“Hey Kie.”

“Oh my Gosh! Girl, where have you been?” Kie beams. The two of you embrace, laughing and smiling. “Wait - did you get the stuff I sent JJ over with?”

“Yeah, we did,” you say. “Thank you so much.”

“We actually brought this as a thanks,” Mark adds, offering out the tub. She eyes him almost with suspicion. 

“Sorry, I forgot to say - Kie, this is Mark. My boyfriend,” you explain. Kie’s eyebrows shoot up with that final word but she recovers quick. 

“Nice to meet you, Mark,” she says. She takes the box and glances through the plastic. 

“Just some leftovers we thought you might like. Muffins and cinnamon buns and things like that.”

“Thanks guys, you didn’t have to. We’re happy to contribute,” Kiara tells you. “In fact, me and Sarah were talking about maybe making it a regular thing. Like every Wednesday we bring some stuff from the garden, or fish that we’ve caught?”

“Oh my God, yeah, that’d be amazing,” you nod enthusiastically. “We can definitely figure out a system.”

“Perfect. I’ll put these inside. You guys want a drink or anything? I can show you around,” Kiara offers, opening the door wider in invitation. 

You glance over her shoulder into the room and then around the porch, behind you out to the water. You’re not sure why you were expecting JJ to just appear out of thin air in front of you. 

“JJ’s out on the dock, if you want to catch up,” Kiara posits, as if hearing your thoughts. You look at her and hold her gaze, and - unable to read what her expression means - nod. 

“I think I’ll go say hi. We didn’t get a chance to properly catch up,” you reply. You glance up at Mark. “You want to come with?”

“It’s alright. I’ll stay here and get the tour,” he tells you with a wink. You smile, press a kiss to his lips, and wander off with a wave to Kie, towards the dock. 

Feet thudding on the slabs of wood, the structure creaks as you walk to the shop. An American flag waves in the breeze. You run a hand along the thick rope bannister and glance down into the growth of plants and water weeds underfoot. I can’t believe they built all of this, you can’t help but think as you walk up to the wooden-slatted tackle-and-bait shop. As you walk into the store under the wooden ‘WELCOME’ sign, reggae music blesses your ears alongside the smell of incense. It’s jam-packed with miscellaneous water accessories: fishing gear, surfing gear, refreshments, you name it. There’s nobody behind the counter. You glance around and squint, catching onto a spot red through the window. JJ lies outside atop of a vintage cooler, feet crossed one over the other, arms tucked under his head. You can’t help but smile. Walking outside, you lean against the doorframe and fold your arms over your chest. 

“Well, as far as customer service goes, this is pretty crappy.”

He snaps up to sit like he has the joints of a ken doll. You laugh as he blinks his eyes awake, laying them on you. 

“Oh shit,” he says, clearing his throat, running a hand through his hair. “When’d you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. You looked pretty comfy there,” you say, amused. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a good nap spot,” JJ chuckles nervously, glancing down at where he just lay his head. He straightens his t-shirt and then looks back at you. His brows furrow. “Wait, what’re you doing here?”

“Came by to see the new place,” you reply, gesturing around you. “You offered.”

“Didn’t think you’d be in such a hurry.”

“No time like the present and all that.”

You’re acutely aware of how you’re avoiding mentioning Mark and how he’s currently being led around JJ’s former house and yard under Kie’s tow. 

“This is a pretty sick set-up,” you praise. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty good, huh?” JJ grins, getting to his feet. “Here, you want a beer? We’re technically closed for business anyway.”

Laughing, you shrug. “Sure. Why not.” 

Cracking open the cooler, he reaches in and retrieves two ice-cold cans. One is tossed to you and you catch it, and a feeling of deja vu rings through you. JJ, younger, just as handsome, throwing you a can of beer at a kegger. He leans against the cooler and you against a wooden pillar. Cracking cans and the fizz of beer, and you take a refreshing sip. A comfortable quiet comes and the two of you catch one anothers eyes. You smile. 

“I don’t think I said earlier, but it’s really nice to see you again,” you tell JJ. 

He smiles, small and reserved. “Thanks. It’s nice seeing you too. Even if it is with Joe America over there.”

“Joe America?” you snort. “Come on, he isn’t that bad.”

“No, no, he seems…uh, he seems nice.”

“He is nice.”

“I believe it.”

“Well…good.”

That marked the end of that conversation. You take a sip of your beer and sigh, looking out to the view of sunset over the marshland. 

“I wish you could’ve seen it,” JJ suddenly says. You look over to him with a frown, confused. “El Dorado, I mean. South America. It was beautiful. Like actually fucking stunning out there.”

“Really?” you say, smiling. 

“Hell yeah,” he grins. “Like there was colours out there that I didn’t even think existed without, like, LSD, man.”

You laugh and he does too and you’re glad whatever awkwardness that just came passed quick like a seastorm. 

“I still haven’t gone farther than Charleston, so I guess I’ll have to live vicariously,” you lightheartedly remark. 

“Yeah, well, turns out there’s a pretty big world out there,” JJ grins. 

“Glad one of us got to see it,” you hum. 

“Nah, you’ll see it too. All of it. Even Paris.”

The city’s name hangs heavy in the air. It was more than just a throwaway comment. It was a secret message, as if JJ was speaking in code. I remember it. I didn’t forget. You wash down the adrenaline with another sip of beer. 

“But no place like home, huh?” JJ says, clearing his throat. 

“Probably helps now that John B ain’t a fugitive anymore,” you muse. JJ laughs, nodding. 

“Yeah, yeah, no, for sure.”

“Well, I’m glad you found your happiness, JJ,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m glad you found yourself out.”

“Ain’t we all?”

The two of you watch one another for a moment. His resting smile lingers on the edges of his thin lips. His round, soft cheeks that add to a boyishness about him that his jawline doesn’t allow. You always liked JJ’s hair though. A mop of blonde planted atop of his head with sun-bleached highlights and deep-sea lowlights. But he’s taking you in too. You can’t take the weight of his stare after a while. Taking a deep breath, pushing away from the beam, you ditch your half-drunk beer atop of the cooler. 

“Well, I better get going.”

“You sure? I mean, we can hang out a bit longer, if you like?”

You smile politely and shake your head. “I’m not the one driving, so…”

JJ looks over your shoulder and spots Mark. “Ah. Didn’t know Dollar Store Chris Evans was here, my bad.”

“JJ! Don’t be mean!”

“I ain’t being mean! If anything, that’s a compliment,” JJ defends. You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll see you around though. It’d suck to go back to being strangers again when we’re both in the same place for a change.”

Despite the innocence of the offer, something in your gut tells you that you shouldn’t agree. You should set a boundary there, draw a line, and leave it in the past. So, really, you have nobody to blame but yourself for saying “I’d like that” with a smile in farewell, before walking back across the dock to your boyfriend. 

Salted Chips

JJ had always been in your life. However, in the past, he was more of a background character, like an NPC in a videogame that creators constantly add in like an Easter Egg. The kind of character you’re curious about, in terms of their past and their present, their wants and their fears, but the kind you never have the privy to get close to in that way. He’d be at parties, at the surf break, at the shops or at school, but he wasn’t in your life. Until he was. 

Fate came in the form of a seating plan for history class. 

You and JJ were classmates. Table buddies. At first, the conversation was nonexistent. Sometimes JJ wouldn’t show up to class at all, either bunking off or playing truant in the bathrooms to light up a joint. But sometimes he’d come to class, usually escorted by Pope, and you’d share an uncomfortable silence as you worked through the hour. But then came an assignment that needed to be done out of class, and numbers were exchanged and words were shared outside of ‘what did he say’ and ‘what’s the homework’ and ‘what answer did you get for five?’. At your prompting to start on the project, JJ offered up the Chateau to work at, John B’s house that was a renovated fishing shack on the marsh. 

To stimulate inspiration for the poster the two of you had to create - outlining the history of the American Civil War - JJ had offered up beers and a blunt, and you were glad to take him up on the offer. If you’re going to be doing schoolwork at the weekend, you might as well get something out of it other than mind numbing boredness. It seems you saying yes to JJ’s “gifts” put you in his good books. It’s as if you could see the moment his opinion of you changed. From there, it was as if the two of you had always known the other. Conversation came easy, banter even more so. Time spent together stretched outside of the classroom and instead into lunch breaks and evenings and weekends. He’d seek you out at keggers and hang with you at the beach. Somewhere in the roots of you friendship grew an attraction from the fondness. You noticed it in his lingering glances, his drifting gaze from your eyes to your mouth to your body. Later, you heard it in his words, finding innuendos in smalltalk, catching compliments like falling stars. Eventually, both slightly intoxicated, it came to a head, about three months into this natural-forming friendship. 

“Yo!”

You turn around, beer in hand, startled by the interruption. It’s JJ. He’s wearing a cap, squishing down his beautiful locks of blonde; the muted green pairs well with his t-shirt. His combat boots sink into the ground, damp from the rainfall earlier in the day. Everything smells piney and fresh. You lift a finger to your lips to coax him to be quiet. His brows quirk up, a bemused smile gracing his gorgeous face. God really does have favourites, it seems. 

“You good?”

“Sh! You’ll scare them,” you whisper. At his cocking head, confused, you fervently gesture for him to come over. He does. His presence by your side is almost overwhelming. The buzz from the liquor makes it difficult to keep your itching hands to yourself and your inhibitions at bay. “You see them?”

“See what?”

“The birds.”

“What?”

“Look, here,” you mumble. You lean close to him so you can point clearly with your finger, just along his line of vision. A whiff of JJ’s scent dusts your nose. He’s warm like he creates heat. Through the canopy of leaves, you can make out a single branch of a tree. In the nook, against the trunk, is a nest, and inside is a bunch of baby birds, cawing out for their mother, hungry, blind. You’d left them some salted chips on the floor, crumbled and scattered, in case the mother wanted to steal some to take up and gift. She probably wouldn’t, but something about their cries made you feel the need to do something, and it wasn’t as if you could offer up your beer. 

“Woah.”

“You see ‘em?”

“Yeah,” JJ breathes. “That’s sick, how did you see them?”

“I heard them first,” you tell him, keeping your voice low so as to not frighten them. “Needed some air.”

“The smoke from the campfire botherin’ you?”

“I swear to God, it targets me,” you sincerely reply, making JJ laugh. You finally retract your finger (still sticky from the Smores made earlier) and turn, looking up at him. He looks down at you. Some strands of hair stick out from under his cap, pressing against his forehead. His brows are almost permanently slanted, eyes bright in the dusk of the evening. His shark tooth necklace sits against his chest. JJ’s lips quirk at your staring. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You’re so pretty,” you say, shaking your head, smiling. The alcohol has given you too much confidence, it seems. Loose lips. His eyes widen in momentary surprise but he catches it, covers it well. Then, comes his mask of confidence. He gives you a cocky smile. 

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he suavely replies. 

“Nah, I mean it. You’re really something, Maybank,” you smile, doubling-down. In for a penny and all that.  

His smugness fades into something more real. He doesn’t seem to know how to take compliments like that. Then, strangely, something like panic tugs his brows together. “I’m not very good at this sorta thing.”

Your frown of confusion seems to spur him on. 

“Being honest. Real. I’m…I’m pretty fucked up, y’know?”

“The best people are,” you murmur, meaning every word. 

“Nah, I mean it, though. I’m not…I don’t wanna hurt you.” JJ says it so quietly, so sincerely, that you get the sense that he’s never said it before. Maybe only thought it on dark nights, when you’re so alone with your thoughts it’s maddening. Smiling, shaking your head, you lift a hand to his cheek. Your heart hiccups at how he relaxes into your touch. 

“I don’t think you have to worry ‘bout that,” you whisper. 

You’re not sure who moves first, whether it’s him or you, but you end up a hair-width apart at the lips. His breath is hot as it fans onto your lips. Risk comes like a lightning rod and you take it, pushing onto your toes, connecting your lips with his. His hand finds yours and squeezes. That small gesture, as innocent as it is, tells you that you’re crossing this boundary together, from friends into something more. 

Pistachio Pastries 

The smell of coffee rouses you from sleep. You hum sleepily into your pillow, nuzzling in the scent of your boyfriend: peppermint and sage. A heavy palm gently pets your hair. 

“Wake up, sleepy,” Mark murmurs. 

You grumble in protest and he chuckles. The bed dips and the duvet lifts as he climbs back into the cocoon of warmth. Rolling over, you tuck yourself against him. He always slept in pyjamas. It was adorable. Nothing cheesy: just a simple shirt and flannel bottoms. His arm hooks around your waist and holds you against him. You swear to God, you could hide here forever. Mark was safety and security. Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car. 

“Wednesday again,” he says, stroking the skin of your back. “Kiara messaged the Instagram page today. Said one of them will drop off an order around one-ish.”

“Sweet.”

An alarm blares from Mark’s phone and he cusses, breaking apart from you to retrieve it and turn it off. You take the opportunity to sit up and grab your coffee. The steam tickles your nose as you blow on it. Routine. Mornings spent in the mini home Mark had made in his parents backyard, in their old shed. He brought you coffee in the morning and you brought him tea before bed. You’d be asleep by ten and awake by eight. Your shifts at the smoothie shop typically followed a Monday through Friday routine, with the exception of midweek, with Wednesdays reserved for The Stirring Spoon. Weekends passed in a blink. Then, you reset to continue with the same thing again. 

But that’s okay. Routine is okay. It’s reliable. Monotonous in a way that assures certainty. Besides, you liked your job, and your coffee, and your Stirring Spoon. But maybe it might be nice to stray from it all, just for a change. 

You carefully place your coffee back on the side table and look over to Mark. He’s scrolling on his phone, lips set in a line, brows tugged together in vague concentration. A thrill runs through your body at the thought, as you press several kisses to the skin of his neck. You feel him breath beneath you. Then a kiss comes to your forehead, quick like a grandparent to their least favourite grandchild. 

“Baby,” you hum, lifting a hand to rub your finger along his jawline. 

“Mhm?”

“Do you have any, like…things you wanna try.”

He takes a moment to think, looking up from his phone. A smile comes to his face and he looks down at you, and your body burns with anticipation. “Surfing. Was never that good at it but I’d like to try it again, y’know?”

It fizzles away like water atop of a dying flame. “Oh. Yeah, no, yeah…that’s…you should do that.”

He frowns. “You okay?”

“Well, I just meant more…in the bedroom. Like anything, I don’t know…” Your face burns like you’re a nun stumbling across a Playboy magazine. “Kinky?”

“Kinky?”

“Not like oh my God, kinky. Just…I don’t know…”

He quirks a brow, smiling at you in a teasing sort of way. “You got some kink you’re not telling me about?”

“Maybe,” you tell him, hoping it comes out seductive. 

“I don’t know,” Mark sighs, resting his head back against the wall. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and you lick over your lips. He grins, like something dawned upon him, and he dips his head suddenly to press his lips to yours. “Wanna know what I’ve always wanted to try?”

“Mhm,” you say, lifting your hands to cup his face and keep him near. Yes, your body practically cries. Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

“Well,” he stalls, kissing you again. You chase his lips, shortening in breath. “I’ve always wanted–” another kiss “-to try-” another kiss “-doing it in the shower.”

It’s hard not to deflate completely with disappointment. 

Wow, yeah Mark. Kinky. 

But when you open your eyes, you come face to face with a nervous, sweet, caring Mark. A Mark who always makes sure you feel good and safe. A Mark who would never walk past an elderly man struggling to cross the road. A Mark who would donate a twenty dollar bill he found on the roadside. And you can see it in his eyes, this burning passion, this shock at his own words, because for him, that was like confessing to watching gangbang porn in a Church. So, you plaster on a smile, feigning excitement. “No, yeah. That’d be fun. We should totally do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grin, kissing him again. He sighs, pushing back against you. Your body sparks up again. The feel of his hands on your sides is like static energy. “We should try it now.”

“Now?”

“Mhm,” you nod eagerly, kissing at his lips desperately. “Good way to start the morning, huh?”

“Maybe,” he says. He pulls away slightly, guilty as he adds, “but it’s been a while since I cleaned the bathroom. And I promised my mom I’d help her out today, and I gotta be good to go in like ten minutes so…”

“Oh.”

He kisses you fleetingly on the lips and then tosses the bedsheets off his lap. You watch him get up. “But maybe soon? Like Friday?”

Routine with scheduled sex. 

“Okay,” you say through a false smile. You sink against your pillow and watch him put on his slippers. The moment his back turns, you drop the expression. You’re so disappointed there doesn’t feel much point in trying to get off by yourself now, either. You don’t seem to fix your frown quick enough before he turns back around. 

“Oh, hey, baby, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mark frowns. He lowers down so his eyes are level with yours. You pout like a child as you look at him. He pushes some hair off your face. “I swear, if I weren’t about to go help my mom, I’d be all over you right now.”

“Mhm.” Maybe you are being a bit selfish. He’s helping his mother for God’s sake! Smiling, properly this time, you jokingly warn, “I’m gonna hold you to that, Mark.”

“You better,” he winks. He kisses you before leaving the room, into the bathroom. Sighing, you roll on your back and blink up at the ceiling. You practise your mantra - Mark is good. Mark is good for me. Mark is good. Mark is good for me - and you get up to start your day. 

The Stirring Spoon is a good distraction from your whining libido. It’s hard to think about fucking when you’re comparing shapes of pasta. And yet, you still find a way. Because as you stack packets of spaghetti, you try and recall the last time you and Mark had really good sex. Not sex where it’s soft and nice and satisfying. Sex when you feel like you might cry or scream, just to cope with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Sex when you’re actually scared that you might have a heart attack from how fast your heart’s beating. Was it ever like that with Mark? Was it ever like that with anybody else?

Yes. 

“Hey.”

The very boy who just popped into your mind like a vision stands before you, crate in hand, smile on face, as if you manifested him. 

“JJ.”

“You good? You were looking at that spag pretty hard,” he asks, amused. 

“No, yeah, I’m good,” you say. You drop the pasta like it’s incriminating to what you were thinking about. Don’t tell JJ about the hot sex I was thinking about with him, pasta, please. “What’re you doing here?”

“Delivery from Kildare County Kitchen,” he says, dropping the crate down onto an empty spot on the table. “Some of Cleo’s less deadly version of her gumbo; a few sandwiches that Sarah whipped up; and some fish me and John B caught the other day.”

“Damn, that’s quite the haul,” you say, glancing into the crate and surveying its contents. “Thanks, JayJ.”

As you retrieve the items and lay them out carefully and neatly on the table, JJ shoves his hands in his short pockets and looks around the yard. “So. Loverboy here?”

“He’s busy today, helping his mom.”

“Ah. You short of a helping hand today, then?”

“Why? You want to help?” you say, half-joking. But JJ shrugs. 

“I’m not doing much. Why not?”

“Don’t the others need you back at the shop?”

“There’s five of them, I think they’ll manage,” JJ replies sardonically. He claps and rubs his hands together. “Where do I start?”

“Um…” You stand upright and scan the area, checking what looks the most chaotic. As if on cue, the local bakery van pulls up. “Oh, sweet. Delivery. You can help me unload and log inventory.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two of you walk over to the van, side by side, hands kept politely to yourselves. Small talk sits on your tongue but doesn’t make it into the world. 

“Morning Mr Parker,” you call. 

“Morning, darlin’,” he croons in his southern accent. “You too, Maybank.”

“Good to see you, sir,” JJ nods. 

“What you got for me today?” 

“Some good stuff, I’m not going to lie to y’all,” he grins over his shoulder before opening the doors to the back of the van. Mr Parker pulls out a tray of sealed baked goods. JJ steps in and takes it, and as he holds it you crack open the lid to peer in. 

“Pastries?”

“Pistachio pastries,” Mr Parker says proudly. His takes off his cap and brushes a hand through his short grey hair. “My wife got a bit carried away. People in this town don’t have that fancy of taste buds.”

“Maybe not on the Cut,” JJ mumbles, making you smile. 

“Well, be that as it may, glad I can contribute something to your little venture,” Mr Parker tells you. He squeezes your shoulder sweetly. “Y’all doing a good thing, with this here Stirring Spoon.”

“Thank you,” you say, overwhelmed by the simple praise. “Well, we appreciate any contribution, especially pistachio flavoured ones.”

With that, the three of you get to work carrying the four trays of baked goods to a spare table. Bidding Mr Parker farewell, you and JJ take pause against the table. 

“I think I’ve earnt a break.”

“You’ve been here less than an hour.”

“Time flies by when you’re having fun, and all that,” he says passingly as he cracks open one of the bakery tubs. He grabs one of the pastries and tosses it into his mouth. His eyes widen as he chews. “Holy shit. These are so good.”

“JJ, you’re not supposed to eat the–”

“--try one.” A pastry is shoved into your mouth. You glare at him but bite, and holy shit this is really good. It must read on your face cause JJ grins. “Yeah, right? So good.”

“Oh my God,” you mumble. The two of you smile at one another like you’re stealing cookies from a jar. 

“You remember that time we got high and raided Pope’s dad’s fridge?”

You laugh and nearly choke on the flaky pastry. “Oh my God, I totally forgot about that.”

“You were like a fucking racoon,” JJ sniggers. 

“You were the one that got me high in the first place.”

“I didn’t fucking drug you! You wanted to try it!”

“Yeah, I did,” you grumble, unwilling to accept responsibility for completely draining the Heyward fridge. 

“You’re cute when you’re high.”

You glance up at him. His smile is coy, like he knows he shouldn’t have said that. Because he shouldn’t. Rolling your eyes, you play it off as best you can. “Cute whilst I’m stuffing my face with questionable cheese?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shrugging. “You’re cute all the time though, so guess it’s not very hard for you to be even cuter high.”

“JJ, stop it.” Your tone is gentle but firm. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” JJ says. “Captain Vanilla.”

You hate how he isn’t completely wrong. “That’s not his name.”

“It’s just too easy,” he shrugs, playful as always. “The guy is a walking textbooked ‘good guy’.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” you mumble, picking out another pastry and studying the way it’s rolled. 

“Nothing, I guess. Just find it funny.”

“Funny how?”

“That you’d go from me to him.”

You glance up from the pastry to meet his gaze. “We never officially dated, JJ.”

“Same difference,” he shrugs. “But hey - you know you. You know what you want.”

“Exactly…” 

You do know you, don’t you? It sounds like such a crazy thing to question. But the older you get, the more you think you don’t know a thing about yourself. What’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite animal? What do you want out of your future? What do you want out of a relationship? Journeying back to the morning, your mind replays the scenes like a horror movie. The worries of when the last time you felt passion in the bedroom feeds into worries of when the last time was that you felt passion, period. Oh no: it feels like an existential crisis might be coming on, about thirty years too early.

“Hey.” You snap out of your spiral. JJ forces a smile. “Just wanna know that you’re still living, not just secure. Y’know. As a friend.” 

Funnily enough, that does little to cheer you up. 

Croissants

JJ’s skin is warm against your cheek. Your face rests on his bicep, using it as a makeshift pillow, as you lay skin-to-skin, body-to-body. One of your legs is hooked over his, and his palm rubs large, mindless patterns against the sweat-sticky skin. The room is bathed in moonlight, the curtains drawn closed, and you can hear the sounds of the marsh from outside the Maybank residency. You wonder if JJ might have fallen asleep. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically and you can’t see his face from here, to tell if his eyes are open or shut. But then he sighs and you smile against his arm. 

“Tell me about your family,” you request in the quiet of the room. 

“What about them?”

“Anything, really. Like about your mom and dad; if you have any siblings,” you murmur. 

“Not much to tell,” JJ replies in a hum. 

“Still. Tell me anyway.”

“Tell me about yours,” JJ deflects. You crack a smile. 

“Alright,” you relent. “I live with my mom and my dad. She’s a waitress and he’s a mechanic.”

“You got any brothers or sisters?” he asks, his thumb massaging your upper leg. 

“I did,” you say, your voice turning softer. “An older sister.”

“What happened?”

Your lips press together. An image flashes into your mind like a jumpscare, of a coffin dressed in white daisies and lilies. Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes and will the memory away. It’s then that you decide to confide in JJ. 

“Do you know who Andy Warhol is?”

“I recognise the name,” he replies after a moment, not questioning why the sudden change in topic. 

“He was an artist. Painted a lot of pop-arty things.”

“Is that the freakshow who painted those boring-ass soup cans?” JJ wonders. You laugh quietly. 

“I wouldn’t describe him like that but yeah, that’s the guy.”

“What about him?” JJ asks. 

“He was in love with this man, way back when. He kept a diary and this man he was in love with died, and Andy was heartbroken. But he ain’t like to say that somebody had died. Instead, he used to write that ‘they went away’, like on a trip or somethin’,” you tell him. Your voice trails off towards the end, fearing JJ might laugh at you as you go on to say, “I don’t know. I think I’d like to say that about my sister.”

JJ shifts underneath you until the two of you are lying side by side, now able to see one another’s faces through the muggy darkness of the room. His eyes glow in the non-existent light, shining and present, gazing into yours. 

“Where’d she go, then? On this trip of hers,” he coaxes. Your lips part in surprise, and for some reason, you want to cry for his small act of kindness. Then, you smile, small and sombre. 

“To Paris, in France,” you whisper. 

“She go to the Eiffel Tower?”

“Every day. She eats dinner there at night and watches it twinkle. For breakfast, she buys a croissant and sits by the Seine,” you murmur. Tears wet your eyes as you picture your lost sister, venturing the streets with the wind in her hair, kissing her plump cheeks. Your voice is thick when you continue, “it’s her dream to see all the stuff in the Louvre. She goes every week and keeps a note of where she’s been and where she wants to go.”

“Like the Catacombs?”

You laugh and sniffle. “Nah. They’re too creepy for her.”

“Damn straight,” JJ mumbles. “They scare the crap outta me.”

As a tear lets slip, trickling down your cheek, JJ reaches out his thumb and wipes it away. His hand lingers on your face and you feel yourself lean into his hold. It’s like he’s holding you up. He’s holding you together. You open your eyes into his. There’s a smile on his face, different to the others. More reserved, less obvious, so different to the JJ you’d known and heard of before. You’re terrified of losing it entirely or saying something especially stupid, and so instead you mouth two words: ‘thank you’. 

When he kisses you, it’s different too. There’s something about it, like a taste that wasn’t there before, and it lingers in your mind and mouth. It only grows as JJ deepens the kiss. Your hand traces his jawline and your fingers loop through the locks of his hair, and you tug him closer with a breath. The dance of your lips and tongues and teeth is growing more and more familiar by the day and it terrifies you how easy it has been to become accustomed to it. How easy it has been to become accustomed to JJ. Hands on your hips, JJ lifts you atop of him with a grunt, him rolling onto his back. You shrug the comforter off your back and straddle him. Your hands cradle his face, palms cupping his cheeks. You kiss him like he’s the antidote to all your ailments. Your mouth chases him in the teasing of his lips, breaking apart just to reel you back in. JJ’s teeth nip at your lower lip and pull, just so, just enough to have you whining and sighing like some lovesick fool. Maybe you are. 

“JJ,” you mewl, rocking back against him. He groans as you begin to torture his jawline and neck. Groans louder when you suckle on the tender skin by his ear, painting hickeys like a beautiful landscape. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips deep enough to leave delicious bruises. You feel him growing hard beneath you as you grind against him like some animal in heat. 

“Fuck, you’re so…Fuck…” 

Your lips continue their descent down his body. Kisses are peppered along his windpipe, bridging over his Adam’s apple, and you can feel every breath, every stutter, every sigh. Down his chest, bare and broad, and down his stomach. His hands are now free from your hips and instead they tether into your hair, combing through the strands. You look up at him from between his legs - he’s made space for you - and can make out his lazy smile through your hooded gaze. JJ’s looking down at you too. His eyes glow. 

You ghost a kiss over his boxers and he inhales a long, deep breath, his head tilting back into the pillows, eyes undoubtedly slipping shut. Lips upturning with a smile, your fingers tuck into the band of his boxers, and you pull them down his legs tantalisingly slow. Somewhere in the shadows of the room you hear him mumbling, ‘please.’ Taking him in hand, revelling in his short gasp, you guide him to your mouth. The smell, the feel - it all consumes you as you go down on him. The brush of bristly hair scratching against your nose, flooding your senses. JJ’s hand comes to the back of your head quick, as if guiding your pleasure, wordless praising your ways. Until it’s not wordless. 

“Fuck, that’s it…Taking me so fucking good, huh? Look so pretty like this…”

You hum around his length and he stammers out a moan. Your eyes flick up to take in the sight of his exposed neck, head thrown back, mouth hanging open as he lets noises slip through, shameless and sinful. And you love it, the way you can bring him to the brink, the way you can manipulate his satisfaction like moulding something out of clay. A finger here, a stroke there. The tip hits the back of your throat uncomfortably. You pull away with a damning pop and a trail of saliva connects the two of you. Resting your head against the apex of his thigh, you jack him off with your hand, almost mesmerised by the way he pulses in your hold. Maybe it’s the sounds he makes. JJ Maybank walks like he’s a God; it’s a power trip to have him weak at your hold. 

“Please, please, fuck…Jus’want your mouth, baby, please,” he begs through gritted teeth. His hand gently yet firmly pushes at your head, trying to guide you back to him, and you feel a giggle bubble up through your throat. It feels unnatural, this version of you. Sexy, seductive, sly. 

“You want my mouth?” you tease, pressing a kiss to his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck - yes, yes, please,” he groans. You glance up at him and meet JJ’s gaze. His hair, damp with sweat, hangs over his forehead, dangling over his eyes. A sadistic smile is on your face as you pull away, easing your hand off him too. His brows furrow. It’s like something snaps inside of him - some restraint he was holding breaking like the overstretching of elastic. His hands are on your in a second, gripping and grabbing at your body like you weigh no less than feathers, and you gasp as he tosses you onto your back. He’s on top of you, ravishing your throat and collarbone so mercilessly, you’re gaping at the ceiling, eyes wide. 

“Think that’s funny, huh? Wanna see how much you like it?”

You stammer something out; you don’t even know yourself if it’s a yes or no. All you know is you want him - you need him - on you, in you. Anything. JJ doesn’t make you wait. His hands pull your panties away swiftly. A finger slips all too easily through your slit and you gasp, eyes rolling shut. His laugh is deep, crooning, cruel in your ear. 

“So fucking wet for me, hm? Such a fucking slut. Wanna see how it feels?”

“P-please.”

The stretch of your walls isn’t unpleasant as he eases a finger in. You let out a wanton moan. It pumps leisurely inside, the foreign metal of his ring overwhelming, and the brush of the tip of his thumb against your clit has you panting from the pleasure. 

“Yeah, you like that, huh?”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. Then the torture begins, of the instant movement of his finger, in and out, in and out, before easing away so suddenly it’s like he was never there. After that, the faintest of pressure on the exposed skin at his mercy. His damp finger trailing the inside of your thigh. He repeats this cycle until you’re almost in tears. Your hands clutch the bedsheets in fists, feet writhing uselessly at the head of the bed, kicking at the flimsy pillows. You know he’s gloating from the power he holds. Something tells you he doesn’t get this much control in most aspects of his life. Something tells you he gets off this just as much as you. “You wanna come? Do you?”

“Fuck! Please, please, JJ, please. I’ll do anything, please, please,” you blubber. You don’t care how embarrassing it sounds; how much it pleases him. All you care about is feeling that hot, blinding, pulsing pleasure consuming your every nerve, every bone, every fibre of your being. His breath is hot against your collarbone. JJ kisses the lobe of your ear in such a tender way you wouldn’t be able to fathom the magic he works with his hands below the belt. And as you finally break, tumbling over the edge, letting out a fucked-out sob when you do, you can make out JJ’s low voice, his Southern accent thick like molasses. 

“That’s it, baby. Make a mess on my fingers.”

Smores 

Despite telling Mark where you’re going, it still feels like sneaking around behind his back as you walk up to the Pogue’s house. But this isn’t anything nefarious. This is just you breaking routine. This is you catching up with old friends, current friends, and having fun. Sharing some drinks, smoking a joint or two, sitting around a campfire. Good, old fashioned fun just like when you were sixteen. 

Yep. That’s all. 

“Hey yo! There she is!” JJ hollers the moment you come into view. 

“Hey!” you smile, waving. In your other hand is a bag filled with a six pack of beer, a packet of graham crackers, some chocolate and a bag of marshmallows. You ditch it by the cooler to hug everyone hello. JJ’s last. His arms wrap around you like tree vines, secure and strong, and it’s familiar in a way that has you lingering. Mark. You break apart and take a seat on the opposite side of the campfire to him. 

“What’s in the bag, mystery girl?” the girl you now know as Cleo asks. 

“Some refreshments,” you say, lifting up the six pack. That earns a few whoops and hollers of approval from the already tipsy group. “And some snacks.”

“Smores?” Sarah gasps. She takes the bag of marshmallows from you. 

“Just like old times,” you say. Your eyes catch JJ’s. He’s watching you. 

“Let’s light these bad boys up,” John B announces. The gang is vocal in their approval. Sticks and twigs are gathered for skewers. Marshmallows dangle over the open flames that lick into the dusky air. A marshmallow shoves at yours and you glower at JJ. 

“Leave my marshmallow alone.”

“Hey, this is America. I got rights, y’know?”

“Says who?”

“The constitution,” he retorts, grinning. You roll your eyes, trying and failing to bite back your smile. 

“Y’all better stop it,” Cleo says in her thick Jamaican accent. “I ain’t wanting any marshmallows going to waste.”

“You heard her,” you playfully quip at the blonde haired boy. He rolls his eyes at you. He’s smiling. The amber of the fire paints his face like an oil artwork. What must it be like to grow up that beautiful? 

No, no, stop it. Stop it! God, what is wrong with you? This is just because you and Mark have been a bit distant lately. Yes, that’s all. You’re getting stuck on nostalgia. It’s a mind’s trick. It didn’t work before with JJ so who’s to say it will again. The two of you are friends - he’s been a good friend - and you don’t need to go muddying the waters. You punish yourself by staring into the flames and trying to make images of Mark’s face in the fire. 

The night spurs on with drinks that wash down the sickly sweet snacks. You listen to the tales of El Dorado and laugh at the reminiscences of youthful madness when you were all in high school. It isn’t until you’re back in the bubble of the Pogues that you realise how much you missed it. It’s like rediscovering your favourite movie from childhood. It brings a certain comfort that few things can match. They ask about The Stirring Spoon and you recount the tale of how you came about with the idea, of how you got it off the ground. Nobody asks about Mark and you’re ashamed that you don’t feel the urge to bring him up, either. 

You go for another swig of your beer to find it empty. The cooler by John B is empty too, upon investigating. You drop the lid. 

“You guys got any more beers?”

“Probably some down at the fish and tackle shop,” Kiara tells you. 

“Thanks,” you say, starting towards the dock. The further you walk, the more the vivacious chatter turns into a humming like the crying cicadas and croaking frogs and cooing owls. The water laps at the wooden pillars and you smile, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment as you walk. Nature is so wonderfully peaceful. The cooler is full of bait and chum, but there’s a small section for the beers. You retrieve one and drop the lid to find JJ standing in your peripheral. 

“Holy shit!”

“Sorry!”

“What the fuck, man?” you laugh. 

“Just wanted a refill too,” he says, shooting you a squiffy smile. His hair is dishevelled. He seems to wear caps less now, you note. You’re happy about that. In your tipsy state you can admit your attraction with less shame. You chalk it up to appreciating beauty the way one can appreciate a perfect sunset or timeless painting. To stop your staring, you open the cooler and hand him a can. “Thanks.”

“Hey, cheers,” you say, holding your drink out. He clinks his against yours. “To old friends.”

The two of you take a drink. Neither of you go to move back to the other Pogues (who are seemingly in some weird charades battle that is far from quiet). JJ gestures over your shoulder. “You seen the boat yet?”

“The H.M.S?” 

“Nah, the new one,” JJ answers. 

When he walks past you, you catch a whiff of his smell and it reminds you of home. You turn and follow him. He steps up onto the large boat. It’s painted bright green and in yellow paint, the name reads The Snapper. JJ offers you a hand and you take it, letting him help you up onto the boat. You feel your phone vibrate in the pocket of your shorts but you’re in no mood to check it. 

“Pretty sweet, huh?”

“So sweet,” you agree, looking around. JJ wanders over to the main console and flicks on an overhead light. He glows beneath it. When he takes a seat on the bench, you do the same, sitting opposite. Sighing, you lean your head back against the brutal plastic. “This is the life.”

“Yeah? You miss the marsh?”

“I miss it all,” you quietly confess. 

You can hear the rustle of clothes and the flick-flick of a lighter. The smell of cannabis drifts into the air. “Here.”

Opening your eyes, you lift your head to find a joint extended out to you. Smiling, you take it with thanks and have a hit, then a second, then a third. You haven’t smoked in what feels like forever. Mark doesn’t like the smell; says it makes him feel sick. You wonder why you stopped indulging in something you enjoyed just because of that, even on your own time. 

“Thanks,” you say, passing the joint back. You ditch your beer can to the side. One poison at a time would be best in these sticky situations, you reckon. 

“What’d you mean, ‘you miss it all’?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. You gaze off into the distance; it’s hard to make out much definition in the dark, save for some lights of houses in the far distances and the silhouette of plants and trees. “I feel like my life is so…‘same’ now.”

“Same is good.”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I keep thinking about what you said to me, the other day. About being secure but still living. What if…What if I’m not living?”

“Well–”

“--I mean, look at you guys! You went to El Dorado! You found El Dorado, and the Royal Merchant, and the Royal Merchant’s treasure, and the Cross of Santo Domingo. What did I find? A mouldy tomato in a box of potatoes.”

JJ cracks up and you roll your eyes. “It’s not funny,” you mutter, smiling nonetheless. You take the joint back and have another drag. Relief fills your system. The muscles in your face loosen along with your mouth. “It’s pathetic. I’m nearly twenty-one and I’ve been as far as Charleston and have about a handful of exciting memories to my name.”

“Woah, come on now,” JJ chuckles, taking the blunt back. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself? You heard what Mr Parker said: that Stirring Spoon thing is awesome, and that was all you. You’re feeding the community, bringing people together. That’s way cooler than some shiny fucking  stones.”

“Meh,” you shrug. “Guess I’m just jealous of you.”

“Ha! Yeah, don’t be,” JJ sarcastically berates. A shadow comes to his face. Foot in the mouth syndrome curses you.

“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re good. I sometimes forget how bad it was too, with how things are now,” JJ admits. He smiles at you and takes another hit. “But I guess I didn’t fully let you in then, huh?”

“You think?” you jest. He laughs, thankfully, and you inhale the sweet scent of the herb. “Guess I just get stuck on the good memories from before. Like all the days skipping school to surf. And how the summers felt like they could go on forever. Or that time we broke into City Hall, or pranked Topper’s house.”

“Damn, I guess we did get up to a lot of shit, huh?”

“Damn straight,” you grin. Following the dance, you take the joint back. 

“Well, I can think of some other memories, too,” JJ says. His grin is telling, tongue poking through his teeth. You bite back your smile. 

“Don’t,” you warn. 

“What?” he chuckles. 

“Don’t! That’s dangerous territory,” you tell him. You point your joint at him. “That’s no man’s land.”

“Oh man!” JJ groans, tossing his head back. “Why’d you have to call it that!? You know that’s like calling a moth to a fire or whatever!”

“What?” you giggle, eyeing him. 

“Telling a guy not to do something is the exact thing to do to get a guy to want to do something,” JJ argues nonsensically. You laugh, shaking your head at him. He holds your gaze and you feel your smile settle into your skin like footprints into damp sand. “They were pretty good memories, huh?”

“Yeah,” you quietly say. “They were pretty good.”

“Remember that time we did it on the beach.”

“Stop it,” you say, but there’s little conviction in your words. You can’t take his eyes anymore, the blue dragging you under like currents in a riptide. You look down at the joint and fixate on the way the embers burn at the paper. 

“Or that time–”

“JJ, I mean it,” you say, your tone losing its humour now. You shoot him a look that you hope will put a pin in it. “We should talk about something else.”

“Alright, alright,” JJ surrenders, holding his hands up and all. He relaxes back against the plastic seat of the boat and you do the same. Your legs outstretch so you can rest your feet on the spot beside him. The two of you catch each other’s gaze and look away, chuckling bashfully like preteens. You take another hit of the joint and watch the smoke fizzle away into the night. “How’d you meet Mark, then?”

You glance at JJ. “A few months back. He’d just moved to Kildare and came by to The Stirring Spoon to help out, and we sort of hit it off.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” you smile. But it fades. The weed tickles at your emotions, pulling the wires as if to wreak havoc. JJ seems to take advantage. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie. You take another hit and shake your head, plastering on a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Sighing, JJ folds his arms comfortably over his chest. “Y’know, just cause I know what you look like naked don’t mean we can’t be friends now.”

Barking out a laugh, you shake your head. “There was definitely a better way you could have put that.”

“Probably,” he shrugs, grinning, “but it’s true, ain’t it? We can be friends.”

“Of course we can. We are,” you emphasise. 

“So…That means that if you wanna vent about Mr Loverboy to me, you can,” JJ offers. 

Laughing, you rock your head back and gaze up at the sky. The stars are out. They shimmer white and crystal in the abyss of the night. “That’d be too weird, I think, but I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”

“I just got one question. Just one.”

“Go on,” you reluctantly reply. 

“Does he say ‘thank you’ after the two of you fuck?”

You burst into fits of laughter. It’s so sudden that it has you doubling over. Tears slip from your eyes and you wipe them away, looking at a grinning JJ. God, you missed him and his twisted sense of humour. 

“He just looks like the kinda guy who would!”

“Oh my God, no!” you laugh, shaking your head. Catching your breath, you manage out, “no, he doesn’t say ‘thank you’.”

“Is he the sub then? Cause there is no way that guy is laying his hands on you without written permission.”

“JJ stop! I’m gonna pee myself!” you cackle, kicking your feet. JJ starts laughing too. You open your eyes and make out his face in the lowlight of the pier’s lamp. Wheezing, you catch your breath and calm yourself. “This is exactly what I was talking about.”

“I can give the guy pointers if he needs them,” JJ jokes. Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets just at the idea though and you point at him in another warning. 

“Don’t you dare!” you say, trying not to crack up again. “‘Sides, he doesn’t need pointers.”

“Everybody needs pointers,” JJ says with a roll of his eyes. “John B gave me one of the best pointers.”

“I find that impossible to believe,” you snort. 

“He did! It was a tip for kissing. Works like a fucking charm too, I’m telling ya.”

“Mhm, I’ll bet,” you sarcastically return. You glance at the joint to check if it needs tapping off, take another drag, and then look up to find JJ watching you. He hasn’t changed enough for you to forget what that expression means. 

“You want me to show you?”

“Show me? How?” you say with furrowed brows. Something in the air shifts with your question. An unspoken thing, an unseeable thing, but something nonetheless. A nervous tickle comes to your throat. 

JJ doesn’t reply but he slowly leans over the seat towards you. Your breath catches in your lungs the moment he enters your bubble, breaking some unspoken barrier, and your smile fades away like day into night. You feel as though you’re stuck in place, plastered to the seat, and you’re ashamed to admit that you don’t hate that you are. You’re ashamed that you’re not pushing him away, telling him to buzz off, laughing at his idiocy. You’re ashamed that you’re curious as to what he’s going to do next. 

JJ’s close enough now that you can smell him. His cologne mixed with something sweet but tangy, like seasalt and citrus. Something masculine underneath, that has a primal instinct inside of you wanting to claw its way out. Your fingers grip the edge of the seat instead. Your eyes stare into his. You study the laps of green and grey in the sea of blue, mesmerised in the way the night sky reflects in the iris. His gaze darts down to your lips and you have no idea how this happened and how you got here, and everything is blurry but so, so clear from the cannabis as he leans forward, and you can’t move but you should move and you want to move but you don’t, you never want to move again, as his lips brush against yours just so, just enough for you to know that they have, that he has, that he’s real, but that he hasn’t, and that you can take it all back, and that it doesn’t count and it shouldn’t and you shouldn’t but–

Your hand clutches his jaw and you pull him in. His lips crash against yours in a breath. You kiss him like you won’t ever kiss him again. He sighs against you in the hurried mesh of mouths, groaning as your tongue brushes against his, tasting him for the first time in years. It’s like finding a childhood toy and it smells like nostalgia. It’s like eating a baked good and it tastes like a specific holiday. It’s like smoking your first joint and it feels like floating. 

Until you’re not. 

Your body falls back down to earth with a thud. You shove JJ away as if he’s flammable and you’re the deadly spark. Your mouth hangs open in shock, your eyes filling with horror, and the worst feeling you’ve maybe ever felt overcomes you so suddenly, you worry you might be sick. 

Guilt. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper. You lift a hand to your lips and your fingers brush against the damp of his spit that lingers, and it confirms that it was all real. “Oh my God.”

JJ’s lips move to try and formulate words but nothing happens. He looks just as stunned as you do. His eyes are wide, lips swollen, cheeks pink. Those three words bang about your brain as you take in the sight of him. It’s not at all unfamiliar. 

Hot ash from your joint drops onto your thigh and you cuss, brushing it off. You toss the joint into the sea behind you as if it’s the culprit, the plotter, behind all of this. Then you’re on your feet and rambling out excuses. 

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I think it was - it was definitely the weed. I really should go, it’s so late. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I have no idea-”

It’s as you’re about to step off the boat and onto the wooden pier that JJ’s hand locks around your wrist. It freezes you in place once more and you want to climb out of your body and scream at yourself. Instead, you look down at him. 

“You can stay, y’know,” JJ whispers. There’s a pleading in his eyes, a tenderness that you haven’t known before in him, and you finally know how Eve must have felt with that damn serpent in Eden. Temptation at its finest, dressed up in blonde, unruly hair and dreamy eyes and sculpted muscles and a graphic tee. 

Mark. 

You shake your head and snatch your hand free. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

And no matter how vehemently you tell yourself that you mean it as you hurry away from the pier and from the house, you know you don’t. 

Cheap White Wine 

The tart tanginess of the wine is sharp on your tongue as you take another swig. It’s late, or perhaps early, and the Chateau is illuminated by amber and orange from lamps. It’s raining outside as hurricane season rattles on, but you and the Pogues could care less. When you have wine, you really have everything you need. 

“Come on, come on!” Kiara laughs, egging on you to loop your arm in hers. The two of you line dance together to an old noughties CD in the player. You swing one another around in a tipsy haze to the upbeat tempo. Pope and John B heckle and holler from the pull-out sofa, toasting their beer cans up in approval. You’re happy here, like this, in your bubble. As the song comes to a close on a major chord, you and Kiara giggle and take joking bows to your audience. You frown when you look around the room, not finding JJ anywhere. 

“He’s on the porch,” Pope says, seemingly catching on. 

“Thanks,” you smile, a little embarrassed that you’re that easy to read. Taking the wine, you venture out the door, closing it behind you as another song starts up. Kie’s cheer and begging for John B to dance is muted through the shutters and windows. 

JJ sits on the sofa, a joint lit up, legs outstretched on the coffee table. He glances up at the sound of someone coming out and smiles at the sight of you. 

“Hey. Can I join?” you wonder. 

“Course,” he hums, shuffling a cushion in invitation beside him. You sit and lean against him, hitching your feet up onto the table beside his. He knocks one of his shoes against yours teasingly and you smile. Through the netting of the porch, you can make out the lashing of rain in the yard. It’s pitter-pattering is soothing like a nursery rhyme. You sigh and let your eyes slip shut. “Having fun?”

“Always,” you mumble, making him laugh. “You got any dreams?”

“Like sexy ones?”

“No,” you giggle, elbowing him, making him let out a few laughs too. “Like actual dreams. Ambitions. A wish.”

JJ takes a pause for thought. You have a swig of your wine as you wait, revelling in the sound of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and constant. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Your heart sinks with disappointment. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It felt as though every time JJ came close to pulling back the curtain and letting you see a glimpse, he caught eye of something that scared him and he slipped it shut again. He told you what he wanted to tell you and kept the rest close to heart. You weren’t going to pry his cards from his body to see them, but it would be nice if he showed you them once in a while. It felt like the more time you spent with him, the less you knew. You could guess things from small clues as if playing a boardgame. He hardly went home, never mentioned his mother, and his father came into conversation with a shadow. He spoke lowly of himself, presumed the worst before others could, and it saddened you how clearly he believed everything he said. JJ couldn’t see himself the way you did. 

“I do,” you whisper, hoping it might entice him to share. 

“Oh yeah? What’s your dream?”

“I want to start a kitchen.”

“Huh?”

“Like a community kitchen thing. Not a bakery or a restaurant, just a place for all kinds of food, for all kinds of people, y’know? A good thing, like that. My sister used to help out at a soup kitchen and…I don’t know. I always liked that.”

JJ squeezes your thigh in acknowledgment. “Sounds fuckin’ amazing.”

“Thanks.”

In the Chateau, John B and Kiara laugh and Pope speaks loudly over them, something teasing, and you smile. The smell of weed fills the air before you and blends in with the notes of your wine and the telling scent of JJ. You wonder if the smell of you affects him in the same way; if the flavours of your perfume haunt him when he can’t sleep the way his cologne does for you. Suddenly, somewhere in the serenity of the moment comes a calamitous realisation, like a rumble thunder breaking the rain. 

You were falling in love with JJ Maybank. 

Biscuits  

Food poisoning. That’s what you’d told Mark. The heavy sickness that had sat in the bottom of your stomach like a boulder since last night lingered still. You hoped it was a hangover, but that passed with an advil. You knew what this was. 

You only escaped the guilt in your sleep. The moment you returned home, you climbed under the sheets of your bed like a child hiding from the bogeyman. Sleep was the only reprieve, though it didn’t come easy, and the second you came to in the morning, the first thought in your head was the look on JJ’s face just before his lips touched yours. 

Fuck. 

Your phone pings with another message that is no doubt from Mark and you can’t bring yourself to look at it. It doesn’t help that there’s a framed picture of the two of you staring at you from the bedside. It was his gift to you for your one month anniversary, because of course Mark cares about one month anniversaries. You hadn’t gotten him anything; you had to make up some lie that it was late in the mail, and then run to the shops that night. Just further proof that you don’t deserve him. 

Hello, hell? I’d like to reserve my spot in advance. Queen sized bed please, for me and my whorish ways. Much love. 

When the phone begins to ring you groan aloud and send it straight to voicemail. You bury your head beneath the pillow and close your eyes, but the memories haunt you like flashbacks. JJ’s eyes. JJ’s lips. The way he tasted, the way he bit your lower lip just so, in that way that only he knows, in the way that he always knew drives you crazy–

“Stop it!”

Hello, hell? Quick update: I think I might be going insane, too. Just thought I should preface you. 

Somewhere in your self-loathing, you manage to drift off into another restless sleep. It’s broken by a tapping on your door. Groaning, you force yourself out of the safety of your bed and wander to your door, expecting to find your mom. Instead, your head tips back to see the face of your boyfriend. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice is thick with concern, brows knitted with worry. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Thankfully, you didn’t have to lie with that one. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to check on you,” he replies. He steps into your room and you make space, sitting on your bed. He closes the door behind him. “I tried calling but you didn’t answer.”

“Yeah, sorry, uh…I was just feeling really frail, y’know?”

“Oh, baby,” Mark sighs. He sits beside you on the bed and places his large palm on your forehead. His brown curly hair sits in perfect ringlets atop of his head. One dangles over his forehead, out of formation, and it reminds you of JJ. Just how you went from me to him, JJ had said. Were they that different, after all? “You got a temperature?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. You gently push his hand off your face. “I think I just need to sleep.”

“Well, I’m here to take care of you.”

“Really?” You hope the dread in your voice isn’t obvious. 

“Course. You’d do the same for me,” he smiles. He lifts a bag you didn’t even notice he was carrying and shows you each item. “Mama’s homemade biscuits. She’s real worried about you, y’know?”

“I’m fine,” you insist, “just a bit sick. I think the worst of it has passed.”

“That’s good, then. I’ll make you a hot drink, yeah? We can watch a movie or something. You get cosy,” Mark tells you. You nod and try your best to smile. Mark leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss on your lips, and the sickness comes back tenfold. You want to cry the second he’s out of your room. 

Mark is good. Mark is good for you. But what if you’re not good for Mark? 

Chocolate Chip Cookies

“I don’t understand.”

You sigh, rubbing tiredly at your forehead. Bile lingers in the back of your throat but you swallow it down, alongside the feeling of self-reproach. This was it: the conversation you’d been dreading. The conversation that needed to happen. You’d rehearsed your words in the mirror like practising lines for a play. Journals and diaries filled with debate, as to whether you stay or bolt. But now was as good a time as any, and you knew in your mind what the right thing to do was. You can’t risk getting in the car accident if you step out of the vehicle. 

“Did I do something?” JJ then asks, his voice weak, naked. You meet his gaze and shake your head firmly. 

“No,” you breathe, “no, you ain’t do nothing, JJ.”

“Then I don’t get it,” he repeats, stronger this time. Frustrated. You knew none of this would be easy. 

“Look,” you cut yourself off with a sigh. You shuffle your crossed legs, sitting on JJ’s bed in the Chateau in a way that you never have before, as if you’ve never stepped foot inside his life. “My parents are heading to Charleston for a couple months anyway, to stay with my grandmother and help look after her, and…well, maybe it’s for the better, that we have this distance sooner rather than later.”

“Distance?”

“You’ve been removed, JJ,” you mumble, hoping not to sound accusatory. “And that’s okay, I know you’re busy. I mean, you told me from the start that you don’t do the whole relationship-thing. But I don’t think I can stay, not right now.”

“Okay, is this some kinda joke?” JJ snaps. He gets to his feet and paces a few steps in the small throughway of his bedroom. Taking off his hat, JJ rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks at you, eyes fiery, expression hard as if to shield from the hurt that you don’t mean to cause. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I thought we were fine.”

“We are fine,” you insist. Sighing, you try and find the best way to explain yourself without giving it all away. “Look, I ain’t meaning that you’re a bad guy or that you’re damaged or anything like that. I don’t think that, not at all. But…How can I explain this?”

JJ takes a moment or two to calm himself as you hang your head and clench your eyes, searching for the perfect turn of phrase to make your thought process make sense. You find it. Lift your head, soften your gaze at the hurt on his face, and try your best to smile through the sorrow. This wasn’t easy for you either. 

“You know when you see a tornado?”

He stares at you for a short while before nodding, urging you to continue. 

“Things that like…They’re always so pretty for afar. So mesmerising, how nature can create something like that. Stunning, really. Epic. But then, you get too close, and you get sucked in. And it’s just chaos and there’s no way out of it without being broken.”

JJ nods again, pursing his lips. 

“I think that’s what might happen here,” you whisper. “If I stick around.”

“I don’t get it. You’re saying I’m gonna break you?”

“No, I’m saying…I’m saying you’re not in a spot right now to give me what I need. That ain’t your fault, JJ, but I can’t let myself stay knowing that I’m gonna have my heartbroken. I wish I could - I wish I could just wing-it like that - but I can’t.”

There’s a pregnant pause that JJ drags out, staring at you as if trying to see into your head, searching for some lie. Sighing, he must come up empty, as he takes the spot beside you on the bed again. You test the waters, leaning against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his t-shirt. One of his hands lifts and strokes your hair, smoothing it down. 

“I really do care ‘bout you, y’know? Like, that ain’t fake,” JJ admits in a hushed tone. 

“I know, JJ,” you reply, just as soundless. “I just think you gotta figure yourself out before you can…”

“...love you?” JJ hesitantly whispers, after you lose nerve. Your eyes squeeze shut. 

“Mhm.”

“You can’t love me ‘til then, either?”

Laughing sadly, you shake your head against him. He really couldn’t tell how much you’d fallen for him already, could he? “I don’t think you gotta worry ‘bout that ever, JJ.”

A soft kiss is planted on your forehead. “So…Just gotta do some soul searchin’, huh?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you hum. “But hey, I tell you what.”

You break apart from the comfort of his hold, tilting your head so you can look up, into his eyes. The pain in JJ’s gaze tears you like wrapping paper, and it’s worse to know it’s your fault, but you know that it’s the only way to save you both from further pain. It isn’t the right time, and that’s a shame, and it isn’t fair, since you’ve memorised the outline of him and drawn him into all your plans and daydreams. But you can hear it when you talk and feel it when you sleep together, this detachment, this removal of himself, that can’t come until he’s healed in a way that he’s far away from now. There’s something pulling him away from you, an adventure of sorts, and you don’t want to keep him from it. You want JJ to love you but you want him to choose you, too. And until then, you don’t have it in yourself to sit around on the sidelines, waiting for your heart to be broken. It’s like sitting a toddler in front of a plate of chocolate chip cookies but demanding them not to touch; the temptation might just kill you. 

“What?” JJ gently prompts, bringing you back from your thoughts. 

Your smile is sick with inner lamentation. “If you do figure yourself out, after some soul searchin’ and all that, then chances are I’ll still be here. So, I guess, if you ever feel like fallin’ then lemme know. You can catch me on the way down.”

JJ’s smile is beautiful, even when his eyes are wet with unshed tears. You lean up and press a fleeting kiss to his lips, but you don’t let yourself linger. If you do, you’re afraid you’ll never leave. You murmur some sort of goodbye, making an excuse that you should get going, and JJ doesn’t argue. He watches you as you stand, waves farewell with two-fingers as you leave, and you walk home with your heart halfway broken but more whole than it might’ve been if you stayed and tried to make this impossible thing work. JJ wasn’t ready to fall in love, not yet, but you already had. 

Ham and Cheese Sandwiches  

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I promise,” you reply to Mark, smiling reassuringly. You wonder if it looks like a grimace. It feels like one. Even touching him makes you want to cry, as you brush your hand atop of his on the table. Your feigned food poisoning was two days ago now but Mark was still worried for your health, likely because you were still acting so withdrawn and drained. It’s hard to sleep when you’re consumed by guilt and confusion. “Why don’t you see if Nancy needs a hand in the kitchen, yeah? I can work on the inventory out here.”

“You sure? I don’t mind helping.”

“I’m sure,” you nod. “I can come get you if I need anything.”

“You better,” he grins. He dips his head and kisses you and it takes everything inside of you not to pull away like a flinch. It’s not him. It’s you. You feel like you’re poison. Like JJ’s kiss has infected you and you can’t get Mark sick too. His brown curls bounce as he walks back to the building. You busy your mind with counting tins of soup. The Stirring Spoon had never had so many posters, so many new recipes, with how much you’d been trying to keep yourself busy. You picked up extra shifts at the Smoothie Shop to avoid Mark during the daytime, and you submerged yourself in your voluntary-planning work and ‘early nights’ to avoid him during the night. It wasn’t fair to him but you didn't know what else to do. 

Well, that’s a lie. You know exactly what you should do, but denial is so much easier. 

Ducking down, you grab another box of leftover soup from a local supermarket. They’d recently changed providers and all the old stuff had to go. You were thinking of making toasted sandwiches with soup. Grunting, you lift the box onto the table. The sun beats down on you as if the universe is punishing you. Good, it’s the least I deserve. 

You can spot him anywhere, even blind. He’s in the far corner carrying a smaller box than usual, compared to his crate. A sudden wave of panic comes over you and you speed walk over to him. He frowns as you approach. 

“You good? Hey!” 

You grab his arm and drag him out of sight from the field, behind an overgrown bush. “W hat are you doing here?” you hiss. 

“Bringing sandwiches?” he replies, as if it should be obvious. “Are you okay?”

“JJ, you can’t be here,” you snap. “Mark is literally in the other building!”

“So?” 

“So? Do you…Do you not remember what happened the other night?” you ask, calming down slightly. 

JJ sighs and puts the box down on the floor. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. “Look, clearly you spun out. I ain’t gonna mention it if you don’t want me to.”

“Wait…Really?”

“Jesus Christ, I ain’t a homewrecker,” JJ chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. You want to crack a smile but you think your face might be permanently stitched in perpetual concern forever. His laughter dies. “Listen, I think you got some stuff to figure out, a’right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get offended! I’m jus’ saying…” JJ cuts himself of with a sigh and brushes a hand through his hair. He pinches the bridge of his nose. You missed all his little ticks and quirks. “Look, don’t kill me for sayin’ this, I’m just tryin’ to be honest. I don’t think Mark’s the right guy for you.”

“I-”

“I’m sorry, a’right? I don’t think you want to admit it either but…I think you gotta be honest. You don’t love him, okay? And that’s a’right, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. I just think you need to make a choice.”

“What does that mean? A choice?” you quietly ask, terrified for his answer. 

His smile is sad as JJ shrugs. “I was an idiot to lose you once, I ain’t gonna lose you again - not if I can help it. If Mark’s who you want - if Mark makes you feel like you’re living - then I’ll never bring it up again. Hell, I’ll stay away from you forever, if you want. Least, I’ll try to. I don’t know if I can be held accountable for when I’m drunk but- look, now I’m getting side tracked. The point is:”, JJ speaks with his hands,  “if Mark isn’t the one for you…I’m here to catch you, y’know?”

You blink at JJ and blink away the tears. You’re not sure if you can form words right now, not even sure what words they would be, so you try your best to nod. JJ tries another smile. 

“There’s some sandwiches from Kie and Sarah for today. I hope it all goes okay. Just…lemme know. Or don’t, y’know? Either way,” he trails off with a shrug. You feel cemented into the dirt as JJ backs away. Then he’s gone. Your eyes slip shut. Some weird hybrid of JJ and Mark’s faces fill your thoughts. 

‘If you ever feel like fallin’ then let me know. You can catch me on the way down.’ 

‘I’m here to catch you.’ 

You need to figure this out and fast. It wasn’t fair to anybody, not even yourself. Dragging things out doesn’t make it any easier, it only delays the inevitable, like tediously inching a bandaid off the skin. Sometimes you just have to rip. You just have to prepare for the aftermath.

How ironic, how when you were sixteen it was you waiting for JJ to figure himself out, and now it’s your turn. It’s a shame you were never all that much of a fan of irony. 

Cinnamon Buns 

Baking is therapeutic. The precision of weighing out the ingredients; the cathartic relief from beating together butter and sugar until fluffy like clouds; the tapping and cracking of eggs; the rhythmic folding of flour; the soon-to-arrive reward for your labour. You like baking when life gets stressful. Few things are so systematic, so simple, so quick to resolve, as baking. Life is more complicated than that. 

Mark and JJ. Two sides of different coins. Neither good, nor bad. Human, just like you. 

As you prepare the batter for cinnamon buns, you try to make sense of everything. Figure yourself out, as JJ had put it. 

Mark was designed to be easy to fall in love with. It was as if the universe had a recipe for him, everything the girls crave, the people fawn over in romance novels, the parents pray for in their child’s partner. Responsible; caring; thoughtful; kind; secure; safe. Mark was good. There was no other way to put it. Hell, you met him at a voluntary community kitchen. He gave you stability like a white picket fence. Perfect and practised, like he’d been waiting for that his whole life. But you found yourself restless in the fairytale. Found yourself itching for change, for chaos, for clutter. He was sentimental in a way you weren’t. That wasn’t to say you were heartless - the two of you just loved differently. 

JJ Maybank? He wasn’t designed for it in the same way, but it was impossible to not fall in love with him. You knew it from the moment your paths crossed, back when you were sixteen and the two of you tumbled through two months together. That’s why you left in the first place. To save yourself from the inevitable heartbreak that it would bring, because sixteen-year-old JJ was in no place to commit to anybody. You assumed that with time your feelings would fade away and when you met Mark, you believed they had. You liked Mark - that wasn’t false - and you had feelings for Mark. But the love you had for JJ didn’t vanish. Like energy, it could only be transferred. It went into the back of your mind as if in hibernation but the moment JJ waltzed back into your world, it was awake. It was impossible to ignore. 

Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist, but JJ was the acrobat. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car, but JJ was the driver. But JJ was safety too. He made you feel safe, but he also made you feel alive. 

And you wanted to feel alive. 

Mark was routine. He was predictable. You could see the next five, ten, twenty years of your life laid out nice and neat with Mark. But did you want that? Did you want to give up the adventure? The chaos? The things you missed so desperately. 

As you drizzle the topping on top of the cinnamon buns, you summarise your scrambled thoughts into one neat realisation: you wouldn’t have kissed JJ if you truly wanted Mark. 

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat as you walk to Mark’s house. The buns sit neat in the tupperware and you’re careful not to shake them. His door looks like a tombstone as you knock on it. There’s a noise from inside and the door opens. Mark smiles down at you. He’s dressed in a baby-blue waffle sweater and it’s so undeniably, so wonderfully him. 

“Hey!” he grins. 

“Can I come in?” you ask. It sounds ridiculous asking that when you used to sleep in this house almost daily. 

“Course,” Mark replies. He opens the door further and you slip inside. It shuts behind you. You place the tupperware on the countertop, taking too much time in letting go. “You alright?”

“Mhm. I just…I think we should talk about some stuff,” you say, feeling your voice losing power. 

“Alright. Come, sit,” he urges. You do as he asks and take the spot on the bed beside him, leaving a gap. “What’s up?”

You fumble your fingers together and stare intensely at your hands, racking your mind for the words, for where to start. You’d practised this so many times in the mirror. Childish. 

“I did something and I need to tell you, because you’ve always been so good to me, and so honest with me, and it isn’t fair to hoodwink you.”

“Okay,” Mark faintly replies. 

You take a steady breath in. Mark is good. He deserves the truth. “I went to see JJ last week, and one thing led to another, and we kissed.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sounds of the air conditioning unit humming as white noise. Then, 

“Oh.”

You clench your eyes shut before looking up at him. He’s detached in his expression. Your eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mark,” you whisper, scared your voice will break if you talk any louder. He meets your gaze. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to be treated that way. You’re such a good, genuine person. I just…I don’t know why, but I just…I can’t love you.”

Mark swallows thickly. The tears are warm and sticky on your cheeks. It’s so selfish to cry when you’re the one who threw the punches. You hang your head with shame and watch the teardrops land on your restless hands.

“I swear I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I still had feelings for JJ until…Well, until then.”

“I did.”

Your head snaps up. He’s staring at you, but he doesn’t look angry. No. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips. A sad smile, no doubt, but a smile nonetheless. 

“You did?”

“The minute you saw him, that Wednesday at the start of the month. I saw it on your face, clear as day. You never used to look at me like that.”

“Mark–”

“--That’s okay,” he nods. He’s crying too, now, and you’re not sure what to think, what to do. But Mark does. Of course, he does. His hands reach out to hold yours, warm in his clutch, and you blubber like a petulant child. “You’re not a bad person, Y/N. I could tell something was bothering you this past week.”

“I just didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t even know what it meant. But I have to be honest for the both of us, and I don’t…I don’t think I’m the girl you’re looking for, Mark,” you say through your tears. 

Mark smiles solemnly and nods once. The squeeze of your hands tells you everything. I know. I agree. It’s okay. 

“Do you hate me?” you ask in a moment of pure patheticness. Mark laughs and shakes his head. 

“You’re too pretty to hate.”

“Ugh! You can’t say things like that!” you whine, throwing your head back. He laughs again, soggy with his sorrow, and he shrugs. 

“Just got to keep my good-guy rep up.”

Laughing, you shake your head at him and smile. The two of you share a breath and he nods. A conclusion. His smile dwindles. 

“I’m gonna need time, though…Before we can be friends, maybe. Just to…You know…”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I understand. Whatever you want, whatever you need. It’s all on your terms, I promise.”

Mark nods. Thanks you. It is so fucking bizarre to have the man you cheated on thank you but here we are. Life is full of strangeness. 

“Can I give you a hug?” you wonder. Chuckling, he nods, and you waste no time in throwing your arms around his shoulders. Mark holds you in the embrace and the two of you savour the feeling of one another for one last time. Against his shoulder, you murmur, “I’m going to miss you, Mark.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he tells you into your collarbone. “JJ’s a lucky guy. But make sure to tell him I know where he lives if he hurts you.”

You tearfully giggle against him. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Bacon Sandwiches

It’s warm today; bright and brilliant. The critters are happy, chirping in the trees, croaking in the overgrowth by the water of the marsh that lines the Pogue’s house. Your footsteps feel heavy as you walk up the driveway, anticipating weighing you down. You lift a hand to shield your eyes from the sunlight and make out JJ. He’s at the entrance to the shop, stood a few rungs up a free-standing ladder. He’s trying to staple something to the walls - a banner of some kind - and you make your way over. 

“Need a hand?”

He jumps and you cringe. Oops. JJ looks down at you and his lips quirk at the corners. The muscle tee he wears is grey and hangs loose on his well-kept frame. He’s armed with a staple gun. “Yo. What’re you doing here?”

“Want a hand?” you repeat, nodding up at the banner, not quite ready to confess. JJ shrugs and nods. 

“Sure. Thanks.” 

You glance around and find something that looks sturdy enough to stand on. Dragging it over, you boost yourself up and hold out your hand to take the other side of the banner. Holding it up against the wall, JJ leans forward and steadies himself with an elbow on the wooden panelling. 

“We’re selling bacon sandwiches on weekends now, so thought we oughta advertise it, y’know? So, anyway, what’re you–” a grunt and a click of the staple gun, “-doing here?”

You step down from your boost and JJ takes your place. You don’t speak, stalling time, as JJ secures the banner. Sighing, taking it in, nodding with contentment, JJ jumps down and ditches the gun. The he stands with his hands on his hips and looks at you, shrugging again. 

“I, uh…I needed to talk you,” you say, clearing your throat. 

“A’right. What about?”

“Just like…” You rock your head back, take a breath, and steel yourself. Somewhere in that split second, you find a new mantra. JJ is good. JJ is good for me. I’m good for JJ. We’re good for each other. Smiling, you look at him again. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” he mumbles. 

There’s a playfulness, a teasing, as you shrug. “That you’ll catch me.”

You can see the words as they process through his head. See the moment he tracks the meaning, parses it altogether. A smile, beautiful and brimming, greets you, and then JJ crosses the gap between you in two large strides. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in an embrace. He swings you around for good measure and you laugh, looping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, smiling against him. This is good. 

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” you whisper in reply. He carefully reunites you with the ground. You smile up at JJ, gazing into his blue eyes, bathing in their depths. Your hand strokes along his jaw, slides down his front until it rests just above his heart. “It was always you, JJ.”

“You think…You think you can love me now?” he nervously asks. 

You shake your head with a silent laugh. It feels like breathing, like you’re finally free, as you admit, “I’ve always loved you.”

It comes and goes like a comet; the flash of shock in his eyes; the glow of his smile; the burning passion of his lips on yours. And as you kiss JJ, without guilt, without fear, you finally feel at home. When you break apart, short of air, JJ rests his forehead against yours. His thumb smooths along the soft line of your jaw and you smile. He takes a small breathe, shaky, unsure, but JJ's words are sure like bedrock.

The ceremony wrapped up earlier in the day. Gryffindor had won the House Cup and Bill and his teammates fancied themselves one last game of Quidditch to celebrate. You knew he was going to miss the field and the glorious memories he made there. 

Bill gave you a peck on the cheek and set you down. He wanted a little more than that, but he also wanted to maintain some propriety so as to not embarrass you in front of your friends. Bill then took your hand and walked with you across the field.

“You’re still going to Alfie’s party, right?” Bill asked, leaning down to look at you.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You best control yourself then, we wouldn’t want to miss the train tomorrow.”

“I—what?” you stammered. “I can control myself just fine! If I’m remembering correctly, you were the one I had to try to carry back that one night.”

“What?” Bill chuckled. “That never happened.”

“Oh, it so did,” you giggled. “I’m sure Filch was peering angrily from above the staircase. He’ll recall it for you.”

Bill made a face. “No, thank you. There are some people I won’t miss.”

After a moment of silence, Bill’s face quickly shifted into a still, more serious one. “And (Y/N),” he started. “I promise we’ll talk more about my job offer after tonight, alright? I don’t want it to spoil the mood.”

Bill clasped his other hand over yours, engulfing it. You fought the quiver of your lip and nodded.

Miraculously, you and Bill both survived the tell the tale the next morning. The party was wild, rife with unsanctioned alcohol, and Alfie spent most of the night poking at Bill, joking he was going to rat him out. Bill shook his head, asking Alfie how he was going to snitch on him if he himself was indulging in extra-potent whiskey, and stayed by your side for most of the night. 

After Bill ensured everyone had boarded the train, he led you to his own compartment—Head Boy privileges and all—giving you some much needed privacy. The Hogwarts Express flew through the Scottish highlands, the grass tinting the windows green. Bill watched you watch the mountains from beside you. 

Bill’s hand found its way to your thigh, drawing your attention to him. “I thought about it, and I accepted the offer.”

You nodded in encouragement and weakly, you responded, “As you should.” 

Another reason you loathed graduation was because you wouldn’t be able to see Bill everyday. Heck, he wasn’t even going to be on the hemisphere as you. Maybe you should’ve savoured having breakfast with him in the Great Hall everyday, laughing as he dotted ketchup on your nose. Carried your cauldron for you because it was too heavy. Waved to you as you admired him in the Quidditch stands. Wrapped his coat around you leaving the snow-covered grounds of Hogsmeade. 

“(Y/N), I know it’s not going to be easy for us,” Bill said with a frown. "That's why I was hesitant."

“No, Bill,” you said. “I’m so proud of you. Being employed at Gringotts is difficult enough, especially straight out of school. And a curse-breaker? In Egypt? There’s no one but you who could accomplish something like that. This is going to be huge for you.”

“I know,” Bill admitted. He bit on his lower lip. “This job is something I’ve always wanted. It’s truly a dream come true, but I keep thinking about the distance I’m putting between us.”

“The distance isn’t the main thing on my mind,” you corrected. 

“Then what’s on your mind?” Bill asked. 

“Bill,” you whimpered. You've had nightmares about Bill disappearing in some dune or losing his way in a sandstorm. And a stupid one where he was abducted by camels. “You’re going to die.”

Bill laughed. “I’m not going to die, (Y/N). That’s a little dramatic, even for you!” 

He gave you a peck on the lips. “You may die of boredom at your desk job at the Ministry, my love, but I assure you I’ll very much be alive.” Bill squeezed your waist. “I’ll be back in England every holiday and a couple weeks in the summer for vacation. I told the goblins that that was non-negotiable. And I want you to come visit me in Egypt whenever you can.”

You perked up. “Really?”

“Of course!” Bill affirmed, like any insinuation of you not being there was unthinkable. “You’re worth more than any treasure I might find. I refuse to lose you because of this.”

You blushed at Bill’s words. He’d clearly thought all this through and worked out every possible kink before accepting the job.

“I love you, Bill,” you whispered in his ear. “I can’t wait for you to come back.”

One of Bill’s hands found yours, and his thumb kneaded little circles below the knuckle of your ring finger, as if he could alchemize some imaginary metal and diamond to give you. But this, this would have to do for now to vow his dedication to you.  

I always loved it when the twins invited me over, whether it was for Christmas or summer.

It always feels like home.

When I was not at Hogwarts, I lived in an orphanage, so experiencing the Wealseys, experiencing a family, definitely felt good.

Maybe this is why they invite me so often, and I'm grateful for that. I usually spend time with Arthur, explaining the muggle world to him, or with the twins and their siblings playing Quidditch, or helping Molly cooking. Which is exactly what I'm doing now.

"Yes, exactly dear. Then you fold it towards you carefully." She instructs me as I knead the dough for the pie.

"Are you done stealing our friend, mom?" One of the twins asks as they both enter the kitchen, and I notice Molly playfully rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, mom, she is our friend." George agrees with his brother.

"She didn't steal me!" I defend, "I asked if I could help her."

"You don't need to do that." Fred tells me.

"Yeah, she already loves you." George adds, "probably more than she loves us."

"Oh shut up, you two." Molly laughs, waving them off.

"See? She is not denying it!" George feigns offence.

"I'm just spending time with my favourite assistant." Molly explains.

I smile at her as I finally finish my own pie.

"You're done." Fred notices, "C'mon, let's go."

"Why?" I ask, wiping my hands on a towel.

"You're our partner."

"And we have business to discuss."

I roll my eyes and look at Molly with an apologetic smile.

"Don't worry, dear. Humour them." She laughs again with that sweet motherly smile that always warms my heart.

"I'll come back later." I tell her.

I have no idea how I, mostly quiet and reserved, got friends with the loudest people at Hogwarts. But it happened, and now I basically help them run their shop in Diagon Alley.

Now, more than ever, I want to help them keep the shop open in this hard and dark time, that... after Dumbledore's death, will probably get worse.

I follow the twins to their room.

I take my seat next to Fred on his bed, and George sits on his.

"So... what was so urgent?" I ask.

"Oh nothing," Fred smiles proudly.

"I hate you." I say.

"You love us." George chimes in, "but we wanted to discuss the new products."

"Alright, alright. " I chuckle.

So we start to discuss what kind of things to start selling, at what price, how to organise the shelf and stands.

A good hour and a half, or a bit more, passes because Molly calls everyone down for dinner.

Finally, I'd say, I'm starving... especially for Molly's cooking.

"About time!" Fred exclaims.

"I'm starving!" George voices loudly, too.

"Same." I groan, following them down.

As we get down, I see the other Weasleys gathering around the table.

There's a new face, though, someone I've never seen before.

"Oh, look who finally decided to join us!" Fred says in his usual teasing tone.

"He's the missing one." George tells me, "you can finally say you've met the whole family."

"Uh?"

"Bill!" George calls the tall man.

"Hi, George." The guy named Bill turns to George with a playfully annoyed face, and I notice an earring with a fang dangling from his ear.

"Meet our friend." Fred chimes in, "she's met everyone except you... and we've been friends for years and years and years and years -"

"I get it, Freddie, thanks." Bill laughs.

"Come, Y/n." George calls.

As soon as his brown eyes meet mine, he freezes, I see him opening and closing his mouth without letting out a sound.

I'm quite confused.

"Hi." I gently wave at him, "I'm Y/n. It's nice to meet you."

I extend my hand towards him, and he watches it for a moment before taking it and shaking it.

"Likewise, I'm William... but, of course, you can call me Bill." He says, a little flustered.

"I like the earring." I tell him to maybe make him feel more at ease.

"Oh," he laughs, "Thank you. See, mom? It's appreciated."

"I give up." I hear Molly saying.

I stop for a second, noticing just now the scars on his face, and I wonder how he got them.

He notices me looking at them and quickly turns his head.

"Well, it was really nice to meet you, Y/n. I hope to see you around." He says before taking a seat at the table.

"Yeah, me too." I say quietly, sitting next to George.

I hope I didn't offend him...

-----------------

I sit outside, enjoying the early breeze, and I read a book. These moments are my favourite. After all these years, the Wealsey silently adopted me basically, which means I do have a family. But the first times I was invited, I would just sit here in the quiet of the mornings and pretend I belong here.

"I thought I was the only early riser." A chuckle snaps me out of my thoughts, Bill closes the door and wraps a small blanket around himself against the early cold.

"You thought wrong." I smile at him and move a little aside to let him sit.

"Aren't you cold?" He asks, sitting down.

"I'm fine, thank you." I say, I see him giving me a sceptical look and putting half of the blanket around me too.

"Sure." He says, and I laugh.

We stay in a comfortable silence for a while before he speaks up.

"Egypt?" He asks.

"Uh?" I turn to him, and he motion to my book, "Oh. Yeah, I always find it so fascinating, for some reason."

"It really is." He agrees, "I got the chance to explore it because of my job, and I have to say it deserves the appeal."

"Really? What kind of job?" I ask, genuinely curious. The twins never talk a lot about their siblings.

"Curse-breaker." He says with a shy smile.

"Oh wow..." I sigh, "that's really cool."

"Is it?" He laughs.

"Yes!" I reply, surprised he doesn't agree, "you don't like it?"

"No, no, it's not that." He says, "most thinks it's pretentious."

"Nah, don't listen to them. They must be idiots." I tell him.

"Fred and George mostly." He adds.

"Doesn't make my statement false." I kid, and he laughs.

"I can see why they like you so much." He chuckles.

"I wasn't like this when I first met them..." I start, "so I really don't understand why they wanted to be my friends in the first place."

"Like what? Funny?" He asks, "or cute?" He adds so quietly I could barely hear it.

"Uhm... I... I don't know..." I stutter out.

"Sorry... sorry, I didn't mean to... it just came out... I'm sorry." He shakes his head, "Uhm... but tell me... uh, how did you meet the two idiots?"

"Well..." I clear my throat, smiling shyly at him, "they kind of bumped into me... while running from Filch."

"Yeah... I can definitely see that." He laughs again, I'm glad he doesn't feel so awkward anymore.

"Then... I kind of helped them hide." I say.

"Well, now I'm surprised." He teases sweetly, making me feel warm inside... it's a new sensation and... weird, but in a good way.

"Yep." I chuckle, "later that week they found me in the library and just... wanted to thank me, so they just stuck around, and now we're here."

"Thankfully." He says, and I look up at him, "Uhm..." he quickly averts his eyes, "I mean, everyone seems to love you so much... and I'm sure mom's happy she gained another daughter."

"Well," I let out a small laugh, "I gained a mother so... it's a win-win situation."

He looks back at me, a confused smile on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"I live... well, lived in an orphanage... so no parents." I tell him with a shrug.

"Oh..." he softly sighs.

"Oh, please, no. I'm sorry... don't feel bad." I softly laugh to let him know it's not a big deal, "yeah, it was harder when I was younger, but now... now I'm fine. Really. Your family welcomed me with open arms. Wide open arms, actually."

I see him smiling, thankfully. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel uncomfortable... again.

"I'm glad they managed to make you feel at home, then." He says, "among the caos, I mean."

"Oh, trust me, the caos is part of the charm." I gently nudges his shoulder.

"Yeah, I have to agree." He nods, "when I spend so much time away, I do miss this caothic environment."

"I bet."

I look up at him, finding him already looking to me. His eyes are even more beautiful up close. As we start to naturally lean in towards each other, Molly's voice breaks the silence.

"Stop testing your products in my kitchen!" She yells to Fred and George... for sure.

Bill and I move away from each other. I clear my throat with an awkward chuckle and stand up.

"I should... I should probably help the twins with their things... so they won't burn the whole house down." I say.

"Yeah... of course." He avoids my eyes as he nods.

"I'll see you." I gently say and he nods once again so I just get back inside.

----------------

Later in the day more members of the Order arrive, with the intention of discussing the plan of moving Harry from his muggle house to the Wealsey's.

"That's the plan." Lupin says, once Moody stopped explaining the plan of having people drinking polyjuice potion to turn into Harry and confuse any deatheater in case there would be an attack.

"Sounds like fun." George comments.

"We're not asking you to participate, so if any of you isn't sure about it, can back down." Lupin explains with a heavy heart, "only whoever volunteers will drink the potion. And only if you're of age."

Everyone looks at each other, I catch eyes with the twins, I nod at them and they stand up.

"We're in." They say in unison.

"Me too." I stand, too.

"Of course we are too." Hermione says gesturing towards herself and Ron who nods.

I unconsciously search Bill's eyes across the room. He meets my gaze and I notice something in his look, he's worried. Of course he is... three of his brothers just volunteer for a very risky mission, but the way he looks at me with those brown eyes...

I mouth 'it's gonna be okay' and he nods, subtly, but his worried look remains.

"Mundungus too." Moody says, interrupting our silent conversation, and Fletcher just nods defeated.

"Let's pair up." Lupin claps his hands. "Each 'Potter' will be assigned to a protector."

"How would we do that?" I ask, curiosity taking the best of me.

"Using same old pieces of papers with names on." He smiles shrugging, "Everyone, write your name down."

"I want to be the one to bring Harry here. The real one." Hagrid chimes in, "it fair."

Lupin nods, he then takes two bowls, gently offered by Mrs Weasley.

"Here the Harrys," he brings up the bowl in his left hand, "and here the protectors." He lifts the one in the right one.

We all do as he instructed.

He then sits down and starts taking out names.

Each one is assigned and only four people are left.

"Hermione, you'll be assigned to... Kingslay." Remus announces.

I see Kingslay sending Hermione a reassuring nod and she gives one back.

"So that leaves Y/n and... oh, Bill." Lupin says.

"Okay, everyone knows their places, right? We're leaving in an hour." Moody announces, sternly.

Everyone scatter around to get ready, so I take the opportunity to just step outside and take a big breath.

I'm not sure how I got tangled in this whole magic war, but I'm glad I did... even though it's scary.

"Are you okay?" I hear Bill's voice getting closer.

"Yeah, of course." I nod.

"You don't have to do it, you know?" He tells me.

"I know." I smile at him, "I'm not gonna lie, I'm scared, so scared I'm surprised I can still move."

He softly laughs.

"You're really brave." He then tells me.

"I'm no braver then the others," I reply, shrugging.

"You don't give yourself enough credit, I think." He nudges my shoulder.

"Thank you." I say softly, "I'm glad I got paired up with you."

"Me too. I promise to bring you home safe and sound."

"I promise too."

His soft smile makes me almost melt, if it wasn't for the cold breeze, it makes me feel safe, feels like home.

"Did the Twins warn you about the wedding?" He then asks.

"Charlie's? Yes, they did." I nod, "I think... is there something I should know?"

"No, well... if you can, try to avoid aunt Muriel." He whispers, as if he's afraid she might be here to hear it.

"I'll just stick to your side, then, you're my protector after all." I kid and I see his face getting a bit red.

"Well.. uh... of course." He stutters, "I'd rather fight deatheaters than deal with her anyway."

I genuinely laugh, unconsciously I lean my head on his shoulder and I feel him tense.

"Sorry." I say and straighten up.

I just look up at him and he does the same.

"No worries," he swallows.

He seems nervous, but not uncomfortable.

I don't know why I feel this pull towards him everytime we talk, but it's a nice feeling. I just hope I'm not making him uneasy or anything.

I catch his eyes looking down at my lips and mine falls to his.

Suddenly, he moves back, bringing a hand up to cover his scars, I can't help but look at him confused.

"Sorry," he lets out a nervous chuckle and stands, "I..."

He doesn't say anything more and just gets back inside, leaving me dumbfounded.

--------------

The clouds don't help spotting the bunch of deatheaters chasing us, I try to keep as many eyes out as I can, so I can help Bill who also has to guide the thestral.

Suddenly, I spot three hooded figures flying towards us.

"There are three coming!" I warn Bill.

I cast spells like never before, trying to stop them from coming any closer.

Some deatheater manages to hit me, luckily it's nothing major, but I let out a scream nonetheless.

"Are you okay?" Bill asks, blindly reaching behind him to check on me.

"Yes, don't worry."

I look around, and I can vaguely see Madeye and Mundungus far from us.

I stare at them, ready to interfere in case they need it, when I see a dark figure appearing...

"Shit!" I exclaim.

"What?"

"He's here." I say.

"Fuck! Hold onto me." He says before turning the thestral around abruptly, but something catches my eyes.

"Wait!" I tell him.

"What's wrong?" He asks, breathless.

"Madeye he-" I start, but get interrupted by one more deatheater flying to us.

I got to cast one last spell to take down the last enemy I can see, before Bill starts to bring us down... ready to reach the portkey.

"What did you say?" Bill asks again, reaching behind again to be sure I'm still here.

"Madeye, I saw him falling from his broom." I tell him, tears already forming in my eyes.

"What? How?"

"I think, Mundungus tried to get away as soon as he saw him appearing... Madeye tried to keep him from going anywhere, but... you-know-who killed him." I say, trying to keep my breath as steady as I can, "I say a green light..."

"Ssh, sshh, it's okay." He tries to calm me down as we arrive to the portkey.

"I'm sorry.." I mutter.

"About what?" He asks, sadly turning to face me, "it wasn't your fault, you know?"

"What if I warned you earlier? What if I..." I lower my eyes to my hands.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he says, and I do, "it was no one's fault. We couldn't know."

"Yeah..."

He gently takes one of my hands and caress it gently.

"He wouldn't want you to cry for him, right?" He says, smiling in hope to make me smile too.

"He would probably scold me for it." I let out a weak laugh.

"Exactly." He kisses the back of my hand and then rides towards the portkey, that teleports us in front of the Burrow.

We see almost everyone else already here.

I can see Remus and Tonks close to each other, Harry, Ron and Hermione too. I spot Kingslay, I think I can see Hagrid inside, but there's something wrong.

I can't see Mr Weasley or Fred, maybe they're just not here yet... but Remus is here, so... where's George?

I get down from the magical horse and run into the house, as I do I lock eyes with Remus' guilty expression and I just run faster.

I rush into the house and spot Molly caressing George's hair, as I get close I notice the blood on him.

"George..?" I weakly call and Molly turns to me, she sends a sad smile towards me and I kneel in front of the sofa to take a better look at George.

"George." I call again.

"He's alive, dear... just a dark spell..." she reassures me.

"How?" I shakily ask, more to George than Molly.

I hear fast footsteps rushing in too and Fred is just beside me. This makes me feel so much better.

They're both still alive.

"How are feeling, Georgie?" Fred asks his twin.

George slowly open and closes his mouth before speaking.

"Saintlike..." he says, and I let out a relieved laugh, "I'm holey, I'm holey, Fred. You get it?"

"With the whole wide world of ear-related humour, you go for 'I'm holey'. Pathetic." Fred teases back, I notice he says this finally letting his shoulder relax.

"Well, Y/n still finds me the most handsome of the pair, I reckon." He subtly winks in my direction.

"I'm letting this one slide because you're hurt. And clearly brain damaged, if you make that joke of all you could choose from." I chuckle moving my hand out to caress his.

I notice now that everyone has gotten inside, i spot Bill's tense, yet relieved expression.

"Madeye is dead." He says and everybody looks at him.

"You-know-who killed him." I say. "Mundungus disappeared and he was caught off guard... I think."

I sense George's and Fred's hands on mine, for comfort and solidarity.

----------------

A wedding sounds absurd considering the times we're living, yet it seems exactly what we need.

A knock on the door catches my attention.

"Yes?"

"Are you decent?" Fred's teasing voice calls from the other side.

"Sure." I laugh and he comes in.

"Are you ready?" He asks.

"Yap." I say, turning to look at him, "oh, look at you, never seen you so cleaned up."

"I take offence in that." He feigns hurt, "take it back."

"Oh, you know you're always so stylish." I stick my tongue out to him.

"That's what I thought." He winks, "I'm the most handsome of the pair."

"Sure." I laugh and sit on the bed to put on my shoes. "Is everything ready downstairs?"

"Yap, all guests are here. The party is ready to begin." He declares.

"Nice." I nod.

"Are you okay?" He asks, I can hear a hint of worry in his voice.

"Yeah."

"C'mon," he says sitting next to me, "tell Freddie what's bothering you."

"It's nothing, Fred, really." I try to divert the subject.

"You don't fool me, young lady." He slightly glare at me.

I sigh.

"Plotting without me?" I look up to see George standing by the door, the bandages on his head as a reminder of the night before...

"We could never." I say.

"Our Y/n here has something on her mind." Fred is quick to say.

"I don't..." I say... not very convincing.

"Uh uh. Tell us." George sit on the other side of me.

"Do you think... uh... did I do something wrong to Bill?" I ask, quietly.

I can sense them sharing a look.

"Whatever do you mean, love?" George asks.

"It's just... sometimes it's like he wants to be anywhere else but near me... and maybe I did something to him... but I don't know what." I explain.

"Do you have a crush on our brother, L/n?" Fred asks teasingly.

"What? No, no... I just ... ugh!" I say laying back down on the bad covering my face with my arms. I hear them softly laughing.

"I'm sure you did nothing wrong." George says, "Bill's just... Bill."

"Yeah, whatever it is, I'm sure it has nothing to do with you. Stop worrying your pretty little head." Fred nudges me.

I nod, understanding, not entirely convinced, but I appreciate their effort.

"And..." George's teasing tone makes me glare at him, already knowing what he wants to say, "if you have a crush on him, we could help you..."

"I'm sure we really should be going, you know, plus I'll see if Molly need any help." I say standing up and quickly make my way downstairs.

As I rush down the stairs I bump into someone.

"Oh, I'm so so sorry." I say.

"No worries." Bill says and I instantly look up at him, feeling a little embarrassed since I've been talking about him with the twins a few minutes ago.

"Uh... sorry" I repeat, looking away.

"It's no problem. Really." He smiles at me.

"I... I was looking for... for you mother..." I stutter out, "to see if she needed any help."

"Oh she was just outside, still congratulating Charlie and... crying too." He lets out a soft chuckle and I do too.

"Then I'll go congratulate him too, didn't get the chance yet." I smile at him and start walking out, looking for Charlie and Mrs Weasley and I find them right outside the big tent.

"Hey," I say as I near them, "congratulations, Charlie."

"Aahh, Y/n! Thank you!" He says cheerfully, once I'm close enough he brings me in for a big hug, which I reciprocate.

"I'm so happy for you." I tell him, "she seems like a sweet person... or... better a patient one." I tease.

"Alright, that's it." He says letting me go, "you're spending too much time with the twins. I'm adopting you."

"That's my duty," Molly chimes in, linking arms with me.

"Exactly, Charlie, stop stealing your mother's job." I jokingly glare at him, he smiles at me and then his eyes move to something behind me. I turn around seeing Bill walking to us.

"Congratulations, mate." Bill hugs Charlie and pat his back.

"Aah thank you! I'm so happy." Charlie has the biggest smile on his face right now, and it fills me with joy.

"You deserve it. I've never seen you so in love." Bill says.

"Well, I just hope you will experience it too, mate." Charlie sighs, "it's really the best feeling."

I smile at his words, he really loves his family... everyone in this family loves each other so much, it makes me feel at peace.

"Yeah... I can tell." I hear Bill say, I notice Charlie looking at me with a weird look.

"I'm sure you do," he then adds.

"Oh! Charles!" A voice calls from behind us, an old lady is walking towards us.

Molly is gone immediately, and Bill gently takes my arm to lead me away.

"That's... aunt Muriel." He whispers to me.

"Oh..." I chuckle, "thanks."

"No problem, I am your protector." He tells me and we enter the tent.

"Oh wow.." I say, "it looks really good."

"Yeah, I think despite the situation, Charlie got a great wedding anyway. Which makes me very happy." He tells me, and I notice just now he's sort of caressing my arm with his fingers.

"Yeah... I... I think he deserves it. You know, this is how I always wanted my wedding to look like, if I'm being honest." I say, "that... if I ever got married, that is."

"What do you mean 'if'?"

"Well, to get married you would need to find someone you love and someone who loves you" I explain with a shrug and a heavy heart.

"I'm sure.... I'm sure, you will have no problem in that." He tells me.

"I'm not so sure." I say, shrugging.

We reach a table and we both sit down, and I go back at looking around.

"It really is beautiful." I breath, "you all did a great job."

I turn to look at Bill, once again, already finding him looking at me.

"I think anyone would be lucky to marry you." He softly says, and it takes me a little off guard that my cheeks suddenly feel warm and I look away from him.

The music suddenly starts and we both turn to look at Charlie and his wife dancing for the first time as husband and wife. It's such a happy moment I don't want to miss one bit of it.

Soon enough more people join the happy couple and I too start to slightly move my feet to the rhythm. A hand is suddenly on top of mine, gaining my attention.

"Do you...do you want to d-dance?" Bill asks, stuttering a bit.

"Yes." I simply say.

We stand and walk towards the other people dancing, he carefully put his hands on my waist and I shyly put mine on his shoulders and we start moving with the music.

"This is my favourite parts of weddings." I casually say, to break the awkward silence.

"The dancing?"

"Yeah, everyone looks so happy, and it's the most peaceful part of it." I explain, "you know, everything coming before the 'yes' is like tense and uncertain. 'What if they change their mind?' Or 'what if something happens?', it's all about 'what ifs'. But the dancing... is when everything is settled and everyone is happy and can let out a sigh of relief. Does it make sense?" I chuckle.

"Makes complete sense. I kind of agree with you." He smiles, "I'll tell you a secret... Charlie was so nervous since he asked her."

"What? Really?" I ask in disbelief.

"Yeah!" He laughs, "he was so afraid she would change her mind any moment. There was one day I was visiting him, he told me he was actually waiting an owl to deliver him a letter saying she wouldn't marry him anymore. That's how tense he was."

"Oh, poor thing." I laugh, looking to Charlie dancing with his mother now, how happy he looks now.

"Yeah, took me several hours to convince him that was not the case." He tells me.

We laugh together for a moment before our eyes lock for the millionth time.

"Can..." I start, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course." He nods.

"Have I... have I made you uncomfortable in some ways?" I ask.

"What? No... of course not." He answers quickly.

"Are you sure?" I check, "I mean, you can tell me. Really it's no problem."

"I'm sure. You didn't do anything to make me feel uncomfortable." He replies, "I promise."

"Okay..." I nod, with small smile. "If I did something, though, I'm sorry."

"I promise, you have nothing to be sorry for." He reassuringly smiles at me, I smile back.

We stay in silence, looking at each other and, again, I feel the same pull towards I felt before, but this time, before anything could remotely happen, Kingslay's patronus appears.

It says the minister is dead and that the deatheaters are coming here...

The caos emerges as soon as the enemy arrives.

I look up at Bill.

"Stay close to me." He tells me and I nod.

We start fighting along the others, most guests disappear, most remains and fight.

I cast as many protection spells as I can while Bill and the other defends.

I can see Harry, Ron and Hermione disappear. Thankfully. But my attention is caught by another red-haired fighting far from me.

I rush to Ginny without even thinking and stand beside her, Lupin joins us soon.

A caos of "stupeficium" "expelliarmus" and "protego" surrounds us.

I spot someone aiming at a distracted Ginny, instinctively I step in between them, I try to yell, but too late.

I feel myself falling to the ground.

---------------

It's dark, I can hardly open my eyes, but I hear voices around me.

"She's gonna be fine." I hear someone says.

"Are you sure?" A pair of voices, this time, asks.

"Yes, I am."

I weakly open my eyes and move to sit up.

"Hey, hey, careful there." I recognise Bill's voice.

"What... what happened?" I ask, finally being able to look around. Noticing Fred and George too, I notice this is not a room I recognise.

"What happened?!" George asks shocked, "what happened she asks!"

"Unbelievable!" Fred agrees.

"So..?" I urge.

"You took a stunner for Ginny. A dark one." Bill explains.

"What were you thinking?!" Fred asks.

"I just saw him aiming at your sister and went on autopilot, I think." I say.

"What if it was a killing curse?" George basically yells.

"Could you not shout please?" I ask weakly.

They both sigh heavily and look at each other.

"You're okay." Bill chimes in from his place by the door, "that's important." He says this last bit more to the twins than to me.

"You scared the hell out of us." George says.

"Yeah, we thought we lost you." Fred nods.

"I'm sorry..." I mutter.

"No, we're sorry for yelling." Fred sighs, "we're thankful you're okay... and thank you for protecting Ginny."

I open my arms, asking them for a hug and they do, careful not to hurt me too much they wrap their arms around me.

"Where are we?" I ask, once they pulled away.

"Shell cottage." They both answer.

"In Cornwall." George keeps going, "it's by the sea."

"Oh... Nice."

"Yeah, we'll be using it as a refuge for a while." Freds explain.

"Especially until you feel better." Bill adds.

"We know you like the sea, so maybe it would help your recovery." George says, hopeful.

"I hope so." I smile at them.

"Let's leave her, boys, she need her rest not you two pestering her." Bill teases his brothers.

"We're not!" They both say, standing up and heading to the door.

"A little." I joke.

"You better rest well, young lady." Fred scolds me before following his brother out.

"I'll bring up some tea. Now rest." With this Bill exits and closes the door.

I lay back down, take a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping to get some sleep.

--------------

The sweet smell of the tea gently wakes me up.

I slowly open my eyes, noticing some rays of sun peaking through the windows.

I sit up, determined to stand up and walk downstairs. I put some clothes on and weakly walk out the room, holding onto the wall just in case.

I make my way downstairs, happy to hear voices coming from what I can imagine is the kitchen.

"Why don't you just tell her, mate?" Fred, I think, says.

"What do you mean why?" Bill asks back.

"What do you mean, what do we mean why?" George replies, "do you like her?"

"I..."

"Of course, he does!" Fred intervenes.

"Then why don't you freaking tell her?" George repeats the question.

Now, I can't help but eavesdrop. Curiosity taking the best of me.

"Have you seen me recently?" Bill snaps.

"Bill..." George starts, but he's interrupted.

"No, George." Bill's serious tone, makes my heart ache, "how could she like me back when I look like this? Uh?"

"Bill, do you think she cares?" Fred's tone got more gentle.

"We know her, mate." George tries to reassure him.

"No." Bill firmly states, "she deserves better. You should know it, she deserves someone who doesn't look like a freak, and most definitely she doesn't deserve a werewolf in her life. What if I hurt her? What if..." he chokes. I can't see him, but I can tell he's crying.

"You love her, don't you?" Fred asks... or rather, states.

"Of course, he does." George confirms, "look how scared he is!"

"Of course, I'm scared!" Bill snaps again, "The closest thing to love at first sight l've ever experienced happened when I first laid eyes on her... and it pains me how much I want to be with her, but knowing she doesn't deserve to end up with someone like me..."

That's enough, I walk up to them and their head turn up to look at me, Bill's eyes widening at my sight.

"I think that's up to me to decide." I tell him, looking him dead in the eyes.

"I..." He's at loss words.

"We'll leave you to it." The twins says and walk out.

I sit down, so I can face Bill, I slightly wince as I do.

"Careful..." he whispers, "you... you should be resting."

"You'll soon realise I don't usually do what I'm supposed to do." I smile at him.

We stay silent, none of us knowing what to say.

"Sorry." He then says.

"What for?" I ask.

"I..." he lets out a nervous chuckle, "I don't even know..."

"Was that true?" I finally ask.

"I'm afraid so..." he sighs.

"Then, I'm afraid you're stuck with me." I say, feeling bold enough to take his hand.

"I..." he look at our hands, "you mean...?"

"Yes..."

"But... you don't have to... I know you deserve something better than this." He tries to make me... reason I think, I softly laugh at this.

"Better than a hot, long-haired, curse-breaker with the kindest smile eyes I've ever seen? I'm not so sure about it." I grin at him, "what you felt the first time we met... I'm pretty sure I felt it too."

"Really?"

"Of course, I think if there was ever anybody meant for me, it's you."

He looks at me with the biggest smile, lets out a relieved laugh and comes closer to kiss me.

I'm a little taken aback, but I quickly kiss him back, my hand moves up to his cheek softly caressing his scars while his is in my hair gently playing with it.

Once we pull away we hear cheering from the other room, and we laugh watching Fred and George coming into view clapping their hands.

"Finally!"

"Good job!"

"Go away you two!" Bill scolds them.

"Hey!" They call, "no naughtinesses while we're here, alright!"

They go away and leave us officially alone.

I look at Bill and he does the same.

"I love you." He whispers, coming closer once again.

"I love you too" I say before kissing him again.

And again.

And again.

there was a fond smile on your lips as you watched him walk away; he must really appreciate secretaries since he brought you a coffee every day.

when jimmy noticed the way clark was gazing at you typing something on the computer without even sparing a look towards clark, the other man couldn't help the sigh that left his lips, rolling his chair closer to clark's, "you gotta tell her, man."

clark rolled his eyes; he'd heard those words about a million times. "i'm not telling her." "come on! you've been in love with her since the moment she got the job." "i'm not in love with her." clark looked to the other man pointedly, "i just think she's... interesting." "interesting looking." jimmy grinned, but when clark turned to look at him with narrowed eyes, the man rolled himself back to his desk.

clark looked to you with a sense of longing in his steel-blue eyes. he really didn't know what he found so fascinating about you. maybe how you showed up to work every day with the most adorable sundress, how your face brightened up when he placed the coffee order he'd memorized in front of you, the way you never had a frown on your face...

he should stop. he knows you're never going to like him the way he likes you, and he's fine with that. well, he's trying to be fine with that.

clark spots you by the coffee machine with an empty cup in your hand, "hey there!" he exclaims awkwardly, startling you and making you drop your cup, watching as it shatters on the floor. the man's eyes widen. great going, clark.

you bend down to pick up the pieces of the shattered cup, only for a small gasp to leave your lips when you stab your finger on one of the pieces. clark rushed to your side, taking your hand in his.

"yeah, it's just a small cut." you mumbled, but clark pulled you up so you were standing, already bringing your hand to the sink, turning the tap on, "clark, it's fine." you chuckled softly, but your coworker's brows were furrowed with determination, "i don't want it to get infected..."

you chuckled softly as you turned to look at him, "it's not going to get infected." only for your coworker to shrug and quietly mumble, "it's better to be safe than sorry."

afterwards, clark dried your hand off with a towel and pulled open a drawer, taking a bandage out.

"it's just a small cut." you let out a chuckle as you watched him take the paper off the bandage, clark's tongue peeking out from between his lips, "just making sure..."

he wrapped the bandage around your pointer finger, looking up at you with a small smile, "there you go."

you rolled your eyes, "you didn't need to do all that." "again, better safe than sorry."

when you bent down so that you could clean up the mess you'd made, clark pressed his hand on your shoulder, "i'll get it." making you look at him with furrowed brows, "are you sure? i can get it, i did-" "i'm sure." he ensured with a smile as you straightened up and nodded.

clark was walking towards his car when he spotted you kneeling down at your front wheels. he turned to walk towards you, seeing that you were clearly in need of assistance.

"uh, can i ask you what's wrong?" clark's question making you turn around with a small frown on your lips, "flat tire." "do you have a spare?" he asked, making you shake your head.

clark looked to you and then at his own car, clearing his throat "if you want, i could give you a ride home. you can call a tow company tomorrow."

it was as if your eyes lit up the moment those words left clark's lips, "really?" the man chuckled, "obviously."

that's how you ended up on the passenger seat of clark's car, softly humming along to the random rhythm playing on the stereo while tapping your own thigh, the google maps on clark's phone set to your house.

"thank you for driving me home." you turned to clark with a small smile as he pulled up in front of your apartment complex, "of course. i wouldn't want you to have to sleep in the parking lot." "i could've gotten a cab." "i didn't want you to get a taxi. i'm glad you accepted."

your eyes widened slightly at clark's words, his cheeks starting to become red as he turned his face forward, clearing his throat, "i mean. have a good night.

you smiled, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear before you reached out for his hand. clark looked to you with wide eyes, as if he was asking what was going on, only for you to grab him by his tie and pull him to you

"do you want to come up with me?"

at your words, clark's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, "are you sure?" he asked with a weak voice, making you chuckle, "obviously. that's why i asked you."

"then... sure."

the two of you got out of the car, and the moment you were next to each other, your fingers were intertwined.

"i've wanted to hold your hand since forever." clark leaned closer to you, and you turned to him, your smile widening, "me too."

YOU SHIFT BESIDE HIM, just barely, your bare shoulder brushing his chest as you curl away from the slant of morning sunlight spilling through the half-open window. The sheets rustle, soft and worn from too many mornings like this. Outside, waves break gently against the shore, that steady rhythm threading into the room along with the salt-heavy breeze. It smells like summer. Like home.

JJ blinks awake. His eyes are slow to adjust, drifting toward the dim red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. 10:49. His heart stutters.

Without a word, his arm wraps tighter around your waist, anchoring you to him, as if his grip could freeze time. His nose buries into your hair, breathing you in, like he’s terrified to forget. You let out a soft, sleepy giggle at the ticklish sensation.

He exhales against your neck.

Twelve hours left.

Exactly twelve hours until the world tilts again, cruel and familiar. Until the loop resets, and he’s forced to start over. Again. And again. However many times it’s been – he’s lost count. He doesn’t want to know anymore. All he knows is he loses you. Every damn time.

You stretch with a lazy smile, limbs brushing against his beneath the sheets. Your fingers trace a lazy line along his jaw as you lift your head, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes. “Are you ever gonna stop looking at me like that?”

His throat tightens. He blinks once. Breathes in.

“Not really.”

Your laugh bubbles out – soft and familiar, like the morning light. Like the first time. JJ watches you with a kind of desperate reverence, memorizing your face even though he already knows every freckle, every dimple. You say those words every morning. Every time.

He used to answer differently. Used to joke. Flirt. Now he just tells the truth. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know how not to look at you like this. Like you’re everything.

Maybe it’s been a month. Maybe longer. A year? Two? Time is water in his hands. He can’t hold onto it, and he can’t let go.

But he always counts the seconds between now and 10:49 pm.

Every time you whisper his name, it cuts deeper and heals all at once.

And every time he watches you die, it feels like the first time – and the last.

The first time it happened, he thought it was a dream.

He told himself that for a while, for hours, days, maybe longer. Maybe because it was easier to believe that than face what was real. Or maybe because everything felt too bright, too sharp, too final to be anything else. But the thing about dreams is they fade when the sun comes up. They don’t keep repeating.

And this did.

Over and over and over again.

He remembers that first day the way someone remembers the worst moment of their life. Not like a memory, but like a wound. It doesn’t fade. Doesn’t dull. It just pulses.

The same road. The same fading sun. The same song playing low through the speakers, something soft and careless and golden. You were in the passenger seat beside him – legs curled up, hair messy from the wind and the salt, bare shoulders glowing from the beach. You hummed along to the music, drumming your fingers on the window, laughing to yourself like you were holding a secret.

He remembers thinking that silence had never felt so earned. The kind that sinks into your bones after a long day, when nothing needs to be said because everything is perfect exactly as it is.

JJ doesn’t remember his eyes getting heavy. Doesn’t remember the moment his body gave in. But he remembers the time on the dash.

10:48 pm.

His hand rested on your hip, warm and easy. You ran your fingertip along the inside of his wrist like it meant something, like you were memorizing him, even though you didn’t know why.

“I think I could stay here forever,” you murmured.

Soft. Thoughtless. Real.

He smiled. God, he smiled like he meant it. Squeezed your hand gently, knuckles brushing yours. He turned his eyes back to the road, but his heart… it was loud. Loud in his chest, too loud to ignore. The kind of loud that meant something was trying to break out. Words pressing against his throat.

Three of them.

Three words that had never crossed his lips with you, not yet. Not because he didn’t feel them, but because he felt them too much. And because saying them would make them real. And real things break.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw your face shift. That soft, open look you wore when you were hopeful. But then – just like that – it faltered. You turned your head. Bit your lip. Looked out the window like you were trying to hide something. It was small. Quiet. But it gutted him.

He hated himself for not being ready.

10:49.

He looked at you again, just as you reached out, touched his cheek with the back of your hand, featherlight. You smiled, like always, and turned his face gently back toward the road.

Then– White.

Searing, unnatural light. The sound of tires screaming against asphalt. A jolt. A crack. A tearing. And nothing.

Not even silence. Not at first. Just absence. Like the world had been yanked away all at once and replaced with static.

When he opened his eyes, the windshield was shattered, the world outside swallowed in smoke. Sirens were wailing somewhere far off – thin, almost unreal – but he barely heard them. The only sound that mattered was the blood rushing in his ears, loud and panicked and alive.

You weren’t moving.

You were still holding his hand, but limp. Unmoving. Your head rested against the seat, neck tilted too far, lips parted. There was a softness frozen on your face – the trace of the smile you’d given him just seconds ago.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not from the smoke. From you. From the absence of you. It wrapped around his ribs like a vice.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Hey, baby. Look at me. Come on.”

He shook your shoulder. Brushed the hair from your face with trembling fingers. Touched your cheek. You were still warm.

“Wake up,” he said, louder now. “Come on, please– Hey. Look at me.”

Nothing.

The pressure in his chest cracked. It split him wide open.

He was shouting your name. Screaming it. Again. And again. Like maybe if he said it enough, the universe would give you back.

But you didn’t move. You didn’t blink. And all he could hear now was the sirens growing closer, and his own voice falling apart.

He blinked. And the world blinked with him.

Morning.

Your body shifted beside him with the quiet rustle of sheets, your skin warm against his under the thin motel blanket. Sunlight slid in through the blinds in long gold stripes, catching in the strands of your hair, gilding the dust that floated in the air like ash. The room was too still. The silence was the kind that makes your lungs hesitate, like the world was holding its breath.

JJ didn’t move.

He lay there, barely breathing, watching you stir, your lashes fluttering before your eyes opened. You blinked at him like you always did – sweet, drowsy, unguarded – and then stretched with a soft sigh, the sheet slipping down your bare shoulder. You looked like heaven, like something the sea might’ve given up just for him.

“Will you ever stop looking at me like that?” you asked with a tired laugh, unaware of the weight behind his eyes.

He blinked once. Only once.

Then he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Like your voice pulled him back from the edge. His hand found your cheek, brushing his thumb under your eye, and he kissed you with something quiet and trembling in him.

“Never,” he whispered. His voice broke on it.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it all repeated again.

Night. The highway. The quiet. 10:48.

The same moment, the same song, the same soft way you laced your fingers through his. You turned to him, smiling. He kissed your hand like it might save you.

And again light. Blinding. Screaming. And you… You weren’t there anymore. And he woke up. 

Alone.

The third time, he didn’t wake up calm.

He sat up with a gasp, the sheets tangled around his legs, the air thick in his lungs like smoke. He turned to you, grabbed your wrist, heart pounding so fast it felt like it would rupture. His voice cracked as he begged – begged – you to stay.

“Please. Don’t leave the room today. Don’t fall asleep. I need you to trust me. Just- Just for one day, please-”

You blinked, confused. Concerned. Laughing at first, like it was a game. But he wasn’t laughing. He was already shaking. Already staring at the clock like it was counting down to a bomb.

You died anyway.

The fourth time, he got behind the wheel and didn’t slow down. Drove the car straight into a tree before 10:49 could touch you.

But he woke up again. No blood. No scars. Just the guilt still clinging to his chest like smoke.

The fifth time, he screamed until his voice gave out, shoving his face into the motel pillow so no one would hear the way he broke apart. He kicked the nightstand so hard the lamp shattered. He tore his knuckles on the wall and bled in silence. You lay sleeping beside him the whole time.

The sixth time, he didn’t talk to you. Didn’t touch you. Couldn’t look at you.

He just counted the minutes.

The eighth time, he changed everything – your breakfast, your route, your clothes, the music you played. He filled the day with distractions, hoping to outsmart the loop, to reroute fate. And for a moment, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because at 10:49, you were gone again.

The tenth time, he tried to beat death to the punch. He took every pill in the drawer, fell to the floor in the motel bathroom. And still, he woke up next to you. Alive. Cursed. Crushed.

Time lost meaning.

It wasn't hours or minutes anymore. It was just distance. Distance between now and the moment the world ended again. The sun didn’t rise anymore. It just counted down.

He tried everything.

He nailed the door shut, dragged the dresser in front of it. Burned the car. Hid the keys. He locked you in the bathroom and stood outside, sobbing, fists clenched against the wood. He made you wear a helmet. Made you promise not to speak, not to move. He held your body too tight, lips against your temple, whispering, please don’t die this time, please don’t leave me, please, please, please-

Still, every single time- 10:49. 10:49. 10:49. 10:49. And you were gone.

It started to feel like punishment. But for what? For his past? For the fights, the arrests, the lies? For not telling you he loved you before the loop began? Did that moment even exist anymore?

He didn’t know what day it was. What month. If it had been weeks or months or years. You never remembered a thing. You were always new, unbroken, untouched by the fire of this loop. But he remembered everything.

And that was the curse.

Then came the night he stopped trying.

He lay beside you and didn’t speak. Didn’t tape the windows, didn’t light a candle, didn’t check the time every ten seconds. He didn’t tell you to stay. He just curled closer and held you as if it wasn’t the last time. He told you stories – real ones, messy ones. Childhood memories. Dreams he had. Things he’d never said out loud. He told you about the first time he realized you were it for him.

And when the clock struck 10:49, you didn’t jerk, didn’t bleed, didn’t vanish in a storm of glass and steel.

You just… faded.

Soft. Silent. As if the light went out in the universe and took you with it. But before it happened – just before – your eyes locked with his.

And something in them knew.

You looked right at him like it wasn’t the first time. Like it never had been.

“I know you.”

That broke something. Or healed it. Or maybe both.

From that night on, JJ stopped fighting the end. Instead, he started changing the middle.

He gave himself twelve hours to love you like he never dared before. Twelve hours to kiss your wrist. To trace the freckles on your back. To slow dance in a motel kitchen. To laugh until you snorted. To watch you bite into an apple and act like it was divine.

Twelve hours to live like it would last.

If this was a curse, then he would make it beautiful. Make it worthy of you.

And after that something has changed.

10:01 AM.

You shift beside him in the mess of motel sheets, limbs tangled, your skin warm against his beneath the thin blanket. The morning light creeps through the slats of the blinds in golden stripes, cutting across your bare shoulder and catching the dust suspended in the air, making everything shimmer. The room is still and slow, like the world itself hasn’t fully woken up yet.

JJ doesn't move. He just watches you. Like he always does. Like it's the only thing he's sure of anymore.

He memorizes every single detail – how your nose wrinkles just a little when the sunlight finds your face, how you instinctively shift closer to him, nose nudging against his chest, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips as you bury yourself in the safety of his warmth. How your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, but still sharp, still playful, that familiar glint already dancing in them.

And then, like clockwork – like ritual – you stretch slowly, a grin tugging at your lips, and ask the question that starts every day in this cursed cycle:

“Will you ever stop looking at me like that?”

Your voice is sleep-rough and teasing, but he hears the tenderness under it. The hope.

He blinks once. Breathes in. Breathes you in.

“Not really.”

Your laugh is slow and unguarded, like the morning sun itself – warm, soft, effortless. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, JJ doesn’t think about 10:49. Doesn’t think about the end. He lets it go. Just for now. Just for this.

He lifts a hand and gently brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. You’re still smiling. Still his. So he kisses you. Your temple first. Then your eyelids. Your cheeks. The tip of your nose. Slow, reverent kisses like prayers. Worship. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops. He kisses every inch of your face until there’s nothing left but your mouth.

You laugh again, half-heartedly trying to squirm away, but it’s no use. The moment your lips meet his, everything else in the world falls away. There’s no motel. No clock. No curse. Just you and him. Just this.

His fingers cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss, tilting your chin toward him, and your hands slide into his hair, pulling him closer. He doesn’t stop until his chest starts to burn from lack of air, and even then he breaks away only for a second, breathing hard, and between every sharp inhale, he kisses you again. Tiny, desperate kisses. Like he’s trying to stay tethered to this moment.

You're breathless when you turn away, laughing, cheeks flushed. His weight is half draped over you now, hovering just enough to watch you, to keep taking you in like it might be the last time.

The sunlight glints off your lashes. The freckles you always complain about – his favorite thing – are scattered across your nose like tiny constellations. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised and parted, and you look like a secret he never wants the world to find out.

You look like infinity.

“Too greedy today, Maybank?” you tease, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Your fingers thread slowly through the strands, and your nails scrape gently across his scalp.

He shudders.

And then he crumbles.

He lowers himself until his forehead rests against your collarbone, his body curled into yours like a man in need of shelter. His arms wrap around your waist, and he breathes you in like you’re air, like you’re home, like nothing else matters. And in that moment, he is soft. Unguarded. Devoted. He hums low in his throat, a sound that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

You laugh again – light, musical, perfect – and hold him tighter.

And JJ thinks if this was all the loop ever gave him, he would let it break him a thousand more times, just to hear that sound one more time.

12:17 PM.

You're still in bed.

Neither of you has moved much. The sheets are tangled around your legs, warm with body heat and littered with crumbs from the biscuits you demolished straight from the pack. The sweet scent of raspberry tea lingers in the air, mingling with the faint haze of cigarette smoke. Sunlight, now softened and lower in the sky, casts long golden shadows across the motel floor.

The radio murmurs in the background, an old tune playing like it wandered in from a 1960s rom-com, all soft guitars and dusty vocals. Static crackles through every so often – brief bursts of white noise – like the universe can’t quite hold the moment still. You’re lying on his chest, your ear pressed to the steady thump of his heartbeat, and every so often, he feels your breath against his skin.

JJ hasn’t said much. He’s content to breathe you in. To let your weight anchor him to the moment.

But then, without warning, he stubs out his cigarette and leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Shall we dance?” he murmurs, low and soft, like it might break the spell.

Your body shivers involuntarily at the sound of his voice so close, and you twist just enough to look up at him over your shoulder, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his neck. But your brows furrow.

Dance?

JJ Maybank doesn’t dance.

Not at parties, not during slow songs at school dances, not that one night at the Château when it was just the two of you left under the stars. He always stayed back, leaning against the wall or the hood of someone’s truck, cigarette tucked between his fingers, watching you like you were something he couldn’t quite reach. Like he was scared that if he moved, you might vanish.

So you frown in confusion, and he notices immediately, letting out a quiet laugh as he reaches up to smooth the crease between your brows with his thumb.

“Don’t look at me like I’ve grown two heads,” he says, smiling in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You roll over, sitting up, pulling the blanket with you as you plant yourself in front of him, eyes narrowing playfully.

“You, JJ Maybank, my boyfriend of three years who can barely clap on beat, you’re asking me to dance?” Your voice is half mockery, half wonder, your mouth already twitching with the threat of a smile.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in his eyes. A softness. A hunger. You haven’t seen that exact look before.

You gasp, dramatically clutching your chest.

“Where’s my boyfriend?” you say, eyes wide. You throw the blanket off and leap from the bed, backing away toward the center of the room. “You alien! What have you done with him? Where is my real JJ?”

He laughs – really laughs – and the sound is so full and bright that it sends shivers through your entire body. That laugh always gets you. It always has.

You squeal and take off across the room like a mouse, darting from corner to corner, trying to keep distance between you, but it’s useless. He chases you with a grin, slow and patient, eyes full of amusement like a hunter who already knows the ending.

When he finally catches you, his arm loops firmly around your waist and pulls you flush against him. You're breathless with laughter, heart pounding, and you reach up to push at his chest, but he just kisses you instead. Quick and hot and full of something deeper than playfulness.

The music shifts behind you. The radio skips into a slower song, mellow and swaying, like the universe decided to join in.

He pulls away from the kiss just enough to make you chase his mouth, to leave you hanging there for a second, lips parted and wanting. His forehead presses against yours, and his hands find yours, curling his fingers gently through yours as he breathes you in.

“Kisses only after dancing, my lady,” he whispers, voice thick with teasing but there’s an ache in it too, something too tender to ignore.

Your heart stutters.

You exhale and let him lead, stepping with him into the middle of the room as he guides you into a slow sway. It’s awkward at first – he steps on your toes, mutters a curse under his breath, and tries to apologize– but you just laugh, grabbing his face and brushing your fingers through his messy hair like you always do.

You whisper something silly. Something soft. And he smiles against your forehead.

There’s nothing graceful about the way you move together. His rhythm is clumsy, yours offbeat, but none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Not when you’re so close that you can feel his breath between each word. Not when the air around you is glowing with sunlight and something that feels suspiciously like forever.

JJ wants to bottle this moment. Wants to burn it into his skin. He wants this memory to scar. Because nothing – not time, not death, not fate – could take this from him if it’s part of him.

You rest your head on his chest, and he closes his eyes, letting the music and your heartbeat blur into one.

Few things in the world could ever be better than this.

And if he has to lose you again- … if 10:49 comes and rips it all away- … then at least he had this.

At least he had you, dancing barefoot in the middle of a cheap motel room, smiling like you had no idea the world was ending.

2:53 PM

He gave this day to you. Every second, every breath.

If there was a time when JJ Maybank fought this loop – raged against it, tried to break it – those days were long gone. Now, he didn't fight anymore. He endured. He accepted the curse, welcomed it even, because what was the alternative? A world without you.

He could live in this purgatory a thousand lifetimes if it meant hearing your laugh in the morning, watching your lashes flutter open, feeling the weight of your body slide over his under sun-warmed sheets. He would watch you die a hundred more times just to see you wake up again. Because you always woke up. Disheveled. Glowing. Soft.

So when you stepped onto the motel balcony, coffee cup in hand and sunlight painting your skin, and said you wanted to go to the beach.

He didn’t hesitate.

He packed the bag before you finished your sentence. You teased him about it, still in your robe, rifling through your bag to choose a swimsuit like it was the most important decision in the world. Maybe it was.

Ten minutes later, you were in the passenger seat, legs on the dashboard, blasting a playlist of chaotic 2010s summer hits. Your voice cracked as you sang too loud, too off-key, but JJ had never heard anything better. The windows were down, your hair whipped around like a wild thing, and he thought: God, don’t let this end.

He gripped the steering wheel too tight.

The wind tangled your hair, and you threw your hands up to the chorus of a song that meant nothing, and yet suddenly, everything. His chest ached with it. You weren’t doing anything special. Just being. Just existing. And he couldn’t bear the thought that soon you wouldn’t.

You stopped at a gas station halfway there, claiming the picnic wouldn’t be complete without “a borderline irresponsible amount of snacks.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t look at prices. What did money matter in a world that reset?

You stood in the candy aisle debating the moral superiority of double-stuffed Oreos versus original. He watched you like he was afraid you'd vanish if he blinked. He bought both. And a pair of overpriced tourist keychains – mini surfboards, one pink and chipped, the other blue. He handed you yours, clipped the other to his keys like it was sacred.

You beamed. Your arm looped through his like you never wanted to let go.

By the time you got to the beach, the sun had begun to soften into gold. The sky was pale and endless. The air smelled like salt and sunblock. The water was warm like milk, shimmering with that late-afternoon kind of peace that made the world feel far away.

You spread out the blanket, flopped onto it with dramatic flair, and asked him to rub sunscreen on your back. Of course he made a comment. He always did. Something whispered in your ear that made you squirm and laugh and swat at him. But you let him linger. His hands warm against your skin, fingers tracing your spine like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

And then he went to surf.

He felt more alive than he had in days, months, maybe ever. The board under his feet, your voice calling from the shore like the sun itself had learned how to speak.

“That’s my man! Get it, babe!” you shouted, clapping like an idiot, earning a few looks from strangers. You didn’t care.

He fell. Of course he did. The wave knocked him sideways and the water filled his nose and ears, but when he came up sputtering, all he could hear was your laughter ringing across the sand.

“Fall more gracefully next time, Maybank!” you shouted, tossing him a towel as he dragged himself onto the shore. “I’m out here hyping you up and you’re out there dying!”

He didn’t even bother with the towel. He grabbed you instead.

You squealed and kicked, laughing so hard your body went limp against his as he hauled you toward the water. You shrieked when it touched your skin, cold and shocking, but then you melted into it, into him, arms around his neck.

You splashed water in his face. He got you back. You shrieked louder, but your smile never faded.

It ended in a kiss.

It always did.

Your mouth met his with salt still on your lips, your legs still tangled around his waist, and his hands pressed against your back like maybe this time – maybe – he could hold you together.

“PG-13, JJ,” you murmured between kisses, breathless, flushed. “There are kids here.”

He grinned like he owned the ocean.

“I’d care,” he said, biting back another kiss, “if they were ours.”

You blinked at him.

Before you could react, he slapped your ass underwater and lifted you into his arms again, spinning you around as you shrieked and giggled and wrapped your legs tighter around him.

People stared. But you didn’t notice.

JJ didn’t care.

All he could think about was you. The weight of you in his arms. The way your laugh carried on the wind. The feeling of your body molded against his in a sea that could wash it all away in seconds.

And he thought: if this is the day I have, I’ll live it like it’s the only one that ever mattered.

Because to him, it was.

6:37 PM.

JJ stands shirtless at the tiny stove in the motel kitchenette, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband damp where the shower never fully dried him. His skin still smells like your soap. His curls drip onto the back of his neck.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the counter behind him, legs swinging idly, dressed in one of his T-shirts that swallows you whole. The hem brushes your thighs and clings to your still-warm skin. You hum a ridiculous, made-up melody – off-key and proud of it – as you balance a spoon on your nose like a circus act.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t have to. You know he’s smiling.

The spoon wobbles. You catch it, spin it like a baton.

“Macaroni and cheese counts as dinner, right?” you ask, tone serious like this is a moral dilemma.

He hums in acknowledgment, still focused on the bubbling pot in front of him. But you’re not looking at dinner.

You’re watching his back. The ridges of muscle shifting as he moves. The constellation of tiny red marks along his shoulder blades – your marks. Left there last night in a fit of laughter and gasps and nails digging in too hard because you didn’t want to let go.

You grin, a slow burn curling in your stomach.

Sensing your eyes, he turns the burner off and finally faces you.

He walks toward you slowly, lazily, like a predator indulging a game. His bare feet are quiet on the linoleum. When he stops between your knees, you feel the heat of him first – radiating off his skin, soaking into yours.

Without a word, he plucks the spoon from your nose with two fingers. You open your mouth to protest, but the words die when he leans in and presses a feather-light kiss to the tip of your nose. The most infuriating kind of disarming. You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

He laughs. The sound vibrates in his chest – low and warm – and you press your hands to him just to feel it.

“Only if we open that bottle of wine that’s been in the fridge forever,” he murmurs.

You snort.

“We’ve been here two days, Maybank.” You flatten your palms against his chest, feel the subtle flex of muscle beneath your fingers. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just there. Solid and warm and yours.

Your laugh slices through the stillness like a spark in dry air.

He watches you like he could memorize you in pieces. The curve of your cheek. The glint in your eyes. The way you tilt your head when you laugh like this. He wants to burn this version of you into his memory. Etch it into his skin. Something he can take with him when time rips you away again.

His hands slide to your hips. And then his voice drops, barely a breath. “This is forever for me.”

The words are soft but heavy. He doesn’t say them like a promise. He says them like a fact. Like a quiet surrender.

Then he kisses you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’s trying to kiss twelve hours into forever. Like if he lingers long enough, you won’t disappear at all. Your fingers slide up the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he lets you consume him. Lets himself fall.

You exhale into his mouth, your body melting into his, the taste of salt and heat and a long day clinging to his skin.

You don’t notice the way his hand shifts behind your back. The way his eyes flick down to his wristwatch.

6:43. Time is still moving. And he’s running out of it.

7:44 PM.

You’re curled up on the motel’s hideous plaid couch, one of those scratchy, faded things that looks like it belonged to a waiting room in the '90s. The television glows quietly across the room, playing some forgettable drama neither of you is watching. The volume’s low, the dialogue muffled, white noise against the silence that’s slowly thickening between you.

Your legs are stretched out, your bare feet resting in JJ’s lap. His hands trace gentle patterns along your ankle, lazy and distracted. He doesn’t look away from you, though. Not really. His eyes are there in the periphery, watching the way you fidget with the hem of his shirt. The way your breathing changes when the silence goes on too long.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering blue light of the TV and the faint red glow of the clock on the nightstand. It flashes rhythmically… 

7:44… 7:45… 

…like it knows something you don’t.

And maybe you do. Some part of you. Somewhere deep in your bones.

“JJ,” you murmur. Your voice is small, tired. A little lost. You shift your head to rest against the back of the couch, your eyes on the ceiling now. “If this were the last day of your life… what would you do?”

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He freezes. Just for a second. But you feel it.

JJ’s breath catches in his throat, and his grip on your ankle stills. His chest contracts like something inside him is physically caving in. The clock pulses again.

7:46.

He turns his head to look at you.

And in that moment, he sees you in a way that punches the air from his lungs, like he’s seeing you for the first time and for the last time all at once. He takes you in like someone memorizing a painting before it’s torn off the wall. Your bare knees curled into the cushion, the sleepy line of your mouth, the creases at the corners of your eyes, the way his shirt hangs off your shoulder like it was made for this: for you, here, now.

He doesn’t want to think about time. Not now. Not with you like this.

So he doesn’t.

He leans forward slightly, his voice low and steady.

“I’d spend it all on you.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. Gentle. Almost reverent. Like he’s afraid it’ll break you. Like he’s already broken.

You blink at him, surprised by how serious he sounds. You weren’t expecting a real answer. You meant it as a joke – something light to toss into the room to fill the silence, to chase away the shadows gathering at the edges of the night. But JJ doesn’t laugh.

He’s still watching you.

And there’s something in his gaze – tender and full of something else, something heavier. A kind of sadness you can’t name yet. A softness you don’t quite understand. Like he’s letting you see something he’s been hiding for a long time.

Your throat tightens.

You open your mouth to joke, to defuse it – something about how cheesy he sounds or how he forgot about pizza – but the words don’t come. They catch halfway and fall flat, and suddenly your chest aches and your eyes sting and you’re pressing your face into his neck without knowing why.

Tears slide down your cheeks silently. They don’t come all at once. Just a slow, steady leak of emotion you can’t explain. You don’t know why it feels like this. Like something in the room is shifting. Tilting.

But JJ knows.

He wraps his arms around you like he means it. Like he needs it. Like if he doesn’t hold you right now, he’ll fall apart completely.

And you ask him, voice shaking: “Tell me something true.”

There’s no hesitation. He doesn’t say it like it’s a confession. He says it like it’s a fact. Like it’s always been true and always will be. “You are the only thing that has ever mattered.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

You just stay there in the dim glow, tucked into his chest as the clock ticks louder in the silence.

7:49…

7:50…

And the night is beginning to end.

10:42 PM.

The motel is quiet now. The television’s off, and the soft hum of the fridge is the only sound left to fill the room. The air is warm and still. Your leg is tangled over his, your cheek resting on his bare shoulder like it belongs there, like you belong there.

JJ doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

He wants to remember this moment in microscopic detail. The way your fingers curl loosely against his ribs. The sound of your sleepy exhale. The faint scent of coconut shampoo clinging to your damp hair. He wants to stop time – not to fix it, not to change anything – but just to live here a little longer. In the quiet. In the warmth of you.

You speak softly. Your voice is low and dreamy, heavy with the kind of sleepiness that makes everything feel far away.

“I had a dream once,” you say, like you’ve forgotten the weight of the world, like you don’t know what’s coming in seven minutes. “We lived in a town in the mountains. Really small. There was this little house with yellow shutters and a garden that needed weeding all the time.”

JJ closes his eyes. He can picture it.

“I worked in a bookstore,” you go on. “And you… I don’t know, you fixed bikes or something. You wore flannel. We had a dog- … huge, stupid thing. Chewed everything. You hated that dog.”

He lets out a soft laugh, his nose buried in your hair. It smells like your soap. It smells like home.

“I’ve never hated dogs,” he mumbles.

“You didn’t like this one,” you murmur, smiling against his skin. “He ate all your shoes.”

He laughs again – quiet, real – but it barely rises above a breath. He wants to say something, but his throat is tight. Too tight.

You tilt your head and look up at him, your eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

“I liked that dream,” you whisper. “It felt like something we could’ve had. If things had been easier, I guess.”

JJ swallows hard.

He can see it all now. You in a faded apron behind a bookstore counter, glasses slipping down your nose. Him outside in the cold, grease on his hands. A porch light that never goes out. Mismatched mugs. A kid with your laugh and his temper. You yelling at the dog while he swears under his breath about another chewed boot.

It could’ve been a good life. 

It would’ve been.

“It sounds perfect,” he says, quietly.

“I'd give anything to give it to you.” But he doesn’t say that part out loud.

You keep talking, voice barely above a murmur now. You say the word wedding, and it slips through his chest like a blade. Then something about matching tattoos. Then you mention fixing some beat-up car together. A child. Porch lights.

Your sentences start to drift, unravel, blur into one another. Like mist on glass. Like you’re dissolving and don’t even know it. But JJ knows.

He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t try to stop the clock anymore. He just watches you with the kind of stillness that only comes when a heart is breaking silently.

And maybe that’s the difference tonight.

Because this time, he isn’t fighting fate. He isn’t screaming or running or trying to change the rules. He’s just… loving you. With everything he has left.

And suddenly, something inside him breaks open – not with fear, but with clarity. This isn’t about endings. It never was.

It’s about you. Your voice. Your warmth. The way your lips twitch before you smile. The way you say his name when you're too tired to pretend you're not in love with him.

So he says it. Quiet. No weight. No build-up. Just truth.

“I love you.”

You blink.

Then you freeze – not like someone dying, not like someone slipping away. But like someone hearing something they've been waiting for their whole life.

“What?” you laugh softly, blinking again, like maybe you misheard.

JJ doesn’t look away.

“I love you,” he repeats, even quieter now. Like a prayer. “I don’t need the house, or the dog, or the porch light. I don’t need anything if you’re not there.”

Your eyes shine in the half-light of the motel room, wide and startled. Your hand comes up to touch his chin, soft fingers grounding him in this moment.

“You’ve never said that before.” 

He breathes in, slow and deep. “I know.”

“Why now?”

He looks at you. There’s no fear in his eyes anymore. Only you. “Because I finally stopped being afraid.”

You blink again – once, slowly – and lean in so close your forehead brushes his. “Then say it again.”

He smiles, like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

“I love you.”

The clock glows behind you. 10:47.

10:49 PM.

You're breathing. And then you keep breathing.

10:52 PM.

JJ doesn’t notice it at first.

Not when the minute hand ticks forward. Not when the silence in the room stretches out just a little too long.

He’s too used to the ending by now. Too used to bracing for it every time, like it’s a wave about to hit. The split-second shift in the air. The noise. The light. The crash. The absence.

But this time… the wave never comes.

The hum of the air conditioner kicks back in. A soft mechanical sigh that fills the quiet, casual and familiar and utterly, impossibly normal.

Then you shift beside him. Just a little.

You murmur something, your voice drowsy and sweet, sliding over his skin like a dream: “I think I fell asleep.”

You stretch, move against him, and your leg brushes against his. Warm. Solid. There.

And suddenly the room is too loud.

His heart begins to race – rattling inside his chest like it’s trying to escape. His mouth goes dry. His skin floods with heat, then chills a second later. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

He blinks once. Then again.

He doesn't understand.

Not until he realizes the clock says 10:52. Not 10:49. Not 10:49 and 12 seconds. Not frozen.

10:52.

You're still alive. You're still here.

He lets out a sound – an exhale, a choked gasp – like someone learning how to breathe again. His hand reaches blindly for yours, like he needs proof, physical proof, and he closes his fingers around your smaller ones. Clutches them tight. His grip is trembling.

You blink at him in surprise, your head tilted slightly as you watch him. Confused. Concerned. Soft.

“What?” you ask, barely above a whisper. Your thumb brushes against the back of his hand.

He stares at you.

He doesn’t speak right away. He can’t. He’s still somewhere between disbelief and prayer, between memory and miracle.

You’re still here. Still breathing. Still real.

He blinks hard, and something inside him breaks open. Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them, slipping down his cheeks without permission. You’ve seen him cry before but never like this. Never with that look in his eyes. Like he’s watching something divine.

“You’re still here,” he whispers.

You let out a breath of a laugh, confused but smiling. You tuck your head into the curve of his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course I’m here,” you murmur. “Where else would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. Because how could he tell you?

That he’s watched you die more times than he’s taken a breath. That he’s kissed your body cold. That he’s screamed until his throat bled. That he’s fought and begged and bartered with a world that refused to let you stay.

And now … now you’re here. Just here. Skin warm. Heart beating. Eyes sleepy and kind.

So he doesn't say anything. He just pulls you to him, both hands holding your face like it’s breakable, and he kisses you. Not frantically. Not desperately. But like he’s coming home.

And when you kiss him back, your lips soft and sure, you don’t know what you’re giving him. You don’t know that in this moment, you’re rewriting every ending he’s ever lived through. 

You don’t know that this kiss is a sunrise after a thousand storms. But JJ knows.

He pulls away only to press his forehead to yours, eyes closed, like he’s memorizing the shape of your soul. Everything in him is shaking. But slowly, steadily, the fear begins to fade.

There’s no sound but your breath. Your heartbeat. The quiet hush of the world still turning.

The clock ticks again. 10:54.

Nothing happens. Except you.

You look up at him, smiling in that way you always do when he looks at you like this – like you're his whole life, and he’s just now realizing it. You brush a thumb under his eye and kiss his cheek.

He whispers, hoarse: “That was it.”

“What was?” You tilt your head.

He smiles through the salt still drying on his face. It’s broken and bright and brand new. “All it ever took.”

You don’t ask again. You just press yourself into his chest and close your eyes.

And JJ Maybank stays awake just a little longer, watching the clock blink forward, every second now an uncharted miracle.

Because you’re here. And this is tomorrow.

thankx for reading <3

okay, that’s it. hope you liked it, because i adore this work. wrote it after rewatching “If I stay” — some old good ya adaptations never leave me with my sad girl mood alone. so if you’ve got any thoughts, I’d really appreciate feedback — whether in the comments or my inbox! :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

rafe turns his head and looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed and lifts a hand to rest on your back.

“hmm?” he hums in question. he sits up and rests his back against the headboard, shirtless in all his glory and his simple gold chain rests against his collarbones.

you ignore him and reach into your bedside table to grab your laptop. your fingers move relentlessly on the keyboard and before rafe can ask what you’re doing, he sees the infamous website homepage that you have grown so accustomed to.

Sonny Angel Store USA.

he smirks to himself and rolls his eyes. “jesus, baby.”

“don’t. even.” you say firmly. your attention is locked on your laptop screen, clicking away.

the sonny angel instagram page announced a restock of your favorite collection that had been sold out for months. you had to get your hands on as many as you could buy because there was no way you weren’t getting any.

“christ, my heart is literally pounding,” you said lowly, adrenaline running through your veins. “rafe, i swear to fuck. if i don’t get any of these, i’m going to kill myself with one of your guns.”

he laughs behind you, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your lower back until he moves and gets up from the bed.

you ignore him, not caring a single ounce of where he’s going. you spam-click the tiny little plus sign next to the quantity amount until the number stops changing, then clicking the ‘add to cart’ button.

your screen takes you to the checkout page, and you have never moved so fast in your life. you half sprint to the dresser and dig in your purse to look for your credit card, but you can’t find it.

“fuck.” you spit out. your arms are shaking, and you dump the entirety of your purse out onto the dresser. lipglosses, spare sonny’s, and gum wrappers tumble and fall from your purse and onto the floor.

you don’t realize the body standing next to you until a few seconds later. you look and there’s rafe, handing you his black amex between his middle and pointer fingers.

he just looks at you and shrugs, almost like a ‘what’s the problem?’ kind of look. you don’t give him a second look before taking the heavy card and rushing back to your side of the bed.

you furiously type in the card information, too much time already wasted, and click the ‘confirm purchase’ button. the screen loads and loads and after ten seconds, you see the ‘thank you for your purchase!’ screen.

you let out a yelp of happiness before hopping off the bed and wrap your arms around rafe’s neck.

“thank you, baby.” you say softly with a smile. you peck his lips and squeal, hugging him again.

“you act like i don’t buy them for you every time,” he says matter of factly. “still don’t know why you have a credit card when you have quite literally never had to use it with me.”

he wraps his arms around your back, his hands at the base of your spine. “either way, i’ll always take care of you, doll. weird toy obsessions and all.” he plops a chaste kiss on your lips with a playful smack to your ass.

you roll your eyes and move away from him. to the shelving unit right next to your vanity and it’s too full. you turn around slowly and look at your boyfriend who’s leaning against the doorframe and just waiting for you to ask.

“…. i think you’re gonna need to put another shelf up.”

bonus!

you’re sitting in the bathroom painting your toenails, soft music playing from your phone when rafe calls your name.

“hold on. gimme a minute.” you say. you cap the nail polish and wave your hands over your left foot, trying to get the paint to dry even though that’s physically impossible.

you check your phone and notice that it’s almost an hour later than when rafe usually gets home. you don’t think much of it; he’s been swamped at work, trying to get this one deal set and stone.

you waddle out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. you make your way to the bed, and sit down on the edge of it with your feet on the floor.

rafe is standing by the door with both of his hands behind his back, dressed in a sleek gray suit, red tie, gold rings on his hands, and a watch that looks about fifty years old but could easily pay your guys’s mortgage for half of a year.

“what’s going on?” you say. you squint your eyes a bit at him, wondering what he could be planning.

he shrugs and pulls a box out from behind his back. and it’s just a plain brown box. nothing out of the ordinary. it’s not small by any means, but it’s not a giant packing box either.

“got these for you. had ‘em shipped to the p.o. box that i use for work. didn’t want you to go peeking if it got delivered here.” he says simply.

he walks over to you and hands you the box, then moves to the bathroom to get undressed. acting like you got a random envelope in the mail talking about how you could save an extra fifty dollars this month if you signed up today for a new wifi plan.

you hear him taking off his clothes to get in the shower and open the brown box.

“rafe! what the fuck!” you yell excitedly. you sift through the box and it is full to the brim with fucking sonny angels. at least three hundred dollars worth, if not more. all different series, limited edition ones that haven’t been sold in a couple years. you do a quick mental count and you lost track after ten. it felt like the box was endless.

you drop the box on the floor, careful of your still drying toes, and half the box spills over the floor at your hurry. you walk into the bathroom and see the silhouette of rafe’s naked body through the fogged door of the shower.

he knows of your love for little collectibles, whether it’s sonny angels, miffy figures, smiskis, mofusand kitties, or even labubus. he always acts uninterested when you babble about rumors of a new series or how a new figurine is being made. but he loves how happy they make you and seeing you happy and joyful is the biggest thing that makes his heart grow fonder.

“rafe! what — when did you do that, what the hell?” you open the door a bit so he can hear you better. he pulls his face out from under the spray of water and wipes his face with his hand. then he steps towards you a bit.

“dunno. maybe like — couple weeks or so ago? even paid for fuckin’ express shipping, but they ended up coming today. so — sorry they’re late.” he gives a soft smile and reaches for his body wash.

you tear up because it means so much to you. like okay what the hell, they’re teeny tiny little naked baby figurines with different head coverings, what the fuck is so great about them?

it means a lot that he cares about your hobbies and interests and on his own accord, searched online to buy you more than you could ever ask for. just the initiation and attention to detail about something that truly means so little to others, but the world to you.

you sniffle and laugh. “hope you know that you’re opening each one with me.”

he groans and smiles, tipping his face back under the water. he gurgles a mouthful at the motion.

“yeah, yeah. whatever,” he responds. you close the door and make your way back to the bedroom when you hear,

“i’m telling you right now. if we open one and we get the fuckin’ mouse, i’m taking it for myself. don’t fuck with me.” he says firmly.

your mouth drops open. well, well, well.

“i am, no sex for two weeks, maybe then you’ll stop being such an asshole!” surely you were joking, there’s no way you’d hold out on him that long. he knew he wouldn’t survive without your pussy and he prayed you would give up after a few days. his prayers weren’t answered.

two weeks passed with the ease of a thousand pounds dropped onto rafe’s shoulders. he was irritable all the time, practically blue-balled the entire time, and couldn’t stand being in the room with anyone that wasn’t you. at some point, after he begged to at least eat you out, you stopped letting him come over at night even. rafe was practically vibrating with need, yet you seemed so unaffected.

he had a fucking reminder set on his phone for midnight when the two weeks was over, of course he was already on the way to your place at 11:50. you expected nothing less, unlocking the door for him preemptively, and he huffed out a breath when he found you sitting on your couch watching tv like it was nothing. like you didn’t care. rafe was so pent up he might come from a single stroke of your tiny hand around his cock, but here you were, calm and collected. you muted the tv when you saw him, he sat next to you, leaving a gap he normally wouldn’t, and began to apologize.

“baby it’s been two weeks, i’m sorry okay? i’ll do better.”

“you said that last time.”

“i mean it this time, i won’t beat anyone up, unless you want me to.” you roll your eyes at his addition, turning your body to face him. rafe’s eyes tracked the way your shirt rode up your thighs, realizing it was actually his shirt. his mouth felt dry, he hadn’t been so hard from so little since he was a fucking preteen.

“okay.” you conceded, you kinda had to, rafe looked a lil too good like he knew the exact outfit that would make you forgive him easily. his hands were veiny and a ring accentuated his long thick fingers, fingers you missed dearly. yours just weren’t cutting it any more, he knew exactly how to touch you, fill you, make your mind numb. and that was just his fingers, his pink tongue had slipped out to lick at his lips and you can’t focus much longer, all the memories flashing by.

“okay?” rafe couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he couldn’t believe you were taking him back so easily. he didn’t dare move or touch you until you confirmed.

“uh huh, your apology is accepted.” you nodded slow like molasses, your eyes already glazed over with need. he couldn’t tell, he was so caught up in his own desire. and as the word left your pretty lips, the spell was lifted.

“fuck come here” the words are empty, his large hand closes around the back of your neck and pulls you to him, his lips finding your own. you’d kissed the past two weeks but this is different, this is urgent. he’s sloppy with it, tongue peeking out into your mouth, tasting you, sucking on your tongue. it’s less of a kiss and more of a bite, he wants to consume you. you groan into his mouth, unsatisfied with the distance between you two and you move to straddle him. rafe pulls back at that, no he wouldn’t let you, he’d much rather have you on your back, he pushes you down by your neck, the slight pressure makes you keen. there’s no chance for you to sit back up when he’s leaning over you, settling between your legs and kissing you back down.

his kisses trail off, bites and open-mouthed kisses trailing your neck till he reaches your collarbone. your shirt is discarded with a blink of your eye and you wonder if he’s moving too fast. you can barely keep up when a mouth latches over your nipple, sucking harshly. “fuckkk i missed my girls” a lewd pop releases it from his mouth, giving attention to the other one and you arch into his touch. his large hand closes around the now sore nipple, pinching and massaging while he sucks on your tit like his life depends on it. the cold metal of his ring soothes the sting of his bites and you moan his name in desperation. the stickiness in your underwear is getting embarrassing and you feel like a fire is burning in your core. there’s no need for you to ask, rafe wants to eat, he’s been starving for weeks and your pussy is the only thing that can satiate him. after littering your chest and neck with hickies he kisses down your stomach, marveling at how soft your skin is, how he should never take an inch of it for granted any more. when he finally reaches your pink lace panties, he realizes it’s too much work to take them off you. that would require him getting off you and he really couldn’t afford to move an inch away. his fingers trace the flimsy material and he decides very quickly, tearing it off you with ease, and you hear the rip before you feel it. you don’t even notice him stuff the material into his pocket from the shock.

“rafe!” you don’t know if you’re mad or even more turned on but you wiggle under his gaze, blue eyes glued to your puffy and slick cunt. the tv screen illuminates enough for him to see his pretty girl is soaked. he nearly drools.

“getting in the way of my meal, i’ll buy you new ones.” he murmurs, not even looking away once, you huff at his words, and push his head down. he doesn’t need any encouragement, he’s nearly cumming in his pants from the sight of your pussy alone. if he could he’d take a polaroid of it and keep it in his pocket forever.

rafe is a man possessed, pushing you up the sofa length to make space for him between your legs, he hikes one up the cushions to rest on the back of the sofa, the other onto his shoulder so he can fit between them. you don’t even know if you exist to him any more because he’s smiling at your pussy like it’s his girlfriend instead. he shoves his nose, inhaling the scent of your arousal, it’s honey to his senses and his eyes flutter shut at how good you smell. then his tongue flattens against your pussy and he might just cry. you gasp at the feeling, wet and hard across your opening and clit, so brief you think you imagined it. rafe moans at the taste, let’s you coat his tongue before he goes back in for seconds, swirling his tongue along your weeping cunt until he’s thoroughly cleaned his plate. he’s moaning at your taste, tears pricking his eyes as it stains the back of his teeth, his hands grip your waist to drive you down to his tongue. he knows you’re gonna run from it, you always do. finally his tongue fills you up, delving into and cleaning you out, the feeling of the muscle squirming inside you makes you writhe in pleasure. “taste so fucking good, never letting this go again,” he slurs into you. you can feel yourself get wet again and he feels precum stain his boxers as more of your ichor slips down his throat. it’s not enough, he wants more, his right hand joins in, one finger curling into you along with his tongue and his thumb idly swirls along your clit. the combination of his tongue and finger fucking you and his drunken moans, make you come on his tongue embarrassingly fast. you’re gushing into his mouth more and rafe doesn’t even budge when you push at his forehead, the overstimulation stings and your poor walls flutter around his tongue, trying to drive him out, he only goes crazier. his tongue slips out a trail of saliva and your slick connecting him to you before he attaches his lips to your clit. you shake at the sensation, not yet come down from your previous orgasm. he sucks and laves over your clit, setting your body aflame. he takes the opportunity to slip another finger in, stretching you more than anything in the past two weeks, and he can tell your pussy is going to feel amazing on his cock. you’re struggling to take two fingers and he can’t help but moan at the thought. you hate how quickly he brings you to your next orgasm, your legs threatening to close around him and he makes a noise of disapproval. your mind feels numb now and you jump at his touches. rafe gives you a few seconds to recover, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, but when he tastes you again it’s not his fault he needs another hit. you’re a bit shocked yourself when he releases his hold on your legs and sits back. your wide round eyes making him chuckle at your disbelief. “you’re gonna sit on my face baby.” he resounds and you blink at him twice before sitting up, you wince at the way you’re drooling onto the couch and how you suddenly feel empty. rafe positions himself with his head poised for your pussy to sit on. you gawk at him.

“won’t i crush you?” besides your question you’re raised up ob your knees almost hovering over him, he could just-

“shut the fuck up.” he pulls you close and pushes your hips down to sit you down himself, your sloppy cunt meeting his lips and he’s in heaven. he wants to die like this, suffocated by your pussy. you try to shift your weight back onto your knees but he doesn’t let you, holding you down by your ass. when he licks up into you, you lose your resolve entirely. if he was a mess before, now he’s a goner. he’s spitting up into you, making out with your cunt and swirling his tongue along you, along every inch he can. your rock your cunt over his face, lost in pleasure and when his nose bumps your clit your legs nearly close on his head, he groans at the pressure. you’re practically dripping into his mouth and it’s all he could ask for; tears falling down his face just mix in with the mess of liquids running down his face and pooling on his neck and chest. you continue to rock against him, your cushiony thighs closing around his head and rafe feels himself twitch in his pants, he’s so fucking close just from eating you out. but he can’t even find it in him to care, no he’s crying from how good you taste, he’s past the point of caring. when you finally cum around his tongue he comes in his pants, moaning as you scream his name. you’re shaking uncontrollably, riding out your orgasm and thrashing along his face. your thighs press tightly against his head and he continues to drink you in, until finally your legs give out and you fall off him.

“pussy so good i came in my pants and you’re gonna clean it up.” you look at him in a daze, your body moving on its own accord, moving to your knees on the carpet. your body’s shaking but you still manage to claw at his buttons. “good girl.” he smiles down at you, chin and lips wet from your release and he’s not even dreaming of wiping himself clean, he wants it to stain him, seep into his pores. a whine crawls up your throat as you work his pants off, he’s sitting on the couch in front of you and you want to help him so badly. his cock finally springs free and he breathes out in relief, the cool air making him more sensitive after his release. the worst part is he’s still fucking hard. your eyes round at the sight of him, come lining his length, dribbling down the veins and blushed pink top. it’s so pretty you can’t help but stare. rafe slips a hand around your face, pulling you in, making you stop your staring and instead get to work. you might be drooling from the sight, it’s hard to tell because your mouth closes around him and everything is already so wet. a sick squelch resounds in the air as you lick up and down his length, he fights the urge to thrust into the wet tight heat of your mouth. you make sure to clean up his balls, your hand jerking him off while you’re down there, “fuck you’re doing so well baby.”

“missed this rafey” you hum at the taste of his come, thick and gooey on your tongue and the vibration makes him twitch in your mouth. rafe feels so close already, you’ve already cleaned him up, now you’re just cock drunk, taking him down as far as you can and pressing kisses to his tip. he doesn’t want it to end like this no, he’d rather fill you up properly, so he pulls your head off his length with a pop! and you glare at him and whine, like an insolent puppy whose toy was taken away. there’s a delicious sting from the hair he pulled and heat pools in your stomach again, you can’t tell if you’re wet or if it’s rafe’s saliva you like to think it’s both.

“come here.” rafe hoists you onto his lap, giving you two seconds to adjust before he lifts you both up and makes his way to your bedroom. his shirt comes off along with yours and you clamber up the length of your mattress to rest your head on your pillow while you still can. from how angry and hard his cock still is you know it’s gonna be a long night.

“remember your safe word right?” rafe flips you over, your momentary comfort gone just like that, he presses against your back hard. your ass perks into the air while he arches you just so. he’s waiting for your response, because one look at your pussy, glistening from another wave of desire, rafe knows he’s going to find it impossible to hold back. he’s vibrating with a need to fuck you already, dribbles of precum spurting out of him against his stomach. what a waste, there’s a perfect little hole that could use it. he smacks your ass once, lightly just to remind you to use your words.

“yes, fuck me please.” your voice is muffled against your bedsheets, but he hears it perfectly. when his tip presses against your tight hole, he thinks he might be religious. not to god or anything else, just you. you’re sucking in him, holding your cheeks apart for him like you know he likes and he groans at how you feel like silk around him. your cunt’s so warm and tight, rafe thinks he might never leave you again. once his tip is in you remember how to breathe, the initial stretch finally over. he can’t give you the time you need to adjust, he might start crying again, or worse come early. rafe pushes the rest of his inches in, bullying his way in, pressing you into the mattress just so your cunt could give in. you scream at the feeling of him being all the way in, the angle making him nestle against your g-spot while his tip rubs against your cervix. you feel ropes of pre spurt inside you and you feel tears slip down your cheeks from the pain, you know it hurts, you just can’t find it in you to care.

“s’good,” you’re mind is numb, the only thoughts are spiraling around your boyfriend and his stupid long cock. a sick ring of come and your slick circles the base of his length, his pubes soaked from both of you. he can’t hold back any more, not when you’re wiggling your hips for more. rafe pulls out all the way and slaps back into you, pulling you into him just so he can really fill you all the way. the force of his thrust and the way he tip nudges along your walls, grazing where you needed him most, as you screaming in pleasure, your poor pussy closing on him just so he can stay inside. not that it matters he’s hammering in and out of you so fast you think you might get whiplash. his hips drive you down into the mattress, stuffing you as much he can so you don’t run from it, like you’re already trying to do.

“fuck fuck fuck! too much hng rafe i can’t-“ the slap of his hips against yours are almost bruising, he’s pulling you back by a tight hold around you and it’s hard to breathe. there’s a pressure building in you that you don’t recognize and it’s almost painful how bad it feels to go unaddressed, something must be wrong. but rafe can feel himself getting close, just from your pathetic whines and screams.

“you can and you will.” there’s no room for argument when he’s flipping you onto your back, your head jostling and you blink away the tears in your eyes. you want to see him, want to look into his pretty eyes, rafe can’t help but laugh at your desperate expression. no, he’s no too far gone.

“dumb little girl, i could tell you were turned on, you know?” he maneuvers you onto your side, spooning you and pulling your leg over his so he can slip back in. the new angle steals your breath as you try to focus on what he just said, panic seeping into your system.

“wh-no i wasn’t.” you shake your head insolently, he’s rolling his eyes at your meager denial. his thrusts start out slow, testing the limits of how far he can reach, and it’s not far. a huff of annoyance teases the shell of your ear and you gulp at his proximity.

“tell me the truth and i’ll let you come.” it’s a whisper, soft and sweet, you know what’s to come will be anything but.

“fine! you looked so hot covered in blood-“ he grabs under your knee and lifts it up, slamming deeper into you cutting you off. “oh my god-“ rafe can’t handle not being all the way in, he loves the way his head kisses your cervix, how his veins have molded you to fit them, how he can feel come slipping out of you and dribbling down his length since there’s no space for anything. an addiction, one that he won’t give up. “that doesn’t make it-rafe!-okay!” you manage to get out between thrusts

“yeah yeah i get it.” he’s had enough of your lecturing, the arm that’s not holding your knee, loops around your front, closing around your neck and throat. his thick bicep presses against you in a headlock and he leverages the tight grip to pull you back into him, shutting you up finally. the only sounds that can be heard are of your pretty pussy squelching and gasping for him to be back inside. there’s the occasional moan from you when his grip loosens and the curses and groans from him, but mostly the room sounds like a porno. you’re not sure if you came or you ever stopped coming but your pussy feels warm and fuzzy, like it’s just given up on trying to decipher pleasure and pain.

“can’t come-fuck-need to” rafe frustrates himself with how quickly he feels like he needs to come. his balls are pinched tight, aching for release but he can’t stop, he needs to make it right, make it perfect. rafe won’t admit it anyone else but he’s so in love with you he hates coming without looking in your eyes. his hold on your neck releases and you slump forward tears and drool staining the mattress.

“pretty baby, you’ll give me one more yeah?” somehow rafe knows when you’re cumming, you stopped noticing. you nod dumbly, blurry eyes vaguely make out his face as he finally lets you rest on your back. your body aches and your legs haven’t stopped shaking, but you still welcome him with open legs. rafe presses a kiss to your forehead, shoving into you again, his thrusts aren’t so hurried this time, he’s savoring it. the slow drag of his tip inside of you warms you. you stop crying when he lifts your legs, pushing your knees to your chest, he wipes your tears and kisses down into you. the position is familiar, one of your favorites, and you kiss him back, it’s salty and messy but you can taste the words i love you.

“most beautiful girl in the world, fuck ,how did i get so lucky?” he peppers your face with kisses, giggles erupting from your lips and he can’t believe you’re his.

“love you rafey.” you say it so sweetly anyone would think he’s not 9 inches deep inside you, in a mean mating press.

“i love you angel, can i come inside?” your eyes light up, you both rarely do it since birth control is horrible on your body, but you can’t help but love how it feels.

“please…fill me up.” the words make his dick twitch inside you, more precum dribbling out of your cunt.

“fuckkk gonna get you pregnant, then everyone will know you’re mine.” he’s mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth and a whine leaves your lips. you should be concerned with how possessive your boyfriend is, you know that, but the image he paints in your head is too tempting.

“please.” you kiss his right arm that supports his weight next to your head and he smiles down at you. rafe takes it as his signal to pull out and fuck down into you, your mind blanks. it doesn’t take more than a few hard thrusts for the pressure building inside you to finally snap, seeing white under your eyes as you gasp and scream his name. you’re squirting onto him before you realize it, soaking his chest and dick and he keeps fucking you through it until you stop. rafe can’t help but lose himself as you do it, fucking down so brutally you think he might rip your cervix, if it’s even possible, the overstimulation claws at your senses and you fight the urge to push him away, scratching down his back instead. rafe feels his balls pinch and he can’t hold back any longer, you’re pulsing around him riding out your orgasm and he shoots gooey ropes inside of you. thick and never ending, coating your walls and slipping out the sides, the angle at least keeps most of it in, just like he wants it.

“can’t believe you squirted.” when he finally stops spurting into you, he pulls out, your legs falling to your side as you wince at the aches in your body. without the cloud of pleasure you can feel how sore you’ll be tomorrow.

“sorry” you mumble, turning to where he lays beside you and he shakes his head.

"excuse me, i have to take this." rafe muttered, standing up and ignoring the judgemental looks the men were throwing his way, as he made his way out of the glass-walled meeting room, smoothing a hand over his short hair as he presses the green button with urgency, bringing his phone to his ear, "baby? what's wrong?"

the last thing he expected was to hear you scream.

"baby?" he asked, already starting to make his way to the elevator, knowing that whatever it was, he'd deal with it immediately, "baby, talk to me, what's happening? are you in danger?!"

"rafe!" you exclaimed on the other line, sounding breathless, "you gotta come home, you gotta come home right now."

"what is it? what's happening?" every single alarm bell was ringing inside rafe's head and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears; what if someone hurt you? what if you were getting robbed? what if you were in danger?

"there's a- eeeeek!" you exclaim, "there's a spider!"

rafe's hand drops from the elevator button, a dumbfounded look on his face as he held the phone to his ear; he couldn't believe he'd just rushed out of a meeting only for you to be calling him because of... a spider? he let out a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"baby, you're a big girl. i'm sure you can handle one damn spider. you know, i can't just ditch an important meeting because you're too sweet to kill a damn spider, it's-"

"no, rafe!" you groaned into the phone, "it's not just a damn spider, i'm pretty sure it's a venomous spider!"

"what? how do you know?"

"you know, it's that one redhead from the avengers! it has- it has a black body and a red hourglass on it's stomach, and i searched it up, and it's a venomous spider!"

"fuck..." rafe sighed, getting into the elevator and pressing the button for the bottom floor, "alright, baby, i'm coming but it's gonna take me a bit, i'll get someone to come take care of it right now."

luckily, rafe knew that a guy who lived a few houses away from you was a pretty prominent zoologist, having gotten stuck listening to him talk about snakes for almost an hour at a party his wife had held, and for once, he was thankful for weird-ass neighbors.

after thirty minutes of driving through red lights and ignoring stop signs, rafe slams the driver side's door closed, immediately spotting you sitting on the steps in front of your shared home, your head in your hands, gazing down at the ground. he made a beeline towards you, kneeling down in front of you.

"baby?" he asked, his hand on your shoulder, coaxing you to look at him. even though you'd grown up on the cut where they were practically everywhere, you'd never been too fond of bugs, and whenever they invaded your home, it was rafe who got the job of getting rid of them. he gently placed his hand under your chin, lifting your face up so you were looking up at him, your pretty lips turned down into a pout that would've looked annoying on anyone else, but on you, it was strangely endearing. anything you did was like that. "everything alright?"

you nodded, letting out a small sigh, "yeah, christa's husband came to help me with it and took it away."

"alright, so why do you look so sour?" rafe practically cooed, "c'mon. let's go inside." you let out a small sniffle, reluctantly letting rafe pull you up and lead you inside. honestly, you really didn't know why it seemed like such a big deal to you in that moment; the spider was gone now, and it wasn't like it got anywhere near you. yet, somehow it felt like the end of the world.

soon, you two were tangled on the couch, your head in the crook of his warm neck, rafe's hand carding through your hair. "everything alright?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "the spider's gone now, sweets."

"yeah..." you fiddled with your hands, deep in thought as you listened to rafe's steady heartbeat underneath you. "i don't know why i got so... fussy over it. i just haven't been sleeping properly, so i guess i'm more emotional."

"oh, i've noticed your little mood swings." rafe guffawed, "i still remember last week when your package hadn't arrived so you gave me the silent treatment like i was the damn mail man."

"to be fair, you managed to get it to me the very next day."

"anything for my grumpy cat." he pressed a kiss on the tip of your nose, "but i wasn't the one who made it late in the first place."

suddenly, the sentence he'd just spoken started ringing in your head, one word especially seeming to stick with you like glue.

late.

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not because you two were something exclusive, no. he simply didn’t want to. you were already giving him everything he needed, even if things were just casual. so now, with rafe hitting something deep inside you, you couldn’t help but want more.

you were totally soaked, clenching around him, but your expression said it still wasn’t enough. his hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider. the slap of skin echoed through the room, mingling with your breathy moans and the rough rasp of his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

that’s when you stilled beneath him, your thighs tightening around his hips to stop his movements. “pull out.” you demanded and rafe froze mid-thrust, blinking down at you, chest rising fast. “what?” his voice cracked with confusion, panic flickering in his eyes.

“just—” your voice was ragged, pupils blown wide, lips swollen. you were panting, shaking, like your body was on fire. “just do it.” rafe couldn’t help but feel his heart stutter as he pulled back, chest heaving in disappointment. “did i—?”

“no,” you breathed, shaking your head, your hair clinging to your damp forehead. your hand slid between you, fingers curling around the base of his cock. he hissed through his teeth, nearly losing it right then and there. “it’s just—” you looked up at him, eyes blazing. “i want more.”

leaning up, you kissed him hard, tongue brushing his lip before whispering into his mouth, “i want you raw, rafe.” for a long moment rafe didn’t move, he was too stunned, until you started rolling the condom off his cock yourself.

it was slow and deliberate, watching his face the whole time. your fingers were slick, trembling just a little, but your touch was confident, and god if that didn’t undo him. the thin rubber slid off inch by inch, and you tossed it somewhere into the room, reaching for him again like you were starving.

“come on,” you whispered, voice wrecked and dripping with want. “please let me feel you.” and then, without hesitation, he grabbed your hips, dragging you down the bed, and slammed back into you with a raw, guttural groan. you both swore at the same time, almost relieved.

the difference was immediate. no barrier. no distance. your bare cunt hit him like a punch to the gut. it was even wetter and tighter and so much more. you cried out beneath him, hands flying to his back, holding onto him like a vice.

you could feel every single vein of his cock, every time his tip nudged your cervix without any protection. you were soaking him, wrapping around him, dragging him in. “jesus—” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.”

you wrapped your legs higher around him, clawing at his back, pulling him deeper, rougher, harder. “don’t stop,” you begged, your voice cracking. “don’t you fucking stop.”

his rhythm turned brutal, desperate, the kind of pace where none of you cared if the neighbors heard. you met every thrust with a needy whimper, the whole bed shaking as your fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him in for a kiss that was all tongue and teeth.

he slammed into you again and again, chasing that sweet spot, chasing your moans, like he’d die if he couldn’t get more. you were already falling apart under him, body arching, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto.

“i can’t—i’m gonna—” your voice broke off in a gasp, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry. “cum for me,” he growled against your ear, hips snapping faster. “fuck, baby, cum on me.”

and you did. your whole body locked around him like you were pulling him down with you, your poor cunt clenching around him hard that it triggered his own release, hot and overwhelming. he buried himself in you with a rough groan, the feeling of his hot seed inside you making you moan out as your orgasm rolled over you.

both of you collapsed at the same time, panting, completely wrecked, skin slick and sticky with sweat. your legs stayed locked around him, his face buried in your neck, both of you shaking from the aftershocks.

“that,” you whispered hoarsely, barely able to speak, “was so much better.” rafe laughed, breathless and fucked out, brushing a kiss over your chest. “you think we’re done?”

you just smirked, still catching your breath but fingers already sliding slowly down his stomach, teasing his cock again. “i fucking hope not.”

you and jungkook walked into the venue, the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel downtown. the moment you stepped inside, soft clinking of champagne glasses and gentle music from a live string quartet welcomed you in.

it was a high-end affair, hosted by your company to celebrate the year’s successes with staff members, executives, and high-profile investors. the lighting was low and golden, tables were decorated with tall crystal centerpieces and fresh white flowers, and servers in black ties moved gracefully through the crowd with trays of drinks.

everyone was dressed to the nines—floor-length gowns, sharp tuxedos, polished shoes. the air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and catered delicacies.

and yet, despite all the glittering conversation and important faces, it was jungkook who stole the attention.

he looked incredible.

he wore a sleek black suit that fit him perfectly, showing off his broad shoulders, slim waist, and long legs. the white shirt underneath was crisp and clean, with the top two buttons left undone. just enough to reveal a hint of skin. his dark hair was slicked back, with one strand falling over his forehead in a way that made him look both effortless and unfairly handsome.

he looked elegant and cool all at once, like he belonged on the cover of GQ, but the way his hand rested gently on the small of your back reminded everyone that he was with you.

your dress was a deep, midnight blue satin which almost looked black under the light. it  hugged your body in all the right places and had a high slit that revealed just enough of your leg as you walked. the neckline dipped tastefully, showing off your collarbones and the subtle shimmer of the necklace jungkook had gifted you last anniversary. 

together, you were a striking pair. and from the way he looked at you, eyes warm and proud, it was obvious that jungkook knew exactly how lucky he was to be on your arm tonight.

the night moved on smoothly. you were quickly swept into conversations about business with board members and top investors. meanwhile, jungkook, ever the supportive partner, gave you space to work your magic. after all, this was your night.

he found his way to the bar, content to sip on a whiskey and people-watch from a distance. you caught his eye once or twice between conversations, exchanging a quiet smile that grounded you amidst the whirlwind of corporate chatter.

but while you were locked in a discussion about upcoming project launches, jungkook found himself approached by someone far less professional.

a woman in a sleek red dress sauntered up beside him, her perfume announcing her presence even before she spoke. she leaned casually against the bar, her posture relaxed and too confident.

“hi there,” she said sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “i don’t think we’ve met. i’m kim nari, marketing department.” she offered her hand, her gaze lingering a little too long on his face. “and you are?”

jungkook accepted the handshake politely but didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked over his frame. “jungkook,” he replied, keeping his tone friendly but reserved.

nari’s smile widened. “jungkook,” she repeated, as if tasting the name. “that’s a strong name. let me guess, you’re not with the company, are you?”

“no,” he answered smoothly. “i’m here with my wife. she works here.”

“oh, and what do you do, jungkook?” nari asked, her tone dripping with curiosity as she swirled the drink in her hand.

“i stay at home,” jungkook replied casually.

nari blinked, tilting her head. “so… like a househusband?”

he nodded, completely unfazed. “yes, a househusband.”

nari arched a brow, lips curling into a coy smile. “it must be exhausting being home all day, waiting for your wife to come back from work. a man like you deserves a little excitement.”

jungkook’s polite smile didn’t falter, but the edge in his eyes sharpened. “i’m very happy with my life. and i’m even happier with my wife.”

but nari didn’t back off.

if anything, his gentle refusal only seemed to encourage her.

nari leaned in closer, her elbow casually brushing against his as she sipped from her cocktail. “you’re being modest,” she said, voice low, like they were sharing a secret. “a guy like you? you could have anyone you wanted. why tie yourself down?”

jungkook’s jaw ticked, the sharp cut of it more pronounced beneath the warm lighting. still, he kept his tone civil. “because the person i’m tied to is everything i’ve ever wanted.”

a flash of irritation crossed nari’s face, but before she could recover and try again, the atmosphere shifted.

across the room, you had just wrapped up a conversation with some investors when you noticed jungkook alone at the bar, looking polite but clearly uncomfortable. and then, you saw her. kim nari. you recognized her from office, though you’d never spoken much. now she was standing far too close to your husband, clearly unaware or choosing to ignore the ring on his finger.

without missing a beat, you excused yourself and made your way through the crowd.the room was full of people but your focus was locked in on your man.

as you reach jungkook’s side, you seamlessly insert yourself between them, claiming your space without a word. you take the glass from his hand, lifting it to your lips with cool confidence, sipping it like it’s always been yours.

jungkook lets out a quiet breath of relief, while nari’s smile falters.

“sorry,” you say casually, pressing a kiss to jungkook’s cheek. “didn’t mean to keep you waiting, love.”

jungkook smiles instantly, his entire body relaxing at your presence. “not at all,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you in a little closer. “you know i’d wait all night for you.”

you looked at nari then, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “i don’t think we’ve met properly. i’m jungkook’s wife.”

nari’s smile wavered. “oh. right. i’ve seen you around. you look... stunning tonight.”

“thank you,” you said, voice still warm. “and thanks for keeping my husband company. though from the looks of it, i think he’s had about all the company he can take.”

nari laughed awkwardly, sensing the shift. “of course. i was just saying hi.”

“mm, well. consider it said.”

you turned back to jungkook, brushing an imaginary wrinkle off his lapel. “come on, baby. let’s get you something that won’t give you a headache.” 

“well,” you tuen to nari once again, “we wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time. i’m sure there’s plenty of appropriate company you could be enjoying tonight.”

the implication lands perfectly. nari excuses herself with a tight nod, heels clicking away faster than yours had approached.

once she’s gone, you turn to jungkook fully. “you alright?”

he leans down, kissing your cheek with a smile. “i am now. that was hot, by the way.”

you chuckle, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “that’s what i’m here for. to protect my man from women who don’t understand boundaries.”

jungkook smirks. “you’re such a girlboss.”

you grin. “i know.”

the rest of the night, jungkook can’t keep his hands off you. he stays close, his hand resting on your lower back, leaning in every so often to whisper in your ear.

“god, you’re so sexy when you get jealous.”

you feel heat rush to your cheeks, but you play it cool, letting him hold you close.

when you finally get home, he pulls you in the moment the door closes, kissing you like he’s been holding back all night.

you laugh softly, teasing, “so you liked that, huh? watching your wife step in like that?”

his gaze darkens as he cups your face. “liked it? i loved it. you have no idea.”

his hands rest on your waist as he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it.

the tension melts away, leaving only warmth between you. you both laugh softly as you kick off your shoes and head toward the bedroom, fingers intertwined.

no more parties. no more unwanted attention.

just you and your cute husband.

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