᭙꠸ꪀꪻꫀ᥅

you held a place in his daily life. a place where even the sunrises seemed dull on their own.

that was his first mistake. to partake you in his life, not making an exception out of you. trying to blend you in with the dreary colors he carried around. not painting his canvas with yours. your captivating colors you flourished replacing with his organized tailor cut suits.

he scheduled you into his life. it was a planned and neat act of responsibility. covered with his essentials. striping your existence from you, assigning a figure he found fitting into your place. your smile became sculptured, your fingertips traced his skin with a soft breeze. an ideal temperature for an ideally cold man.

he didn’t crash storms into your life. he entangled you with himself instead, drying your roots from the core. his corruption came in as a heavy mist, silent and suffocating. he was unaware. he thought you stretched the strict heart of his, not that he was crushing yours into a shape it didn’t belong.

the realization came along with your absence.

one morning, as radiant as you entered his life, you withdrew from it. you left. admirably silent. empty in your own body. you couldn’t bear it anymore, and he didn’t blame you, he could’ve never. he endured your farewell with grace and a shattered soul reflecting all your stolen colors. he wondered how he couldn’t realize your smile evolving into an awkward stretch which didn’t belong to you. something which wasn’t you. how he couldn’t realize in your place an image formed he didn’t know. an image you didn’t know.

his life was familiar as ever. since your existence melted into his, your departure didn’t took anything from him. it merely took you.

he’d never thought that would be enough for his soul to run dry.

he became a wreck of the man he used to be. the bland taste which used to roam inside his mouth, evident enough, was much better than this rotten hurt. but he had always been a man of considerate gestures. you claimed you didn’t want him beside you, and he respected your wish. a ghost lurking behind your memories, was what he became. his heart was abandoned in your warmth. he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists anytime he sought for that same warmth.

something he once had. a taste of heaven against his tongue, an angel’s skin beneath his touch.

he spent years roaming around your once present love. heard your name in the corners of streets, and whispers carried you to him. he was aware of everything.

how the whispers uttered the word engaged. words of someone. the whole town talking about your grand love. someone snatching at a title once belonged to him. someone not him. someone kind and lovely.

someone full of colors.

unlike him.

someone complete unlike his incomplete self. someone who knew how to live and blend in, just like you. someone who belonged, both to the world and to you. someone who had everything he’d wished for. a reminder for the sculptured disappointment he was, how he had everything within his reach and how he should’ve chased you down.

how he should’ve been the one you’re engaged to.

he’d never thought your happiness could ever destroy him truly. but it almost killed him.

he went to your wedding. wore the most colorful suit he had, with a meaningless tie with dots scattered around. he crushed a single flower into his pocket, your favorite.

you smiled upon seeing him, asked how he’s been, your voice embracing his name with the sweetest tone. he stared at you with teary eyes. your smile wounded his heart all over again.

he whispered vows you would never hear, vows which were forbidden to you, for that they would taint your colors with his dull soul.

a single tear crawled down his face while he toasted for you, a broad smile on his face, crooked and unplanned. so unlike him, yet so much of him.

he went home with the same smile on his face and the same pain lingering in his heart. he screamed your name in his dreams, seized your wrists and held you like he saw you.

but when he woke up, nanami kento, a punctual man, was too late for you.

july 25.

my love,

we have had our first fight as newlyweds. i do not like when we fight—i do not like making you upset with me. however, somehow, i still find beauty in the arguments that seem so intense now but will fizzle into something stupid later; they always do.

this time i am at fault, i know that now that i have had time to reflect on it.

i came home late last night—third night this week. you awaited me in bed, lamp on, nestled in bed with a look i could not read. even when upset, i find your beauty to be absolutely breathtaking. you looked at me with such sadness, i could hear the skin around my heart crack under your cold gaze.

“again?” you had said, voice chillingly cold; opposite of that soft dewy voice i am used to hearing. nonetheless, i hadn’t understood where that ice had formed from. i now realize it was because of me.

i am sorry, my love. i see now that my presence is worth more than i thought. it’s humorous, how your presence to me is worth more than life itself, but i did not see how mine is worth moons in your eyes.

i will apologize tonight, if you’ll let me back in.

forever,

yours.

august 19.

my love,

the woman you are.

i cannot think for the words of your attention; of your heart and soul. simply, there are none that capture the beauty of you.

forever,

yours.

october 5.

my love,

the way you worship this month like a holy trinity will always amaze me. everywhere i go, i smell your perfume that holds a hint of spice and love. i know it is never purposeful that your scent clings to my suits like water and cloth, and i would never complain. my love for you is limitless, i have fallen for you every day i wake and you are there beside me. i would trade a kingdom for just a kiss to your cheek; wreck empires for a minute alone with your heart.

this morning you awaited my consciousness with a warm embrace of your smile. dare i say, you looked as though a tear fallen from heaven to earth. and when you spoke of my name, your first word of the day, i nearly melted into the egyptian cotton.

you make me worry for my sanity, my love—i wouldn’t have it any other way, though.

forever,

yours.

"Mhm."

"But for the love of God- I think I would rather jump out of that window than live with you."

You groaned, your forehead falling onto your keyboard. A sound caught between a type and a thwack sounded through the busy-body bustle of the bullpen, and you felt a hand pat your shoulder awkwardly.

"There... there..." Jimmy grimaced.

"Get off of me."

"I'm pretty sure Jack lives alone...?"

"Absolutely not." you sat up with a glare, arms folded. He raised an eyebrow.

"What? You didn't like him?"

It wasn't that, not exactly. In fact, you'd actually really liked Jack; he was sweet and tall and charming in that nostalgic, 50s sort of way. He called you sweetheart and opened the car door for you and played songs like Piano Man by Billy Joel on the radio. He was also very good looking, with a face so conventionally attractive, it was simply destined to star on screens; It was no wonder he spoke so much about films and TV and whatnot. You would too, if you looked like that.

Admittedly, he was a bit on the skinnier side- but you didn't mind. You were just used to big, broad and burly, that's all. Which was stupid in itself, because big, broad and burly didn't belong to you. You had no right to compare Jack to Clark because they weren't even in the same playing field. It was unfair. And confusing. And so, intensely painful.

But as nice as Jack was- as sweet as his words were and how he looked at you like he could see a future with a white picket fence, fluffy golden retriever and three kids running around- you just couldn't bring yourself to see him that way.

"How come you haven't asked to move in with me?" Lois quizzed, eyebrow raised as she leant against your desk. Jimmy scoffed.

"Because you inhale all the sugar and you're always up at the ass crack of dawn."

"I do like to sleep in." you said solemnly. Lois simply rolled her eyes, unphased by both of your unwarranted quips.

"Whatever," she set something down on your desk then- something warm and sweet-smelling that filled a chipped Daily Planet Press mug. You gave her a thankful smile. "Here, you need this. You've been a zombie all day,"

"All week." Jimmy corrected her.

For once in Lois' life, she actually seemed to agree with him. "All week. When was the last time you got any sleep?"

You couldn't remember. Truthfully, the days since your date with Jack and heated conversation with Clark had all merged together, and you were barely surviving the aftermath of it all.

Clark was barely home. You'd waited for him the next morning, two fresh cups of coffee on the kitchen counter as you checked the time religiously. You were going to have that conversation whether you or he liked it or not; you refused to let it simmer for longer than the night spent tossing and turning, heart heavy, in bed.

7am poured into 8am and by 10, you considered knocking on his bedroom door so he wouldn't be late for work. That's when the TV flashed; an emergency news broadcast about Superman on the other side of the city filling the screen, and all hope of seeing him that day flew out of the window.

It carried on like that for the first couple of days. You, trying to find any reason to see him, and him narrowly missing (most likely avoiding) the mark. By the fourth day, you'd given up completely. As silly as it sounded, it was the longest you two had gone without speaking- ever since your first day moving in all those years ago- and it hurt.

It was quick. It was sharp. Brutal, on Clark's part, because you hadn't even been given the slightest explanation as to what the hell he'd been trying to say that night. All you knew was that he was angry at you for going out with a man you didn't know, a stranger you didn't even want.

It's all I listen to. At the time, it made your knees weak and your heart slam against your ribcage. Now, a full seven days later, it filled you with a vicious mix of sadness and rage.

Lois cleared her throat. You forced a small smile.

"Don't worry. I'll get some sleep tonight."

"You better."

You hummed a response, mind already elsewhere.

Eventually, she pushed off of your desk, retreating to her own as Jimmy returned to editing his photos. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see it; a clear snapshot of Clark displayed in HD on his screen, red and blue and hope personified tearing through the sky.

You looked away quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The day went by slow. Printers still jammed and ink still spilled, articles rejected and amended, all the good stuff that came with being a reporter at the Planet. You loved in, revelled in it; writing had always been your strong suit, and being able to do it for a living was a different feeling entirely. Sure, the deadlines and and typos and frenzy whenever something rocked the city shook you to the core- every single time- but it was worth it.

Clark had visited you once. Just like you did him, only a lot later on in your friendship.

He stood in the middle of the foyer, your lunch in an adorable brown paper bag that he'd said reminded him of the lunches Ma used to make him for school. It had been something delicious and simple- a thick turkey sandwich with enough vegetables to fill your five a day- and you ate it together on the benches outside.

He'd looked at your building, eyes fixated on the spinning globe atop like he was looking for trouble. Then, with a small smile, he'd turned to you, "Feel like I've been here before."

You'd giggled, nudging his shoulder, "Maybe you were a journalist in another life."

"Maybe." he gave you a small smile, reaching over to wipe the small dot of mayo from the corner of your lip.

That was one of the first times you'd ever felt something for Clark; something bigger than adoration, stronger than attraction. You felt it pool achingly in your chest, like a pot of mercury, thick and hot and dangerous.

You watched the word document on your screen, cursor blinking tauntingly back at you. You'd written approximately fifteen words this morning; two of them being the title.

"Hey," Jimmy rolled his chair next to you, hands free of his camera now. You turned to him eagerly, craving nothing more than yet another distraction. "You got any plans tonight?"

"Other than trying not to get stuck in the kitchen while Clark's in the living room, no."

"Great. Wanna go to O'Neil's? Lois' front page was weeks ago and we still haven't done anything for it."

You paused. You knew of the place- almost everybody that worked on your street did- but it was something else. It sounded familiar, but not like you'd been; you were more an overpriced cocktail, cringey neon slogan kind of girl. You and your friends rarely frequented dive bars like O'Neil's.

Besides, it would probably do you some good to get out. A new change in scenery. After all, you were a few days overdue a night spent internally pining over a $15 Cosmopolitan.

So, without much of a second thought, you nodded. "Sure," you said, "I'll be there."

"Great," Jimmy's grin widened. Then, just as you turned away to let him go, you felt his hand on your shoulder. Again. Except it was warm this time; gentle, like he knew you needed it. "You're gonna be fine. Okay?"

"I know." you smiled small.

"You can even crash at mine after, if you didn't want to go home," then, Jimmy paused, as if the cogs in his brain were turning and he was trying to keep up with the thoughts they were processing. "See how you feel. See if you still want to move out of your place... and move in with me."

Your eyes widened slightly then. You'd been 60% joking and 40% serious, but you hadn't actually expected him to take you up on your ridiculous offer.

"Are you seri-"

"I'm going to wheel away now before I can change my mind," he said hurriedly, turning to go, but not before looking back at you with a serious look in his eyes. "I mean it, though. Really. I hate seeing you like this, and I have a spare room I barely use."

You wanted to say thank you, you appreciated it- anything would have worked. But the words stuck in your throat like glue.

Instead, you watched him go back to his desk, mouth dry and heart thumping. It wasn't just the idea of moving out that terrified you- it was the very notion of moving in with somebody that wasn't Clark.

With a sigh, your fingers found the keyboard again. You typed rhythmically, anything to get the beat out of your chest and onto something else.

Unfortunately, Clark couldn't get drunk.

He'd tried. God, there wasn't a single bit of alcohol on earth he hadn't knocked back five shots of just to case-study his body's reaction. There wasn't a draft beer, pint of lager or even a jug of ale he hadn't inhaled, just to see if he could feel something, just to try and ease his thoughts. Even if it was just for a second.

He understood Kara now; the interdimensional partying and the fact that she never settled in one place for too long. He suddenly got the need for planets with red suns, understood now why Earth just didn't seem to cut it for her; it was too painful, too constant.

Living with you after that night was hell. Clark just couldn't face you- not after what he'd said and practically admitted; not after knowing that you still didn't understand it- understand him and his feelings- fully.

If you had felt even an inkling of what he did, you wouldn't have let him walk away. You wouldn't have spent that night in the room right next to him, heart going a million miles per hour, every toss and every turn amplified in his eardrums. You would have said something. Something that would have proved Clark wrong; that the way your chest was beating wasn't because of Jack, it was because of him.

But you hadn't. You'd fallen asleep. And he'd sat at the foot of his bed, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, for hours; contemplating, thinking, heartbroken.

Jason was saying something to him now, shoulders nudging against his in a way that exemplified his own drunken state. Clark felt a pang of jealousy stab hard at chest.

"...And I'm just saying, if we hired out the engine, we'd make a killing!"

"Government property, Jase." Archie rolled his eyes, shooting Clark a look that said Rookie, am I right? Clark let a small smirk show. "But great idea. Maybe pitch it to the Chief,"

"I am pitching it to the Chief."

"A different Chief. Please." Clark pleaded. Jason just shrugged, taking a swig of his beer before gesturing to Clark's empty glass.

"Need a top-up? Next round's on me."

Clark shook his head. Beside him, Archie raised an eyebrow, eyes on the man before him currently sulking over a beer he'd finished hours ago.

He didn't bother to ask if he was okay. Why would he, when Clark had been like this all week? It was a constant in the team now, a shadow and cloud they couldn't seem to shake. He was starting to feel bad for them all; they were getting the brunt of his frustration more than anyone else.

Not that Clark had ever been rude to any of them, or even gave off the vibe that he would be. Ma would kill him. Pa would disown him. No, he was just quiet; introverted, trapped in his own thoughts. He stayed locked in his office most of the time, only coming out to help answer a call.

"Still haven't spoken to the Mrs?" Archie tried subtly, eyebrow raised as he sipped his own mix of Vodka and something fizzy. His eyes flickered towards the neon lights above them, flashing harsh, vibrant colours that somehow made the whole bar feel even darker.

Clark didn't bother to correct him. He'd spoken about you so much and so often that at some point, it had become a hell of a lot easier to just let everybody think you were more than just his roommate. It definitely put a stop to their bachelorette-strip-tease recommendations of him, that's for sure.

Somehow, it made the situation feel a lot more justifiable, though he knew it was all pretend.

If you were really his, Clark would have no problem sorting this whole thing out. He'd sit you down and let you speak and honour your feelings. He wouldn't invalidate them. You'd talk through the problem together; no secrets, no noise, just you and Clark and the warm comfort of your apartment that currently, felt like the Fortress. Minus the robots, the tech, and everything else that made it feel like a second home.

But right now, he couldn’t act. He had no right. There were secrets between you- mostly his- truths that he had wished he could take back the moment he let them see the light, never mind fully confess.

Clark shook his head slowly. Archie spoke.

"Yeah, well. You'll figure it out. You know that, right?"

Clark nodded, slower this time. He had no faith in his co-worker's words but appreciated the sentiment anyway. "I hope."

He tuned out then, gaze falling on the colourful bottles adorning the wall behind the bar. They glimmered and reflected every ray of light that hit them, and he just couldn't stop himself from falling back into the agonising routine that was, thinking about you.

It had almost become a habit for him, even without the current tension. Flying thousands of feet above the ground could get unbearably lonely, and he often needed something- anything- to keep himself from unravelling.

Your face, your laugh, your entire being. Just you. Random things, irrelevant things that he remembered yet had no idea why. Your taste in music, your favourite film, even your clothing; scattered all over your room but never in the space you both shared, even though he wouldn't have minded one bit.

"You don't even use the coat rack." he'd noted one day, eyebrows furrowed in both disdain and perplexity.

"I have many coats!"

"...Then use the coat rack."

The sweet, vanilla scent that seemed to follow you wherever you went, warm and syrupy. You'd spray it everywhere, claiming it was important to have a signature smell; on your wrists, your neck, the top of your head, even the random pulse points you'd found thanks to two and a half Google searches.

"What does this smell like, Clark?" it had been his day off when you came bounding into the living room, a clear bottle of something expensive clutched carefully in your hand.

"Uh... vanilla?"

"And?"

"....Stronger vanilla?"

You'd laughed, spraying it everywhere regardless of the value, rambling on about undertones and base notes and whatever else made perfume perfume. His heightened sense of smell made Clark hyper aware of all the different ways this one fragrance smelled on you; something to do with the PH levels, he remembered you saying.

It was sweeter on your wrists, more refined on your pulse points; unfortunately, it was simply irresistible on your chest-

That's when Clark heard it.

His head shot up, mind viciously yanked back to the real world. A dry swallow bobbed in his throat.

Archie raised an eyebrow, "You alright?"

It started off faint at first. Almost non-existent.

But it was getting louder, much louder. He couldn't mistake it for anyone elses; he'd heard it, paid attention it, much more than he did his own.

"Y-Yeah. All good."

Your heart.

His eyes darted around the room.

Nice and steady, it's usual avid, unique rhythm. Clark's eyes narrowed, his own picking up it's pace to match yours. For a second, they were in sync; the same pump split between two bodies.

Where were you?

He scanned the bar, furrowed brows knitting together in confusion. You wouldn't be- you couldn't be- here. This wasn't a place for someone like you. You didn't belong here, in a glorified, rusted shack at the corner of some grimy office district.

This was where sleazy businessmen with loosened suits came to unwind; to invade the spaces of women they didn't and would never have a chance with otherwise. Where sleazy bikers and blue collar workers came to glare each other down, until a fight broke out that shut the bar for the night.

His blood ran cold. He could hear your voice then, soft and subtle and sweet; the same one he'd only had the privilege of hearing through your shared walls the past week.

"Jimmy! Are you serious?"

His hand tightened around the glass. Next to him, Archie downed a shot, oblivious, and Clark could feel you coming closer, your voice a megaphone pressed against his ear now. Panic started to rise in his chest, made worse by the incessant bumping of the speakers.

Then suddenly, someone else's voice tangling with yours; deeper, male, unfamiliar. Not exactly Jimmy's, though he could hear his faint chuckles, too.

It was a tone he'd only ever heard once. Outside of your apartment on that night everything fell apart; when he'd placed a hand on your lower back and whisked you away, shooting Clark a wink and a smile and a promise to have you back before 10.

The voice that had made Clark lose his mind.

"Lovely to see you again."

"You... too."

Everything happened too fast for him to register. The front doors opened and in came all of you; a massive group, a loud group, one led by Jimmy and your other friend Lois bickering at the front. Behind them, some woman with large black glasses and the fanciest, iciest blow-dry Clark had ever seen. Next to her strode your boss, Perry White, as well as a couple other journalists with press passes swinging off their necks and frazzled expressions after a long, hard day.

Clark couldn't help it. His eyes scanned the crowd for you, low-lidded and steady, unable to shake the terrible feeling that you'd come here with the one person he never wanted to see you with again.

His heart sank to the pit of his stomach as you wandered in.

You looked beautiful. Tired. That same flushed look on your face that meant the current workday had you beat. Your arms were folded tightly, your pass pressed plush against your chest.

You were cold. Freezing, in fact.

And the man walking in right next to you hadn't even bothered to give you his damn jacket.

"And this is why The Princess Bride holds up. It's a cult classic in the sense that nobody knows who the actors are, but it's still a film that can hold it's own."

"That's... cool, Jack."

Your teeth were gritted. At this point, Clark couldn't tell if it was due to the weather or sudden disinterest.

His hands itched for the burly leather jacket that hung off his stool. He'd been resting against it this whole time; it'd be warm, so warm, and it'd engulf you and swallow you whole. He knew that; he had a photo of you from months ago trying it on, his Home wallpaper for a bit until he realised it was kind of creepy that you had no idea.

Now, it was of some random squirrel he'd saved in Central a couple years back.

"Hey," someone nudged him, "Isn't that..."

Clark didn't even need to look to know what they were referring to. His gaze followed the line of Jason's stare as he saw Jimmy, Lois, and Perry weave through the crowd, eyes landing on him with that knowing glint.

But his focus snapped right back to you, to the way Jack was leaning in just a little too close; how your posture was tight and defensive, but still... not in a way that suggested you wanted out of this situation. His fingers gripped the edge of the bar so hard it hurt.

He wanted to walk over.

To pull you away from Jack, away from this whole situation, throw you over his shoulder if he had to and hail a cab for you both to go back home. You could talk it out there, he could make you understand.

Before, it would have been easy. But now, he simply didn’t know how.

Suddenly, your eyes found his. They locked across the room, and for a moment, it was like everything else melted away. The noise. The chatter. The weight of everyone’s eyes on him, on you.

You froze.

Clark’s breath hitched. He knew that look. That stunned, breathless expression on your face that he rarely ever saw, especially as of recently. It was like you were trying to read him, trying to figure out what he was feeling.

And then, before he could make a single move toward you- before he could do anything- your expression hardened, just slightly, and you looked away.

Your face fell into its usual mask, a polite smile on your lips as Jack continued to talk about whatever nonsense he let fall out of his mouth.

A breath caught in Clark's chest. His heart clenched in a way that almost made him lose his balance.

You had looked away from him. You, who typically couldn't go a day without knocking on his door or waiting up for him after work. You'd chosen not to give him so much as a glance, made a conscious effort not to.

The guilt swirled again, faster this time. As you and Jack moved further into the group and settled into a booth on the other side of the room, Clark let out a slow, quiet exhale.

For days now, he’d told himself that he was giving you space. That he didn't want to suffocate you with his feelings; that if he waited long enough, you would come around, and you could either both go back to normal or figure out a way to work around it.

But now, standing here with the weight of that decision pressing on him, he realised how much of an idiot he’d been.

Clark’s mind spiralled with the thousand things he could’ve done differently, could’ve said differently.

He could’ve told you how much he cared, not just in that typical I'm your best friend and I just want what's best for you way, but in the deep, delirious way that meant I can't live without you, so whatever it is, I'll die trying.

He could’ve stopped the act, the nonchalance that disguised something far more fleeting.

He could’ve-

Minutes passed. Minutes stretched into an hour.

Archie had slid a beer into his left hand at some point and a cigarette into his right, but Clark only felt the cool liquid slide down his throat. The cigarette sat untouched between his fingers until it burned out on its own. Neither would have done much, anyway- there wasn’t nicotine nor ethanol strong enough to silence his thoughts.

He didn't dare look your way. Partly because he couldn't bring himself to, and mainly because he knew what he would see; you leaning closer to your friends so you didn’t have to lean into Jack, slipping into the warmth of their laughter, keeping your eyes fixed anywhere but the bar where he sat like some ghost you’d rather not remember.

You weren't happy, but you were comfortable. And that sort of comfort preferred to be alone; you didn't need Clark. You were moving on, even if you didn’t know it yet.

And he knew that it was all his fault.

He heard chairs scraping. Everything sounded much louder in his ears now; the conversations, the music, drinks being poured on the other side of the room. Every decibel felt like hell, a mirage of crashing cymbals that Clark just couldn't steady.

For a split second, he braved a glance in your direction. His eyes narrowed when he saw that it was only your drink on the table, as well as the bickering group of reporters (plus Jack) you called friends; but you, nowhere in sight.

Slight panic started in his chest. He glanced around, vision quick and focused. Terrible men in suits; bikers with black-oil knuckles. His heart pounded as he tried to hone in on the sound of yours.

Quickly, Clark stood up from his seat. "I'll be right back." he mumbled to Archie, though the other man had long since succumbed to the hazy ways of Scotch poured over ice.

If you'd gone home, he could meet you on the way there. He'd walk, side by side, next to you, maybe even a couple of steps behind if you still didn't want to talk to him. He just couldn't have you out there alone.

His eyes scanned the bar. You were still in the building, which relaxed Clark a bit; he could make out you humming softly, moving slow. Then, the sound of a hand dryer.

It was automatic.

His feet moved faster than his mind, every step an instinct he couldn’t fight, couldn’t hold back. The bar had been too loud, too heavy, too full. And now all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, an erratic, irregular beat that longed for yours.

He didn’t even stop to think as he threaded his way through the crowd, toward the back of the room. He barely noticed the startled looks of people as he passed, the jostle of bodies, the blurry laughter that seemed to only slow him down.

All that mattered was you.

The hallway stretched in front of him, dark and narrow, the noise from the bar muffled into a dull hum. Four doors lined the hall- clean, untouched unlike the rest of the place, because barely anyone ever came back here. The bathrooms were hidden away, tucked far enough that only the desperate or the lost ever found themselves in this dim corner of the bar.

And Clark knew. He felt it in the pit of his stomach like a stone; you were in the last one. He didn’t need to think twice; you'd pick the one the furthest away, just in case someone needed the closer one more.

His pulse was erratic, mind frazzled, stretched too thin to focus on anything else. He wished he could blame it on the alcohol- regardless of the fact that he never could- but no. The truth was far worse.

It was you- you, the one thing he couldn’t control, the thing that was both his salvation and his downfall. You were what pulled him like a magnet, to the point where he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

Clark stepped towards the last door. He didn't knock, or wait, or even have time to- because before he knew it, you wrenched it open, and his body moved without thinking.

He slid into the small space; quiet but urgent, broad frame out of place in the narrow slither of space.

A stunned gasp sounded through the cubicle as your eyes widened and you stumbled back, mouth parting with a question that died before it could leave your lips.

"Clark?"

Clark locked the door behind him with a soft click, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the small, dimly lit restroom. You turned toward him, your expression already shifting from surprise to bafflement.

"What- what the hell are you doing?!"

He didn’t respond immediately, his breath shallow, his gaze slowly fixing on you as if he were trying to memorise every little detail of your very being.

You stood there, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, a faint tremor in your stance like you were still trying to keep some form of distance between the two of you.

It drove him crazy. You drove him crazy; from your slightly smudged lipstick to the heavy flutter of your cocktail-induced blinking.

You tried again, your voice quieter this time, but there was still an edge of urgency in it.

"Clark."

His name hung in the air between you both, but he didn’t move. His eyes were still locked on you, distant, like he was somewhere far away, trying to piece together the words that were choking him from the inside.

Then, his gaze trailed, lower and lower and back up again, drinking you in, hungry.

You said it again, a little sharper this time.

"Clark... what's going on? You're scaring me."

He knew he should have said something, but he couldn't. He just stood there, breathing like he was trying to catch up with himself- with everything he was feeling, everything he'd kept locked beneath sealed lips. His silence sat between you like a thick, suffocating fog.

He could see the impatience on your face, growing with every call of yours he didn't respond to.

But he just couldn't speak. The words caught in his throat like they hadn't before. And yet, it had only been seven days. Seven whole days since he'd been anywhere near this close to you, and still, it felt far too long.

You reached out, but stopped yourself, unsure. “Clark, please-”

“It's my first time seeing you in a week,” he swallowed, voice cracking slightly as he spoke- as if the admission itself was too heavy to carry. He inhaled sharply, "Let me just... let me take you in. Please."

You fell silent. Suddenly, the already cramped room felt horrific, draining the bravado out of your face as Clark took a step forward like both of you could afford him to.

"You're being weird, Clark." you said softly, though your eyes fluttered shut as soon as you felt his warm hands move towards you.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to."

They rested on your hips, gentle enough not to startle you.

Even so, your skin pricked at the slight touch of his, and when you felt Clark's forehead rest against yours, you suddenly couldn't remember much of what you were trying to say.

It was instinct; the way your forearms fell against his chest, fists loosely clenched against him.

He pulled you closer, arms heavy and determined, closing the gap between you both in a hug you'd been craving for days.

You and Clark had had a lot of silences in your lifetime. Your friendship was comfortable, cosy; a safe space built on shared trust and mutual understanding that sometimes, there just simply wasn't anything left to say. Not all gaps needed to be bridged. Sometimes they just needed small smiles and reassuring nods of acknowledgment.

This was one of those times.

You wrapped your arms around Clark's torso, your arms small compared to his yet just as desperate. You pulled him in, breathing his air in like he did you.

Then, with a muffled, barely audible voice, you spoke.

"I'm so mad at you."

He didn't stiffen. Nor did he bite back, saying that it was your fault as much as it was his, not like you thought he would- how you wanted him to. Maybe, it would make this feeling in your body go away, if Clark just stopped being so infuriatingly calm.

Instead, you heard him swallow; a gulp that took so much strength you physically felt the slight bob of his Adam's apple.

"I know."

"And I've hated you. All week, I've hated you," it wasn't the truth, not at all. But at the time- when you were dodging Jack's calls and making plans to move your Queen size bed into Jimmy's box room, you thought you were getting pretty close.

You felt Clark shift, his head shaking in a slight nod of acknowledgement. "I don't blame you."

Silence again. Your body relaxed, and with it, came a slight pull back- only you had nowhere to go. Clark's arms stiffened around you, protective, keeping you against him like it was the only thing he was able to do.

"Please don't," he mumbled, lips pressed against your forehead. "Don't move."

"There is a toilet behind us, Clark." you murmured into him, your tone joking. His let out the faintest, amused exhale, hand coming up to rest on the nape of your neck.

His thumb grazed your skin there, gentle, rubbing small circles on the nape like he was trying to calm you down. You wondered how long you'd both be there for; uninterrupted, two bodies pressed against each other in a hidden corner of O'Neil's.

After the week you'd had, you certainly didn't mind if you were here for a lot longer.

Clark smelled like he always did; of sandalwood and smoke and something sweet underneath, like honey. It was addictive, ambrosian. A parry to his absence the past week.

It was insane, you thought, what seven simple days without him did to you.

Then, as if he was thinking of the exact same thing, Clark spoke.

"I'm sorry..." he mumbled then, words accompanied by a soft kiss pressed against the top of your head. "I am so, so sorry,"

You didn't hesitate, the words already at the tip of your tongue.

"I'm sorry, too," your voice fell into a mere whisper in comparison to his.

He pulled back this time, and you could see him fully under the dim light, see them; glistening pools of water brimming around his baby blues.

Not enough to spill completely, but you knew a blink would probably do the trick.

"Clark," your brows furrowed, hand reaching out to cup his face. "Oh, Clark. We're okay. You're okay,"

He shook his head, said your name, face leaning into the warmth of your palm.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"There's nothing to apologise for, Clark," you whispered, "It's okay. We just had... we just didn't speak for a bit, that's all. But we are now and we're fine, we're so fine. Okay?"

You couldn’t read him. Every part of you wanted to see him crack, just a little. A smile, a grin to break through that clouded intensity, to remind you that he was okay. But none of that came.

Instead, something dark flickered across his face. A pained look, so familiar it almost hurt to see. It was the same expression he'd worn the night he walked out without a word, leaving you stunned in the silence that followed.

You thought about it it night and day, replayed the same scene over and over again in a head that never ceased to spin.

Thought unprepared, you opened your mouth to say something. "Clark-"

"Tell me you don't feel anything for him," Clark cut in, his voice firm but raw, tone filled with a strength that didn't match his pleading eyes.

You paused, stunned by the sudden shift in his words. For a second, nothing came to mind, not a single 'him' existing in the realm you called your memory.

"W-What?"

"Or tell me that he makes you happy. That you like him. Anything, I just need something," his grip on your waist tightened, eyes clamping shut again.

"Please. I'm begging you. Just say the words, and I can stop."

Stop?

You narrowed your eyes at him, head tilting to the side, but Clark wasn't looking at you anymore.

He was trapped in his own head, his own world- where nothing you say seemed to matter anymore.

"I just need to hear it from you. I can't keep guessing anymore- it's driving me crazy. You..." he caught himself, once again trailing away from a sentence- before seemingly disregarding that notion entirely. "You're driving me crazy. So please,” Clark breathed, voice fraying at the edges, “just say it.”

“Clark-”

“Tell me you want him.” His words stumbled out quickly, rushed, affronted with distress. “Tell me you don’t feel anything for me, and I can go. I’ll fly into a mountain if I have to, bury myself under the ocean if that’s what it takes. I just need to know that... that you don't love me back. That you don't feel the same."

It wasn’t dramatics. It wasn’t exaggeration. He meant every syllable- and that scared you more than anything.

He watched you. It was all on you now.

Your breath trembled, unable to keep up with the tension in his words.

“I can’t tell you that, Clark.”

“Why?” The word ripped out of him, desperate, raw. He was coming apart at the seams; every thread undone, loose and tangled. His fingers trembled where they held you, chest rising too quickly.

And in that moment, you knew; he wouldn't believe you. Whatever you said, whatever you did, Clark had already convinced himself of the latter.

A sound fell from your lips- quiet yet sharp, wounded and winded and so similar to a laugh- yet it wasn’t really a laugh at all.

You shook your head, looking up at him through the tears that had started to blur your vision. Instinctively, he reached a hand up, catching them before they could fall.

“I don’t want Jack,” you said, voice cracking. "I've never wanted Jack. I've never wanted anybody-"

You pushed past the hesitation, knocked back the fear. Whatever alcohol had settled in your system earlier was gone now; all that remained was the truth.

“-but you, Clark. I want you."

You thought about the nights spent with him, the ones that had made you fall the hardest. Kisses on cheeks and foreheads and too-tight hugs that knocked the wind out of your lungs. Nights spent cleaning his suit with him, soaps and suds and bubble beards and all. The way his gaze would linger, and you'd pretend not to notice, yet the red-hot feeling in your cheeks would give you away every single time.

You felt the memories envelope the very words you put out there; each one wrapping like a vacuum seal around every syllable.

Yet Clark's expression didn’t melt the way you would have wanted. No joy. No relief. No softening.

Only fear.

“Don’t say that.” his tone dropped, stern and clipped, born out of trepidation. “Don’t say things like that if you don't mean them,"

Your brows pulled together, a hurt sound escaping you. "Who says I don't mean them?"

His eyes flickered over your face, searching for a lie, a joke, a crack in your expression that proved he was dreaming or delusional or just outright losing his mind.

The space between your faces narrowed. His breath brushed warm against your lips.

"If you’re saying this just to spare me... it’ll kill me."

Your breath caught. Because you knew him better than anybody, and right now, you knew that Clark wasn’t angry, irritated, or annoyed. Not with you.

He was terrified.

You stepped closer, hands sliding to the sides of his neck, drawing him down until your foreheads touched.

“I’m not sparing you,” you whispered, your lips brushing the air between you.

He swallowed again, his eyes finally meeting yours after so long keeping them shut.

"Then please, don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying to you, Clark."

His face didn't move from yours, but you felt his hand lift from your waist.

Slowly, carefully, he extended his pinky toward you. Your own hand shifted almost instinctively down from his neck, the small gesture feeling impossibly intimate in the quiet of the cramped room.

You looped your finger in with his, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.

"You promise?"

“Pinky promise,” you mumbled, voice low and steady, a gentle smile slipping out despite the intensity of the moment.

He gave a tiny squeeze, and for a second, everything felt lighter- like the weight of unsaid words and held-back feelings had vanished into that single, perfect promise.

You barely had any time to register; everything happened all at once.

With one swift move, Clark had you- one strong arm wrapped around your waist as he unlocked the door and stumbled out with you still against him. He pressed you gently against the wall of the hallway; a quiet giggle falling from your lips at the movement, the air around you intoxicating.

The world outside ceased to exist: the muffled chatter of the bar, the buzz of laughter, the clinking of glasses- all gone. It was just you and him, breath mingling, hearts racing in a frantic, delicious rhythm.

"You're insane," you started, but even you couldn't hold back the laughter that spilled out. He reached down, hand pulling your legs up to wrap around him.

For the first time that evening, you saw a smile spread across Clark's lips; genuine, this time. Real. Not out of hurt, sadness or dismay; no. This one was pure, driven by delight, making your chest ache in all the right ways.

Clark hesitated, just for a second- long enough for the world to hold its breath- but the look on your face, the way your eyes shone, the way your hands cupped his face as if you’d been waiting for this moment forever- begged him to stop holding back.

His eyes flickered to yours, a silent question begging for the right answer. You nodded wordlessly.

Then, as if the tension had reached a breaking point, Clark smashed his lips against yours.

You didn't hold back either. His lips were warm, insistent, and impossibly gentle all at the same time; they fit the curve of yours almost perfectly.

You'd dreamt about this. Envisioned it. You'd gushed about it over cocktails with your friends, cried about it in the Uber ride home.

Yet nothing could have prepared you for the feeling it caused in your stomach; the warm static that stretched to every limb and filled out every fingertip.

"God…" he murmured against your lips, his mouth trailing down the curve of your neck for a heartbeat before sliding back up, capturing yours again with an almost frantic need. "I’ve missed you. So, so much."

Your hands threaded through his hair, holding him as close as possible, as if letting go for even a second would erase the last week of longing and frustration.

"I've missed you," you breathed back, lost in the ecstasy that came with being this close to him.

One hand held you up as another snaked it's way down your lower back, resting on the plush off your ass as Clark gave it a slight squeeze.

You moaned softly into him, a jolt of electricity coursing through your body from that contact alone. Obvliviously, you bucked against him, lost in the kiss.

"Don't do that," he gasped against you. A small smirk tugged at your face as you did it again, craving nothing more than to close the gap and keep it that way.

Clark said your name, stern yet distracted. Your stomach almost exploded from the butterflies it gave you.

"I'm not doing anything," you said innocently.

A chuckle left his mouth, vibrating into yours.

"You always been like this?"

"Like what?"

"Trouble."

"Only to you."

"Wait 'til we get home," he warned, though his words carried next to no threat. "Soon as we're through those doors, you're done for."

Your heart glowed at the word, the very idea of coming home with Clark as something other than just Clark Kent, your roommate making you feel dizzy.

"We're waiting 'til we get home?" you joked.

He pulled back, the smile on his face still as wide as it had been; but there was an edge to it now, a seriousness that conspired out of your words.

"You really think," he began, the hand that had been guiding your lower half now trailing up your neck, his thumb grazing your jaw.

"After all this time... after finally getting to be with you like this," he pecked your swollen lips. "That I'd just do it, here?"

You gave a small shrug, though it was taking everything in you not to completely melt into him again. "We've waited long enough."

"Can't wait any longer? Say, 20 minutes?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures,"

He raised an eyebrow, "In a dingy bar bathroom where the light doesn't even work?"

"I think it's romantic," you pressed.

Clark shook his head, choosing to ignore your words.

"You're impossible." he said gently.

You grinned at him, leaning in for another kiss that- obviously- Clark was more than happy to give.

You'd always wondered what it would feel like, someone like Clark looking at you like you were made of something special; spun out of gold, priceless in all the right ways.

You never thought it'd feel like this; the euphoria of floating high on a bubble that could never pop.

"I mean it," he reiterated slowly, cocking his head to the side as he looked at you. "I want every first with you to matter. Every single one. None of this..." he gestured to the hall around you.

You smiled slow, finishing his words for him, "No bar bathroom quickies,"

He sighed, "Definitely not."

"Guess that rules out the fire engine, then."

Your fingers threaded through his, holding on as Clark paused, seemingly thinking about it, "We'll talk about it."

The warmth of his hand, the steady pressure of his palm against yours, made your chest flutter in a way that words couldn’t capture.

You pulled him closer, noses brushing as you spoke.

"Take me home, Clark." you whispered, voice trembling with a mix of giddyness, exhaustion, and something you hadn’t let yourself feel out loud until now.

His grin was slow, triumphant, the kind that made your stomach flip and your knees threaten to give out. "I thought you’d never ask." he said, his voice steady, filled with quiet awe that made your heart thump.

His arm tightened around your waist, pressing you against him in a way that was protective, possessive, tender all at once.

Step by step, he led you through the bar; past your friends and the absence of Jack (wide-eyed, stunned, and giving several thumbs-ups), down quiet streets, even through your apartment lobby. Your hands stayed entwined, the night air brushing your cheeks, carrying away every worry, every negative thought you’d held onto for far too long.

In that simple closeness, with his warmth wrapped around you like a promise, you felt a happiness so complete- so utterly insane- that you’d convinced yourself you’d never get to feel it. Especially not with someone as good and as impossibly sweet as the man before you.

All the waiting, all the quiet pining, all the small, seemingly insignificant moments- they had been leading to this. To him. To your gorgeous, six-foot-four firefighter slash superhero roommate who could stop wars and city invasions and universe-ending threats but for some reason, unbeknownst to you, had taken three whole years to tell you how he felt.

The front door swung open. Your back hit the wall, lips brushing, necks marked, clothes already half-forgotten before any room had been entered- and Clark Kent pressed against you in a way that made the world outside vanish... yet somehow, it felt like this was only the beginning.

You never believed in the cliché of falling in love with your roommate. Ever. You used to read books, gossip columns, agony aunt submissions with an eye roll and a scoff; wondering how on earth people could be silly enough to fall in love with somebody they could never have.

But then, it happened to you.

At exactly 1:03am on a Saturday morning, after crashing through the front door; holding your too-high heels by the straps, rummaging around the fridge for something quick and delicious to eat. You’d tried to be quiet, you swear, but the drink had gone to your head and before you knew it, Clark appeared; leaning on the doorframe leading into his room.

Tousled dark hair, white shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms that always hung slightly too low. Grinning. Looking so incredibly attractive, so incredibly Clark, that you dropped the package of something microwavable you’d been holding.

It hit the floor with a dull thud as he walked towards you, picking it back up.

“Good night?” he’d smirked slightly, placing the packet back in the fridge. You frowned.

“I was gonna eat that.”

“You hate those things,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly, reaching into a cupboard above the stove and pulling out a pan, “Go on, sit down. Pancakes okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” you told him, but you were already hoisting yourself up onto one of the stools.

“I know.” Clark had said back, quietly, back turned to you as he gathered everything he needed. “I want to.”

You didn’t question him. He asked you about your night, laughing at all the right points, remembering all the right things. Did your friend get that job she really wanted? Did the other one finally leave her cheating boyfriend? How did they all get home, are they safe? You know you could have called him instead of getting the subway, right? He has a car and it could do with a spin around.

At precisely 1:44am that very same night, you slotted into bed with a pounding heart, racing thoughts and the sickly, sweet realisation that you had officially fallen for the wholesome farm-boy propaganda that was, Clark Kent.

It all made sense to you then. You were going out more, drinking more, trying not to be around him more for a reason- and the reason was that.

Clark was having to stir up a fresh batch of pancake batter every weekend now, and sometimes he even had it ready for you when you stumbled through those doors; heels off, barefoot, humming the last tune you heard before hastily leaving the club.

He’d asked you about it once, why you had a sudden interest in all the partying. Your friend group hadn’t changed. Your job at The Daily Planet was going exceedingly well- promotions left, right and centre. Clark sat you down with a furrowed brow, tending to a cut on your knee that you’d earnt stumbling over someone’s bag at the bar, and asked, “You sure everything's okay?”

And you’d nodded, forcing a smile. Told him he was being silly; you were just making up for lost time, that was all; for all those nights spent bored and brain-dead cooped up inside, an unread book cracked at the spine on your lap.

Of course, you knew you couldn’t tell him the real reason you were out so much. The truth as to why whenever he’d get home from the station, still in his heavy work gear and dirtied tank top, you weren’t there to greet him anymore.

You had- agonisingly- become the very cliché you once despised. Only it was so much worse for you, because not only was Clark your roommate; he was also your best friend. Your superhuman, super kind and super sexy best friend, that was so noble and good that he had made saving people his entire life's work.

When he wasn’t thousands of feet in the sky, scanning for danger, he was on call at the Metropolis Fire Department; half his bunker gear hanging at his waist. When he wasn’t pushing collapsing buildings upright, he was wading through them in full uniform; voice assertive, tone steady, leading his crew with such confidence you often wondered how nobody had put two and two together yet.

So, yeah. You’d become one of those. A victim of Clark's, of Superman's; a stereotypical case study for the exact trope you used to find ridiculous.

You watched him now from the comfort of your couch, TV remote on your lap. He'd given it to you well over thirty minutes ago, but this was the first morning you'd spent together all week; regardless of how painful it was, you didn't want to waste it absent-mindedly flicking through channels you couldn't give less of a crap about. You owed him this, at least; your full, undivided attention.

"So," Clark started, pushing his glasses up with a soapy knuckle. You didn't know why he still wore them around you; it wasn't like they worked on you anymore. "How's work going?"

"You already asked me that,"

"Am I not allowed to ask you again?" he said rhetorically. You could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Humour me, please. I like hearing you talk."

For a second, your heart threatened to do that thing again; that weird, excruciating throb, a reaction to Clark doing or saying literally anything.

You shoved it to the back of your mind, fast.

"There's nothing more to say," your shrug was light, "I... had a bagel for lunch,"

"Riveting."

"Broke the printer, but fixed it again..."

"Proud of you."

"...And Lois helped me rewrite a article,"

"That your emotional friend?"

"No," you frowned, "That's Jimmy."

"Ah." Clark nodded, drying his hands on the lemon-printed tea towel beside him. He shifted to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with an easy curiosity. “And what article was Lois helping you with?”

Heat crept up your neck, and you ducked your gaze, suddenly fascinated with anything that wasn’t Clark’s eyes.

Because what began as a straightforward, neutral piece on the city’s social and political landscape had… evolved. First, into a decidedly not biased profile of Metropolis’s greatest protector- Clark’s caped counterpart, Superman.

And then, somehow, without your consent or control, it spiralled further. The boring filler article mutated into a full-blown, fifteen-thousand-word love letter to Superman’s legacy; the fit of his suit, the meaning of the symbol on his chest and- embarrassingly- whatever miracle hair product kept his curls in place.

Lois helped you with every unnecessary amendment; eyebrow permanently raised, pen cap chewed to pulp between her teeth. Someone's got a crush, she'd muttered, tapping the backspace button with a force that made you wince every time.

"Uh... it's just... a human interest piece," you lied, giving him an unconvincing smile. Thankfully, Clark didn't seem to notice.

"Well, when it gets front page, and your name's in the 'byline'," he smiled, fingers mimicking quotation marks at his correct use of journalist jargon, "I expect to be the very first person to read it. Before all of Metropolis. Deal?"

Your shoulders relaxed. A light laugh escaped your lips. He came over, holding out a massive pinky finger, waiting for yours to hook around it.

You did so, trying to ignore the red-hot temperature of your face that felt anything but appropriate.

"Deal."

Clark left not long after, flashing you a charming smile and making you promise- again- to call if you needed anything. Not that you ever would; he was always so busy at the station that you’d feel guilty letting the phone ring for more than a second.

You'd visited him before. Once. Three years ago, when you first moved in and saw that Clark had left his phone at home. You were about to leave, but the screen flashed with fifteen missed calls from a Ma and the guilt tugged at you hard enough that you detoured to the station on your way to brunch to hand it over.

You'd been wearing something tight and black with boots to match, the outfit a direct correlation to the boozy afternoon you were determined to have. At this point, Clark was nothing more than your new roommate; not even a friend yet, though he greeted you with freshly baked cookies and a lovely welcome card on your first official moving-in day.

And yet, he insisted on taking you to brunch. During work hours- his work hours. In the fire engine.

"Uh, Chief," one of the burly men- Jason, had said, scratching the nape of his neck as Clark opened the door for you and insisted you get in. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

"I'll be back in twenty, bud," Clark had said dismissively, though his voice still held that kind, steady tone. "Just down to the bar and back, okay? Don't want the lady walking alone."

It was 1pm. Daylight. On a very busy Saturday, mind you.

Yet you kept your mouth shut, legs dangling over the oversized seat of the engine, your body nothing but a bundle of nerves under all that buzz.

You both spent the ride talking, getting to know each other, as if you hadn't just moved the last of your things in the night before. You learnt that Clark was a Fire Chief, a life-long dream of his, and grew up in Kansas; he learnt that you were a reporter at The Daily Planet, fresh-faced and new, one day hoping to score an exclusive interview with someone exciting- someone like Superman.

He'd bitten his lip to keep from smiling. Months later, when he finally told you about his secret, you'd tried to swallow the embarrassment of swooning over him, to him, countless times before. He'd laughed, shook his head, nudged your shoulder and told you not to be silly. It was fine.

But it didn't feel fine. It felt intimate; knowing something like this about Clark. Flashes of him fighting whatever threat decided to grace the city that day made your heart do things it never had before, and the worst part was that he had no idea.

On the bright side, now you didn't worry so much when he ran into burning buildings. You knew he could take it, his biggest problem being restraint. It was the relentless space demons that invaded the earth every two weeks that got you.

"You should tell him," Jimmy said nonchalantly over the phone, and you envisioned him still in his bed; hair a mess, legs dangling off the side, no plans to move anytime soon to get his day off started.

You were all like that on your days away from the Planet. Overly-punctual and typically-structured Lois was probably still asleep, and it was almost lunchtime.

"I am not doing that,"

"You know that thing where you call me, ask me for advice, and don't take it?" he asked, "Yeah, maybe let's not do that anymore,"

You groaned, leaning your head back against the sofa. You hadn't moved since Clark left; you couldn't bring yourself to. "I'm sorry, I know, I need to shut up. I'm just..."

"In love. It's gross, I hate seeing you this way,"

"Wow. Thanks."

"I just think maybe you need a distraction. I keep telling you, I have this friend-"

You sighed, "Jimmy, I am not letting you set me up with an actor. They're the worst!"

"But Jack's nice-"

"Jimmy."

"You're no fun. When was the last time you even went on a date?"

"...Uh..."

"When was the last time Clark went on a date?"

"What?" you glared at nothing, "Why would you ask me that?"

"Answer the question."

You tried to remember. It was difficult; your days with Clark were all starting to merge into one and you couldn't really pinpoint when he'd last been out with a woman other than you- or if he even had since you moved in.

It definitely wasn't because of the lack of interest; everybody wanted Clark Kent. You weren’t clueless. He was a catch, and literally every citizen in Metropolis was well aware. The man was unfairly attractive, an actual gentleman, and spent his days protecting the city in more ways than one.

If Clark wasn’t being lured to fake emergencies so he could be eye candy at some bachelorette party, Superman was being thirst-tweeted under the hashtag #SuperDick. You couldn't win.

You thought, maybe he was just being considerate, refusing to bring a date home when he knew you'd be there just in case it made them- or even you- feel weird. Maybe he went to their places instead. Maybe, you cringed, not wanting to think about it but having no choice- he took them to the fire engine.

You gagged. Jimmy startled.

"What the-"

"Jimmy. I need to get over him."

"Atta girl," he yawned, the phone rustling to indicate movement on the other line, "Let's do this. Are you free tonight?"

You fiddled with the sleeves of your hoodie- Clark's, actually, he'd claimed it was too small for him now and looked better on you- and swallowed.

"Y-Yeah. I'm free."

"Great. So is Jack," you could hear his smug smirk over the phone, "you're gonna love him."

Nothing looked right. Your clothes felt foreign, and every lip combination you used to swear by now washed you out like you’d lined your mouth with grey pencil.

You were in the middle of re-applying your fifth different shade of lip gloss when you heard the front door open and close.

"Honey," Clark joked, the call-out his usual greeting whenever he could smell your perfume lingering in the hallway and knew you were home. "I'm ho-"

He stopped just short of your doorway, voice and walk clipped.

You made eye contact with him through the mirror you were leaning into, smile small as his eyebrows did a slight raise.

He looked good.

Really good.

You felt like slamming your head into the glass.

"Hey, you." you managed.

"You..." Clark blinked. For a second, he looked breathless, eyes scanning the way your dress clung to every curve of your body- just right. Paired with your most expensive pair of heels, an early birthday present to yourself that you'd bought just last month.

Clark knew; he loved the way they looked on you. He loved this combination specifically on you.

You'd made sure. If this date was a pre-cursor to any more, you wanted to market yourself just right. With hopes of it maybe- maybe- finally getting you over your heart-wrenching crush on your hunky roommate, who was currently looking at you in a way you didn't have time to decipher right now.

"...You look beautiful."

"As do you," you replied coolly, gesturing to the way the day's dirt clung onto the white tank top he always wore under his uniform. Somehow, some way, he made it work. He made it look sexy.

"No," Clark shook his head, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. "Don't do that. Don't shrug it off,"

"I'm not doing anything," you pressed your lips together, the pigment filling every line. It wasn't perfect by any means- but it would have to do.

"Better not be. Because you look gorgeous," he said softly, allowing his eyes to hover over you once more before dropping them. You watched as he pushed himself off of the frame, turning back to make his way to the living room. "You girls heading out somewhere fancy? Someone's birthday?"

"Actually," you went to bite your lip, the nerves suddenly bubbling up now, but decided against it; your $35 gloss would never forgive you. "I've got a date."

You hadn't been looking where you were going. As soon as the words left your mouth, your body crashed into something strong; unmoving, something that had halted movement entirely.

You went colliding into the back of Clark. A gasp left your mouth and you wobbled slightly, using the wall to steady yourself.

"Clark!"

"You've got a date?"

He shot out a hand to steady you, but the glare on your face stayed. If he'd stopped any quicker, there would have been $2 worth of a lip print right on his tank.

"Yes. I do,"

"With who?"

Your shoulders lifted in a shrug, "This guy that Jimmy knows,"

"Name?"

"Jack?"

"Surname,"

"...Uh..."

"You don't even know his full name?"

"I-I'll ask him!"

"So what I'm hearing is, you don't know this man,"

"It's literally a first date."

"That could turn into a second, a third."

"People do it all the time, Clark," you said in exasperation, sliding past him to grab your bag and double check that you had everything. "It's a very normal thing for people to do. Blind dates,"

He ignored your comment, "What does he look like?" you stayed silent, and his eyes widened. "You don't even know what he looks like?"

"It's a blind date!" your voice went up a pitch. Clark's lips opened like he wanted to say something else, but pursed shut again.

He couldn't believe you. You could tell, his expression not subtle in the slightest.

What you couldn't quite grasp was why he cared so much. It was your day off, you were heading out for the night, your typical weekend routine- what did it matter if it wasn't with your friends, but with a date instead?

You let yourself believe it meant something deeper than what it was. Just for a second. Just while Clark was looking at you like this, like you'd hung the stars and exploded the moon all in the same breath.

"You'll be careful?" his gaze bore into you, softened now under the tension. You nodded quickly. "And you'll call me if anything happens? Anything. Even if you're just bored and don't know how to get out of it,"

You let out a nervous chuckle, but Clark wasn't laughing. You cleared your throat, "Yes, Clark. I'll call you if he's anything other than the perfect gentleman."

He held up a hand. Your heart melted at the sight of his pinky, "Promise me."

You hooked your own through out, a tiny little ring adorning your own. It looked tiny compared to his. "I promise you."

That's when the doorbell rang, and you found yourself frozen in place.

Clark had had the worst day of his entire life.

Six false alarms. Three of them, on complete opposite ends of the city; the others quite obvious jobs for the police. Guy kept blowing up his phone, accusing him of ignoring them, of not caring- when all he'd needed was Superman's vote on whether The Justice Gang was the official name or whether League would be a better fit like Terrific insisted.

And to top it all off? You. Getting all dolled up, his favourite shade of gloss adorning your lips, those heels that always made him linger too long on your legs filling his mind and corrupting his vision.

And none of it was even for him.

"Jack," your date had grinned, blue eyes identical to Clark's but lacking the shine when he looked at you. "Jack Castello, nice to meet you. I'll be sure to have her back before 10." he joked.

Clark shook his hand, squeezed a bit too hard- naturally. He watched as the other man winced but ultimately said nothing, and you left; without so much as a second glance back at him.

He leant against the kitchen counter, jaw clenched. He'd been like that for a good hour now; just stood there, unmoving, gaze burning metaphorical holes in the floor. He was waiting, though he didn't know what for.

For you to come back? To realise that it was a mistake? To burst through the door, heels in your hand again, ready for another infamous round of pancakes, because you'd ditched the date and took a detour to find your friends' instead.

He swallowed. Wishful thinking.

Truthfully, Clark had no idea why he was so surprised- better yet, why he didn't see this coming.

You were barely ever home anymore. You rarely ever called him when you needed something, not like you used to, even though you knew he'd drop everything to get to you. You stopped putting your legs in his lap when you sat on the sofa together, and it didn't seem like you cared all that much whenever he was late to your move nights. Before, you'd huff, and he'd have to make it up to you with a bunch of your favourite snacks and the promise of doing better next time.

Sometimes, Clark would even be late on purpose. It gave him a reason to provide for you without all the confusion as to why.

He knew it wasn't sustainable. That lines were blurring between you both, black and white areas merging into grey, and that his true feelings could never come to light. You probably didn't feel the same. And he knew for a fact that he wouldn't survive that confession.

But for that period, for those months where it felt like you were both something; a unit that had everything but a label and locked lips, well... it had been the best time of his life.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking the glasses he'd put on, just for Jack, off. There was a knot in his shoulders he couldn't shake, and the apartment felt emptier somehow; weightless without you in it.

He wondered how it was going. You'd been out for a while now, definitely long enough to pass judgment on your date. Why hadn't you called him? Why hadn't you let him know how you were doing? You'd pinky-promised, for god's sake.

Clark's stomach lurched at the other possibility. What if you were actually having a great time- an amazing time? What if Jack had taken you to your favourite restaurant without knowing, and you'd lit up at the thought of that one pasta dish you loved because it had been a while since Clark picked it up for you- and what if right now, in this very instance, you were leaning forward, lips puckered, cleavage exposed, and what if he was looking at them? Clark would kill him, kill him dead, because how dare he, the nerve of that man.

Most importantly, what if right now, in this very moment in time, you'd already made up your mind- and Clark had unknowingly lost privileges he'd been so comfortable basking in up until this point?

He blinked the thought away, in turn allowing the red in his eyes to fade. The last thing he needed tonight was a hole in the kitchen counter.

After what felt like forever, Clark willed himself to move. He had a shower, ate something, drank enough coffee to wake him up. He didn't want to risk missing you when you came home; he wanted to know everything.

An hour passed. Then two. Then- not that Clark was counting- three and a half.

It was nearing four hours when he could finally feel your heartbeat coming up the stairs, could smell the sweet vanilla perfume you loved to wear before going out. He perked up on the sofa like a dog who'd just heard all of his favourite words in the same sentence.

Regardless, he kept his head down; book open on his lap, the words jumping off of the page. He tried to still his own heartbeat, tried not to imagine you stumbling in through the door with Jack holding your waist, kissing your neck, as you tugged him breathlessly towards your room-

"Hey," your voice snapped him out of his daydream, and his head shot up, eyes squinting in the light. He braced himself, ready for an uncontrolled gush on how well your date went and how you'd already set up another one.

Only, when he looked up, you were hovering in the hallway; smile small, eyes tired. The gloss on your lips untouched.

Sad.

Immediately, Clark was on his feet. He had no time to feel relief before he walked over, embracing you in such a crushing hug that for a split second, you struggled to breathe. He held you there for a bit, broad shoulders engulfing your entire body. You relaxed against him, arms snaking around his much bigger frame.

You were still in your heels; indicating that wherever Jack had taken you thankfully didn't involve a lot of standing.

Clark breathed you in. After a while, he murmured into your hair. "You okay?"

You didn't answer him right away. You just let your head fall onto his chest, listening to his heartbeat, taking him in.

"Mhm."

"Did you..." he swallowed, thumb rubbing smoothly against your skin. "Did you have a good time?"

You paused. He felt the hesitation, silently urging you not to lie to him.

"Yes." you finally replied. And although your expression said otherwise, he knew you were telling the truth.

Clark tried to ignore the way his heart cracked, just a little.

Because at the end of the day, he didn't own you. He had no claim over you other than being your roommate, one of your closest friends; someone temporary to come home to until you found someone better to fill the space.

And that alone broke him.

Because this- you, him, in the apartment you both shared, your weekend breakfast traditions and nights spent watching something he never paid attention to, just to be close to each other- well, this was it for him.

It was enough.

He'd like it to be more, of course he did. A perfect world would be coming home to you, unable to wait until he was settled before loving you in the way he'd thought about all day. He wouldn't let you go. He'd kiss you on the sofa, on the counter, against the window- and he'd do more, too. In those places exactly.

But if it was between sitting in silence and getting to keep what you both had for a little longer, versus the latter of losing you to someone else completely; Clark knew which one he'd rather.

"Then why are you so upset?" he mumbled lowly, voice a grumble against you. You swallowed again, and he could practically see the cogs in your head turning.

"I'm not upset."

"Could have fooled me."

"It was just... different."

"Never thought you'd be sad over 'different'."

Your head didn’t lift from his chest, not right away.

But he felt it- your pulse hitching, your breath growing shallow. He could track every shift inside you, feel the weight of each one cleaving straight through him.

Clark forced a smile, even though you couldn't see it. "Was he... nice?" he asked softly, hoping the calm in his voice hid the edge in it.

You stiffened against him. Just barely, but he caught it.

"Yeah," you murmured. "He was. He was very nice."

Clark’s jaw flexed. Nice. Jack was very nice. Nice enough to take you out. Nice enough to make you laugh. Nice enough to give you that small, tired smile you walked in with.

Nice enough to not be him.

"A gentleman?"

You let out a light, almost non existant laugh. "I guess,"

"Hm."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still resting on your arms. The silence felt unbearable now; aching to be filled with talk, about your night and his.

"You don't look too sure,"

The confusion on your face stretched slowly, "W-What?"

You could sense the questions forming in him before he spoke, like they pushed at the air around you. His jaw clenched once, subtle but sharp, as if he were choosing his words carefully.

Or rather, choosing the ones he didn’t want to ask.

"Are you oka-"

“Did he pull your chair out?” Clark asked evenly then, knowing once he started, he'd barely be able to stop. “Open doors for you?”

You blinked, his tone change catching you off guard. “Clark-”

His words came out structured and steady, as if he'd rehearsed them thousands of times in his head before. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't bring himself to.

“Did he order for you?” his voice dipped even lower. “Did he pour your wine? The one you like?"

Your lips parted. “Why are you-?”

“Did he make you feel good?” the words were quiet, almost painfully so. And he hated himself for how much he needed the answer, because you were currently looking at him like he'd said something insane. "When you were there with him today- wherever you went. Did he make you feel like he should?" your breath stuttered in your chest.

He felt that, too.

You looked away, suddenly flustered. Clark's fingers flexed at his sides, a break from the harsh clench.

"Are you... are you seeing him again?"

“I don’t know yet,” you muttered, cheeks warming, brain a fog. “Maybe. Maybe I will, or- I don't know, Clark. Why does it even matter to you?”

That landed like a punch.

Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. He was drawn in, pulled in; helpless against the gravity that was only ever you.

You backed up a little, not out of fear but out of knowing exactly what would happen if he got too close: you'd suddenly forget how to breathe.

He followed through with it anyway.

Your heartbeat kicked up- sharp, loud, panicked. He wondered if it was the thoughts of Jack, or residual guilt for not calling him while you were out.

But for you, it was everything. Desire tangled in irritation, tangled in something you didn’t dare name after a full evening trying to get rid of it.

He swallowed, gaze dropping to your lips for a split second too long.

"Your heart," Clark murmured, the words brushing against your cheek like a touch. "I can hear it."

You froze.

"Is that…" his voice thickened. "Is that what it sounded like for him?"

Your eyes flashed.

"Clark," your voice broke, but your tone bordered on a warning. "Stop listening to my heart."

He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

"It’s all I listen to." he said then, pained.

A thick stillness wrapped around you both, thick with nerves, sick with heat.

Your lashes fluttered, breath hitching again. When Clark's hand brushed your wrist, barely there, he saw the slight twitch in your neck as you swallowed.

And God, he thought about it. About leaning in that last inch. About finally tasting the thing he’d been starving for since the day you moved in. About claiming something he’d spent years thinking about, dreaming of, chasing.

For a heartbeat, he swore you leaned in, too.

Your eyes flicked to his mouth, and that was almost enough. His forehead dipped closer to yours, a singular curl flopping forward, the world narrowing down to only the tiny space between you.

Then, Clark’s chest caved. A quiet, shaky exhale. Something breaking. Something giving up.

He didn’t step far, but he did move back. Just far enough that he couldn’t feel your breath anymore. His voice, when it finally came, was rough at the edges.

"You… you should call him," Clark whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. "If you want another date."

You didn’t move. You just stared at him, breath caught, his words echoing in the space where his closeness had been a second ago. The air still felt warm from him, your pulse still thundering from how near he’d gotten- near enough to kiss you, near enough to ruin the very foundation you'd spent the past four hours trying to tear down.

Clark stepped back like the ground beneath him had given out, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall, shoulders tense, disappearing into the dim apartment like he was running from something. His bedroom door shut quietly, but it might as well have slammed.

He pressed his back to the wood once it closed, breath shaking out of him, hands braced against his knees as the reality of it hit him all at once.

What the hell did he just do?