writinginthenameof

The cold metal of the fire escape stairs bit straight through the fabric of your jeans, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Honestly, the physical discomfort was almost a relief. It was a distraction from the dull, heavy ache that had been sitting in your chest for the last three hours… No, the last three months. You pulled your knees up to your chest, tucking your chin into the damp collar of your sweater, and let out a shaky, wet breath that shuddered through your entire frame.

Stupid feelings. Stupid timing. Stupid, dying relationship.

You hadn’t even had the energy to fight with him today. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? When the screaming stopped and the door-slamming stopped, and all you were left with was the quiet, suffocating rot of something that used to be beautiful.

He had looked at you from across the living room with those vacant, exhausted eyes, and you had realized, with a sickening jolt of clarity, that neither of you had the strength to pack a bag. You were just two ghosts haunting a lease that didn’t end until spring.

So, you had walked out.

You hadn’t even grabbed a proper coat, just scrambled down the back hallway of your building and pushed through the heavy door to the fire escape, looking for a sliver of air that didn’t feel like it was suffocating you with the heavy silence and the taste of stale takeout.

And then, you had started crying. Not the pretty, cinematic kind of crying where a single tear slips down a perfectly clean cheek. No, this was the ugly, snotty, throat-burning kind. Your shoulders shook so hard they hit the iron railing behind you with a dull clank, the sound echoing down into the shadowy, narrow alleyway below.

You fumbled in your pockets for a tissue only to find one you weren’t sure was used yet, but you wiped your nose with it anyway, feeling pathetic. You’re a grown adult, sitting on a dirty fire escape in the middle of Metropolis, weeping into your knees because you didn’t know how to tell a man you’d spent three years with that you didn’t want to look at his face anymore.

“Rough night?”

The voice didn’t come from the window to your apartment. It didn’t come from the alley below, either.

It came from the air.

Clark, or rather, Superman had been gliding over the Midtown district when he heard it.

Usually, the sounds of the afternoon city were a chaotic wash. The sirens three miles north, the low rumble of the subway, the chatter of late-lunch diners on the avenues. He had learned to tune most of it out, filtering the background noise of eight million lives down to a gentle, steady hum.

But then, he heard the stutter amidst it all.

It was a heartbeat. It wasn’t the fast, panicked thump of someone being cornered in an alley, nor the sluggish, erratic rhythm of a medical emergency. It was heavy and broken. A stuttering, ragged gasp, followed by a quiet, desperate sob that sounded so utterly exhausted it made him pause mid-air, his cape snapping softly in the wind.

He drifted closer, following the sound with a quiet precision. He found you on a fire escape three stories up, tucked into a tight, defensive ball.

He didn’t want to scare you. He was wearing the suit. The bright red and blue that usually made people gasp, point, or freeze in awe. Sometimes, the suit was a shield; other times, it was a wall. Now, looking at the way you were shaking, he knew he had to be careful. He didn’t want to be a savior right now. He just wanted to be a neighbor. To listen. Helping others sometimes didn’t mean great heroic gestures, if people allowed him to.

Your wide, tear-streaked eyes snapped up to meet his, your breath hitched. You quickly tried to wipe the dampness from your cheeks with the cuffs of your sweater, mortified to be caught in such a raw, broken state.

Your brain, currently scrambled by grief and a lack of oxygen, could only process a few things at a time. One: Even sitting down, slouching on a dirty metal step, he looked like he could easily lift a city bus as easily as you’ve seen on TV and newspapers front-pages. And Two: He had a smudge of soot on his left shoulder, and his blue eyes looked incredibly, unbelievably tired, something you’d never associate with the flawless image the media projected.

He descended slowly, letting his boots make a deliberate, soft thud as they touched the metal landing a few steps below you. The metal of the stairs, with its old, rusted hinges, groaned with his weight. He kept his hands at his sides, slumping his broad shoulders slightly in a subconscious effort to make himself look smaller, less imposing.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your raw throat. You looked down at your knees, suddenly hyper-aware of how pathetic you must look. "I didn’t...” You try to swallow around the tears that seem to be suffocating you. “I didn’t think anyone would hear me out here. I can go back inside."

He didn’t smile his heroic, front-page smile. He just gave you a quiet, apologetic look and slowly reached behind him. He sat down on the precarious iron step, three stairs below you, with his back pressed against the damp wall. He gathered the ends of his heavy, red cape, tucking them carefully over his lap.

“Don't apologize," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble that was surprisingly gentle. “And please, don't go back inside on my account. I can leave if you'd prefer to be alone. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

You let out a quiet, weary breath, the tiny remnant of a laugh dying before it could even start. "No. It's... it's fine. It's just a lot to take in." You looked down at your hands, picking at a loose thread on your sweater. "I'm just… embarrassed, I guess. You probably have a million actual emergencies to tend to, and I'm... well…" You shrug.

He leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at his hands instead of you, playing with his fingers for a moment. “There are always emergencies.” He starts slowly, “And there are… many different types of emergencies,” He tilts his head to look up at you again. “You sounded like you’re carrying a weight too heavy to hold by yourself. I thought, perhaps, you needed my help the most now.”

“I’m fine,” you lied softly. It was a reflex. You’d been saying it to your coworkers, to your family, to him for months. “Just... normal things. Stupid, everyday things."

“The everyday things are usually the hardest,” he said softly.

You looked away, staring down at the cracked pavement of the alley below. Tears fall down your cheek and you brush them off quickly. The wind blew a stray lock of hair across your sticky face, and you tucked it behind your ear with a slow, heavy hand.

“You can cry, you know?” He says quietly, his voice soft. You lower your head, shaking it, though more tears fall on their own accord and you repeatedly try to brush it off with your sleeves.

“I wish I came with an utility belt and tissues,” he joked poorly, but it was enough to make you chuckle among the tears. Your lips were pulled in a feeble smile until you it trembled and dissolved into a frown.

You felt a deep, quiet ache of humiliation. Here was the man who saved the world on a weekly basis, sitting on your disgusting fire escape, and you were falling apart because of a quiet apartment and a love that had run out of air. It felt so incredibly small in the grand scheme of things, yet it was crushing you all the same.

“My relationship is dying,” you said.

The words came out before you could stop them. They were quiet, heavy, and completely lacking in grace. You closed your eyes, leaning your head back on the cold iron railing, your felt it pressing uncomfortable through your hair, on your skull.

You waited for the well-meaning, polite platitudes, the kind of shallow comfort people offered when they wanted to be nice but didn't actually want to carry any of your burden. You expected him to give you a gentle, heroic reassurance before flying off to find a real problem.

But he didn’t.

He just let the silence stretch between you for a long, heavy moment. The distant hum of traffic on Broadway filled the gap, quiet and steady.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the simplicity of his voice caught you off guard. He wasn’t trying to offer a quick fix or a superficial band-aid. He was just acknowledging the grief. “That’s a really lonely kind of pain.”

Your chest tightened, a fresh wave of heat prickling behind your eyes. Damn it. You had managed to stop crying for thirty seconds, and his quiet empathy was threatening to tear right through your fragile defenses.

“It’s just so…” You pause trying to control your voice swallowed in grief and held back tears, “…exhausting,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

You close your eyes tight, trying to hold back your tears, licking your lips salty with tears and pressing them together to stop a sob that kept bubbling up your throat. When you open your eyes, you look at the bright blue sky above you. Such a beautiful, depressing day.

“We’ve been together for three years. And it’s not even like... he did something awful. He didn’t cheat. He doesn’t hit me. He’s just... gone. He’s in the other room right now, and he’s a million miles away. We’re just going through the motions, and I’m so tired of trying to drag a dead horse across the finish line.”

You ranted. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. It all came pouring out of you like a dam breaking. All the resentment, the quiet dinners where the only sound was the scraping of forks, the way he stopped asking how your day was, the terrifying realization that you were wasting your twenties on a man who looked at you like a chore.

You talked about how hard it was to let go of the future you’d planned, how terrifying it was to think about starting over in a city that felt so big and hostile.

And Superman just sat there.

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t look at his wrist, or look up at the sky as if listening for a distant disaster. He kept his eyes on you, his head tilted slightly, his posture completely relaxed. Every now and then, he would let out a low, sympathetic hum, or nod his head, his face softening with an empathy that felt so heavy, so solid, it practically radiated off him.

He watched the way your fingers dug into the fabric of your jeans as you spoke, your knuckles white.

He could hear your heart beating too fast, but the ragged, desperate edge was starting to smooth out as you let the words go. He felt a quiet, protective ache settle deep in his chest. It wasn’t the urge to fight a villain or fly you to safety, it was the simple, deeply human desire to to help lessen the pain.

But he didn’t move. He kept his hands strictly to himself.

“It’s like I’m invisible,” you said, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper as you finally ran out of breath. You looked up at him, your eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. “Am I crazy? Is it always like this? Do people just... stay in things because they’re comfortable, and I’m just too weak to handle it?”

“No,” Clark said immediately, his voice firm but incredibly gentle. He met your gaze, holding it with a steady, quiet intensity. “You’re not crazy. And you’re definitely not weak.”

He shifted slightly on the step, his shoulder dragging against the wall. “It takes a lot of courage to admit when something is broken. Especially when it’s comfortable.”

You let out a small, shaky breath, your gaze dropping to his hands. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he admitted, a quiet, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. “I’m... pretty familiar with trying to force things to work when they aren’t meant to. Sometimes,” he pauses, breathing out for a moment, sorting his thoughts and his words before he opens his mouth again, “we want something so badly. We want them to be right so much that we ignore the truth right in front of us. But you can’t build a home on a foundation that’s already crumbled.”

You stared at him, and for a second, the heavy, grief-laden atmosphere between them shifted. The air felt thick, charged with a strange, sudden warmth.

He noticed the slight shiver that went through your shoulders. The autumn wind was picking up, sweeping down the alleyway and biting through your thin sweater.

“You’re freezing,” he noted softly.

“I should probably go back inside,” you murmured, though the thought of returning to that quiet apartment made your stomach turn.

He nodded, his blue eyes softening with a quiet, lingering look that made your heart do a strange, unexpected flip. “Yeah. It’s cold out here.” He paused. “But... maybe don’t worry about dinner tonight. Just get some rest. Deal with the rest of it tomorrow.”

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the exhaustion finally giving way to a small spark of warmth. “Is that your official superhero advice?”

“Just neighborly advice,” he said, his own smile widening just a fraction. It wasn’t the perfect, plastic one on the billboards, but something warm, genuine, and a little bit shy.

You stood up slowly, your legs stiff from the cold metal steps, he stood up too and offered you his hand for balance. Somehow, you felt lighter. The grief was still there, a heavy knot in your belly, but the suffocating tightness in your chest had eased.

You looked at him, realizing you didn’t even know how to thank someone for this. For sitting on a dirty fire escape and listen to you cry.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For... not flying away.”

Clark’s expression softened. Something that made you believe he saw you, really saw you, not as a victim to be rescued, but as a person.

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me.”

He helped you move to the window to get inside your apartment.

“Careful with your head,” he said, making sure you’d get inside safely.

You looked outside to see him moving to the edge of the landing. He hovered an inch off the metal, his red cape billowing slightly in the wind.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

You told him, your voice barely more than a whisper in the afternoon air.

He repeated it, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a low, rumbly cadence that made your skin prickle. “It was nice to meet you. I hope... things get warmer for you soon. Don’t let anyone let you feel like you’re not strong, okay?”

“Thanks,” you managed to say, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m... I’m working on it.”

He gave you one last, lingering look, a brief smile and you stood u, pealing the curtains to look at him for a second as he rose into the air. He flew up the sky, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds of the Metropolis skyline.

You stood there, staring up at the open sky. It took you a while to close the window again. You felt a strange, quiet spark of anticipation blooming in your chest.

For the first time in months, you weren’t dreading the end of your relationship. There was the sadness of letting go of something you cherished for so long, but you were now also looking forward to whatever came next.

Clark could still hear the steady, quiet rhythm of your heartbeat, you seemed calmer now. Good. He felt relieved, amidst the latest push backs and criticisms of his actions, he just hoped he had done the right thing.

Copyright © by writinginthenameof. All rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, or translate this work.

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The Jedi Temple on Coruscant was a mountain of polished stone and cold, sterile light, designed to elevate the mind far above the chaotic, neon sprawl of the city below.

Yet, for all its grand halls and soaring spires, you always found its truest beauty in the quiet spaces. The narrow corridors leading to the secondary archives, the high balconies overlooking the southern hangars, and the glass-domed solariums where the air was always warm and smelled of damp earth.

As an apprentice of the Consular division, a ward of the archives your days were spent in the dim, blue-glowing labyrinths of historical texts. At eighteen, you had no Padawan braid, no master guiding your every footstep and you thanked the Maker for that.

You've always appreciated the quiet freedom your position allowed and detachment you're granted when the day is done. You saw the Jedi apprentices spending endless hours cross-legged on meditation mats, desperately trying to quiet their minds and purge themselves of turbulent feelings, and that was something you didn't have the time or the need for.

Your focus was grounded, practical, and busy. You had work to do, ancient texts to translate, corrupted holofiles to clean - and those usually where a pain in the ass -, and star-charts to organize which where always so much fun to go through.

Truth be told, you're quite critical of the Jedi, sure you appreciated the Order, but the more you worked near them the more you saw yourself rolling your dismissing their grand discourse as practiced afterthoughts. It was something to do with the way they'd march through the corridors with a warrior's stiff pride even before they had any right to.

And though you appreciated the names that has proven themselves worthy of such pride you've noticed they mostly held themselves more humbly than their Padawans who walked around with puffed out chests and nose scrapping the ceiling in their self-righteousness. They were your personal nightmare, you've witnessed how blind to nuances they could be... in your opinion. Of course.

And those were opinions you kept to yourself... mostly. In fact, that was your exact opinion the moment you met Obi-Wan.

It was a rainy afternoon in the East Wing of the Archives. You were standing on a squeaking repulsor-lift platform, stretching to adjust a high shelf of historical texts on the Mandalorian crusades. Below the aisle was empty, save for a single figure who had been lingering near the index terminals for the past twenty minutes.

He was eighteen, much like yourself, wearing the rough-spun, cream-colored tunics of a Padawan, the single braided cord of his hair draped over his right shoulder. By all accounts, he was a model apprentice.

He kept his boots polished, his lightsaber meticulously cleaned, and his posture rigidly straight. But you had noticed the way his fingers constantly twitched toward his belt, a nervous habit he tried to mask, a quiet restlessness that cracked his otherwise perfect facade.

It's not that you were observing him, but you did notice there was a demeanor in him that deviated from the usual attitude you usually saw in Padawans and that you'd go so far at times to call it snob-ish.

Obi-Wan stood with both feet planted on the ground, yes, but not with the self-importance of his peers. And, really, you're looking at him, but you find yourself looking a moment too long.

Suddenly, the repulsor-lift gave a sharp, metallic shudder. The platform tilted dangerously. You quickly shifted your weight fluidly to keep your balance. A heavy datapad slipped from your hand, tumbling toward the floor. A sharp gasp stole the air from your lungs, your eyes hot wide in panic, but before it could hit the stone floor, the datapad froze in mid-air.

You looked down. Obi-Wan stood with his right hand raised, fingers slightly curled, holding the heavy device in a steady, invisible telekinetic grip. His blue-gray eyes met yours, intense, solemn, and startlingly clear.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the low, electric hum of the archives and the distant drum of Coruscant rain against the high windows.

Slowly, Obi-Wan lowered his hand, guiding the datapad gently onto a nearby desk. He cleared his throat, his posture stiffening back into a perfect, formal stance as if he hadn't just saved your work from shattering.

"You should have the maintenance droids recalibrate the lift's stabilizers," he said. His voice was polished, formal, carrying the precise, clipped cadence of Temple training. "It's a hazard."

You lowered the platform, stepping off onto the solid floor. Your soft-soiled boots made no sound against the stone. You picked up the datapad, checking the screen before looking back up at him. "The droids have more important things to do than listen to my lift complain, Padawan Kenobi. But thank you for the save."

He blinked, a slight, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossing his face at the sound of his name. "You know who I am?"

"Everyone knows the apprentice of Qui-Gon Jinn," you said, a soft, teasing pull at the corner of your mouth. "He's rather hard to miss. And you're always tucked away in the philosophy alcoves, looking like you're trying to memorize the entire Jedi Code by sheer force of will."

A faint, barely visible wash of color touched his cheeks. He adjusted the leather cuff on his wrist, that nervous twitch again, looking down for a brief second before locking his gaze back onto yours. "A Jedi must hold the Code in their heart. It is the only way to quiet the mind."

"Is your mind very loud, then?" you asked quietly.

The question caught him off guard. His jaw tightened, the polite, defensive walls of his training sliding instantly back into place. "My mind is as clear as my Master requires it to be."

Ah. There it is, you thought, and a smirk pulled your lips ever so subtly on one side. You could tell you had pushed too far, hitting a raw nerve he wasn't prepared to show to a stranger. "I didn't mean any offense."

Obi-Wan stared at you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to decipher an ancient, forgotten text without a translation key.

"No offense taken," he murmured, his voice softer now, losing its rigid, formal edge.

Obi-Wan shifted his weight, his hand dropping from his leather cuff to rest near his belt. For a moment, he looked as if he might retreat entirely, his mouth opening to offer another polite, empty dismissal. But something about your easy, unbothered posture seemed to keep him anchored.

Obi-Wan shifted his weight, his hand dropping from his leather cuff to rest near his belt. For a moment, he looked as if he might retreat entirely, his mouth opening to offer another polite, empty dismissal.

But he didn't.

To Obi-Wan, the world was usually a cacophony of quiet anxieties, his own mind a constant, turbulent storm he fought daily to subdue under Qui-Gon’s demanding, unorthodox tutelage.

To master the quiet of his mind was a personal, unnerving struggle of his, though he never admitted. But here you are, pointing out so clearly what he'd otherwise mask so well. Touching the exposed nerve so bluntly.

Perhaps in his unquietness he rushed to protect his pride, he admitted, although soon after he felt the shame fall into place.

"Are you looking for anything... specific?" you asked, your eyes flicking to the empty terminal behind him, then back to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

Obi-Wan felt shame slide into place. He turned to look at you. There was something about the strange, quiet static that hummed in the space between you. He did not recognize it, yet intrigued him, something he barely paid attention to before, but if he thought about it, it was the very thing that got him astray in the first place.

Something about his usual tightly coiled energy, and racing thoughts, usually buzzing like a live wire, found a bizarre, soothing equilibrium against your easy, unbothered posture.

It was a subtle, delicate movement in the space between you and him. Something so faint and undiscerning he almost missed in the chaotic set of his uncertainties.

"I was looking for the translation of the Shili texts," he admitted, his voice quiet, his boots shifting on the spot as he turned to look at you. "The ones concerning the early schisms of the Order. My Master... he believes the Council's current interpretation is somewhat narrow. I wanted to see the original translations."

A soft, genuine smile touched your face. This was your territory, the quiet history the Jedi so often ignored in favor of their grand doctrines. "The Togruta translations?" He nodded. "Those aren't in the main index. The Temple archivists filed them under 'apocrypha' fifty years ago because they didn't align with the Council's lessons on emotional detachment."

He blinked, clearly surprised by your sharp knowledge, and perhaps a little surprised by your bluntness. "They filed them away? But history shouldn't be hidden."

"It's not hidden," you said. "Just misplaced. I know exactly which shelf they're on. I could find them for you, if you'd like."

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling beneath his cream-colored tunics, he tried to place this feeling, the tether he knew to be there, though he missed completely every time he traced it somewhere.

He wasn't so interested in the translations anymore, his eyes searched yours while at his center he tried and failed to trace the origin of this thin, delicate connection. His feet moved ever so softly on the floor, turning to look at you, feeling the faint tug in his core disappear whenever he tried to reach for it.

"I should not trouble you," he said, the formal cadence that lacked the usual dismissal you've grown to know from Padawan and Jedi alike. Obi Wan grasp his hands in front of him. "And I should not seek out texts that have been deemed... unnecessary."

"Suit yourself, Padawan Kenobi."

He held your gaze for a fraction of a second longer than was considered polite, his blue-gray eyes tracing trying to grasp what he could've been missing, his eyes observed yours for a second. Sharp, intelligent, observant and guarded, before he offered another small, shallow bow.

"Good luck with your lift... Apprentice."

You offered him a brief nod with a quick measured pull of your lips.

You watched as he turned and walked away while you stood there for a moment longer before going back to your duties.

The next day Obi-Wan found himself back in the Archives, not at his usual spot in the philosophy alcoves. He had been there for nearly an hour, a stack of untouched datapads piled beside him. His posture was rigidly straight, his eyes fixed on the blue glow of his screen as if he were memorizing the coordinates of a star system.

You were quietly sorting a stack of incoming data-slates and answering occasional inquiries from visiting Consulars when the room was filled with the low-level hum of seeker droids and the soft, rhythmic rustle of robes.

You looked up just to see another Apprentice point them to your direction and you stopped as they made their way to you. With the corner of your eyes you could see the Chief Librarian trace their path to you with her eyes, the lines on her face rigid.

"How may I help you?" You asked when they identified you.

"We're here to service the East Wing repulsor-lift," he said, tapping the screen. "A work order came in. Says the lift's stabilizers are severely misaligned and posing an immediate hazard to archive personnel. We need you to guide us to the platform."

Your pitched your brow for a moment. You hadn't submitted any work order. The Temple archives were vast, and minor malfunctions were usually ignored for weeks unless a senior librarian or Jocasta Nu, the Chief Librarian, herself complained. It was a rule of thumb such thing never came from an Apprentice.

Your eyes instinctively flicked across the room toward a certain consulting terminal. Obi-Wan was still staring at his screen, completely motionless, but his fingers were twitching against his leather wrist cuff. The rapid, quiet friction of his thumb against the leather gave him away.

"Of course," you said politely. "Follow me. It's just through this aisle."

You stepped away from your task. As you guided the technician and the droids past the consulting stations, your path brought you directly behind Obi-Wan's chair.

As you closed the distance, his shoulders tensed. He focused on the terminal ahead of him with intense focus, eyes glazed and disassociated at the nonsense at his terminal.

The moment you passed by him, for a fraction of a second, his gaze drifted over his shoulder toward you, carrying a silent intent born from that faint connection he couldn't figure out just yet for being so faint and delicate. But the moment he felt you turning your head to meet his eyes, he looked away unsure if this looked as ridiculous as he felt.

You guided the droids to the lift, but your thoughts remained entirely anchored to the boy at the terminal. You observed as they worked on the repulsor-lift engine, your eyes drifting to Obi-Wan every now and then as his did to you.

"Is there anything I may help you with, Padawan Kenobi?" Jocasta's voice nearly startled him as his eyes had wandered to you and he didn't see her at his side.

He had a short pile of miscellaneous datapads on his station, the screen on a yet unrelated subject to those he had randomly selected. He didn't miss Jocasta's deep, obsidian black eyes take in the selection before him. Her tight smile was enough to let him know she was considering him a problem.

Your eyes caught on it, seeing when Jocasta's all-knowing eyes landed on you after being dismissed by him. You knew you were in trouble.

Obi-Wan saw as the maintenance robots left with the repulsor-lift. Your eyes caught his right before you were pulled aside by Jocasta and he felt something uncomfortable settle in his gut when time passed and you didn't come back.

When Obi-Wan returns the next day he spends a good amount of time looking around, he spends some time immersed in an aimless research. His eyes scanning the surroundings every now and then, he changes dataplates every few minutes as an excuse to look around the rows of shelves.

He doesn't see you in the archives for the next few days and grows worried.

"May I help you, Padawan Kenobi?"

He hears the soft-spoken tone at his back as he's walking between the farther rows of Archives. He turns seeing one of the Archivists. He smiles faintly at him to encourage him to speak.

"I'm looking for an Apprentice," he finds himself saying and the Archivist squints slightly at him.

The older archivist, a dry-faced Mirialan named Master Sulan, squinted closer, his dark eyes scanning the nervous tension radiating from the young Padawan. "There are dozens of apprentices assigned to the East Wing, Padawan Kenobi. Perhaps you could be more specific?"

Obi-Wan felt a familiar, uncomfortable warmth creep up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat, adjusting the sleeve of his outer robe with a stiff, practiced motion to hide his twitching fingers. "The... the one who was managing the secondary historical archives. Specifically, the Shili texts."

"Ah. The one who has a habit of leaving her terminal logs open," Master Sulan said, his voice flat and dry as old parchment. "She's currently unavailable."

"Unavailable?" Obi-Wan repeated before he could stop himself. The word came out sharper than he intended, cracking his carefully maintained composure.

He quickly softened his tone, trying to smooth over the sudden spike in his Force presence. "I only meant... she was assisting me with a rare translation. I had hoped to complete the research today."

"I see." Sulan tapped a slim finger against his data-tablet. "Well, she has been reassigned to deep-storage cataloging in the subterranean vaults for the next ten days."

A cold weight settled heavily in Obi-Wan's stomach. It was his fault. His clumsy attempt to fix her broken platform had drawn Jocasta Nu's sharp, unforgiving eyes directly to her.

He had wanted to help, to quiet his own lingering thoughts about her by doing something tangible, but his interference had only gotten her punished.

"I... see," Obi-Wan murmured. His fingers drifted back toward his belt, his thumb finding the worn leather of his wrist cuff and rubbing it in a frantic, silent rhythm. "Thank you, Master."

"The Force favors patience, Padawan," Sulan said, his eyes lingering on Obi-Wan’s restless hands before dismissing him. "Perhaps you should consult the standard philosophy texts in the meantime."

Obi-Wan offered a tight, formal bow and retreated, his boots clicking quietly against the cold stone.

For the next five days, the Temple felt exceptionally vast and remarkably empty.

Obi-Wan sat in the high gardens during his meditation hours, his legs crossed, his hands resting on his knees. He breathed in the damp, heavy scent of the greenhouse flora, trying to submerge himself in the living Force.

There is no emotion, there is peace, he repeated in his mind, but the words felt hollow, like a dry wind whistling through a canyon. Every time he reached out into the Force, searching for a quiet equilibrium, his awareness drifted down, past the polished marble floors, past the soaring spires, toward the dark, cold underbelly of the Temple where the uncatalogued stone tablets were kept.

He tried to tell himself it was merely a curiosity. An apprentice's duty was none of his concern. Yet, his mind kept returning to the easy, completely unbothered way you carried yourself in a place that constantly demanded rigid, self-righteous perfection. You didn't look at him like he was Qui-Gon Jinn’s prized, anxious pupil. You just looked at him.

When you finally returned to the archives on the sixth day, Obi-Wan felt a sudden, sharp relief that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

You were sitting at your usual station, a massive stack of neglected data-slates piled high beside you. There's a smudge of gray carbon-dust on your left cheek, and your hair was pulled back in a loose, messy knot that would have made Jocasta Nu sigh in exasperation.

Obi-Wan stood at the entrance of the aisle for a moment, watching you work. He took a slow, grounding breath, smoothing down his tunics, before he stepped forward.

Your eyes flicked up at the sound of his approaching boots. You didn't stand, nor did you offer a formal bow. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, a familiar, teasing pull at the corner of your mouth.

"Well, if it isn't the savior of the East Wing," you said, your voice low, carrying that dry, quiet amusement he refuses to acknowledge he missed. "I hear the repulsor-lift is working beautifully now. A real triumph of modern engineering."

Obi-Wan stopped at your desk. The sheer relief of seeing you was instantly swallowed by a wave of intense guilt. He looked down at his polished boots, then back to your face, his blue-gray eyes searching yours.

"I am... deeply sorry," he said, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper. "I didn't mean to cause you trouble. The maintenance order... I only wished to ensure your safety. I didn't realize Madame Nu would..."

"Would banish me to the dark, dusty basement to count broken stone tablets?" You interrupted softly, your eyes softening just a fraction as you took in his rigid, miserable posture. You let out a quiet, huffed laugh, shaking your head. "Don't look so tragic, Padawan Kenobi. It wasn't your fault. Jocasta has been looking for an excuse to send me down there for weeks. She thinks my attitude lacks 'Jedi solemnity.'"

"Your attitude is... unconventional," Obi-Wan admitted, the corner of his own mouth twitching upward despite himself. "But it isn't a reason for punishment."

"It's fine," you said, leaning forward, resting your elbows on the desk. You looked up at him, your eyes bright, fully locking onto his. "Though, I must say, for someone who claims his mind is perfectly clear, you certainly went to a lot of trouble for a squeaking lift."

The words hung in the air, a delicate, charged weight. Obi-Wan felt that strange, quiet static hum between you again, stronger now, vibrating in the narrow space between you and him.

It wasn't the roaring tide of the Force he was trained to channel; it was something smaller, sharper, entirely theirs.

"I didn't like the thought of you having an accident," he said. The words were simple, honest, and entirely devoid of the polished, formal cadence he usually hid behind.

You stared at him, the smirk slowly fading from your lips, replaced by a quiet, searching expression. For a moment, the cynicism was gone, leaving only the raw, grounded warmth he had felt the first day.

"Well," you murmured, your voice suddenly softer, losing its defensive, teasing edge. "I didn't fall. Thanks to you."

"Yes," Obi-Wan whispered, his hand drifting to his side.

You looked at him for a second longer, the silence stretching between you, comfortable and desperately tense all at once.

"I still have those Togruta translations," you said quietly, breaking the silence but not the spell. "If you still want to see them. I hid them behind the Mandalorian texts before Jocasta sent me down."

A faint, genuine smile touched Obi-Wan's lips. "I would like that very much."

Copyright © by writinginthenameof. All rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, or translate this work.

— if you like my work, please, consider relogging, leaving a reply or a feedback. that'd mean the world to me. ty💕

Author's note: So, I've been re-writing When I Call Love By Your Name for the past month or so and I'm thankful for the people in AO3 who had shown support so far even though it took me this long to work through a reasonable amount of chapters to start posting again. Now, for the update:

† Update #01: New Title I came up with When I Call Love By Your Name when I decided to post the fic that had been siting in a forgotten folder for god-knows-how-long, that title wasn't meant to stay, tho. So I finally came up with a title I that matches the story: A Mordern Myth. (it'll make sense, I promise) † Update #02: Confirmation date of repost As promised, and I reaffirm, the date is July 10th. I'll post updates on tumblr for every chapter.

— if you like my work, please, consider relogging, leaving a reply or a feedback. that'd mean the world to me. ty💕

Clark had rehearsed the words in places where they could do no damage.

He had spoken them first to the vast, hollow crystalline vaults of the Fortress, where the sound did nothing but rebound off the cold ice and fade into the silence of the Arctic.

He had muttered them in the quiet of his apartment, practicing the cadence of a lie until the syllables felt smooth against his tongue and didn't make him choke on them as much.

He had even tried saying them on empty rooftops overlooking Metropolis at three in the morning, letting the wind carry his cracking voice out into the void where no human ear could hear. But every version sounded cruel. Every version sounded like a lie... Because they were.

Between your hands, the stoneware mug had gone entirely cold. You noticed the loss of warmth first, your fingers curling tighter around the clammy ceramic while Clark sat beside you, staring at a point just past your left shoulder as if he was looking through the solid drywall of the kitchen. Something felt wrong.

Something about he held you tighter these past weeks, or how his hands wandered on your skin. Clark has always been the type to touch you at any given chance just for the sake of touching, for the sake of running his lips on the back of your shoulders, his fingers tracing patterns over your clothes like a second nature.

And while his touches have been constant as they always were, something had changed. It wasn't just touching, it wasn't about running his fingers absentmindedly on your skin, or his lips. It was about holding you. Making sure you were there, keeping you tightly against him and letting go when he had to without seeking another touch.

You found it odd, how could you not after dating this man for nearly two years, but Clark was the type to keep things to himself until he was ready to talk and you felt like he would when he wanted to. You did what you could; you stayed.

Touching him as he touched you, held him as he held you. Kissed him often and felt him kiss you deeper, hold you tighter. But held back on the 'I love yous'.

"You've been staring like that for five minutes," you said, your voice a quiet and gentle suddenly shifting the heavy stillness of the room.

Clark blinked, the haze slowly clearing from his eyes. "Oh." He looked down at his hands, his fingers loosening slightly as though he had forgotten he his hands. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for everything, Clark."

Normally, that gentle teasing would have earned you a very specific, domestic routine; one of his sheepish, crooked smiles, followed by a flush of pink on his ears as he ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

Tonight, there was nothing. Just a flat, sterile quiet that seemed to pool in the space between you. There was a smile, something sad that trembled at the corners of his lips as he looked down at his hands yet again.

It wasn't unusual seeing him quiet, but this strange stillness was an unsettling thing to see. He wasn't a loud man by any means, but he always filled a room with a soft, physical warmth, a constant hum of being present, a question about your day, a light brush of his thumb against your wrist.

You kept expecting for him to reach for you over the counter despite knowing by now, he wouldn't. Tonight, the silence felt as if a window had been left wide open in the dead of winter.

You couldn't help but notice tell-tales on Clark. His glasses sat perfectly straight on his nose. His hair was combed back, not a single dark strand out of place. His blue button-down shirt was meticulously ironed, the collar stiff and neat. Everything about him was too perfect. Clark only became this meticulous when he was trying very hard not to fall apart.

Reaching over the counter, you laid your hand over his.

His fingers twitched instinctively beneath yours, curling upward for a fraction of a second a subconscious muscle memory of wanting to hold you. Then, he pulled away. He didn't do it sharply or rudely; he just slowly slid his hands back out from under yours, until they were folded tightly on his lap. The motion was so subtle, careful but left a clear message.

Something tight and cold coiled in your chest. "Clark."

He swallowed hard, his throat moving convulsively. "...Yeah?"

"Talk to me."

Those three words almost broke him. You saw his throat working as he tried to swallow hard as if something got stuck in his throat, then, slowly, he finally looked up, meeting your eyes, and in an instant, his mind took a devastating inventory of everything his heart had memorized without his permission.

He saw the tiny, anxious crease near the corner of your eye. He saw the soft, oversized sweater he’d bought you last autumn because you’d stopped to admire it in a shop window but refused to spend the money on yourself. He smelled the always present scent of your body that clung to everything he own, including his own skin for days on end, it doesn't matter if he was at home, at the Daily Prophet or floating in Earth's orbit. You were always there with him. It clung to Superman's suit.

Home. Everything about you was home.

His throat burned. He had survived collapsing buildings, alien invasions, world-ending machines, and the suffocating vacuum of space. But nothing; absolutely nothing had ever terrified him like this.

"I..." he began, the words dying somewhere between his lungs and his teeth.

You waited with the patient, quiet dignity he loved and hated in equal measure. You trusted him implicitly, and now he was about to use that very trust to destroy the only sanctuary he had ever known.

"I don't think..." His voice was rough, scraping against his throat until he cleared it to try again. "...I don't think we should do this anymore."

You frowned, the words failing to compute. "What?"

"This." He gestured vaguely, a weak, empty wave of his hand between the two of you. "Us."

The silence that followed wasn't the quiet of a paused conversation, but the sudden, violent vacuum of an interstellar explosion. You simply stared at him, your eyes searching his face for the familiar crease of a joke, because your mind flatly refused to associate that sentence with the man sitting in front you.

A small, breathless laugh escaped your throat, dry and hollow in the cold room. "That's not funny, Clark."

"I know."

"Then why would you—"

"I've been thinking about it for a while," he said. Every syllable felt like swallowing shattered glass.

You searched his face, desperate for a tell. You had spent months studying his expressions, learning the tiny, invisible shifts in his eyes when he was hiding amusement, or the subtle tightening of his jaw when he was trying to pretend something didn’t hurt him. But right now, his face was a mask of cold stone. He refused to meet your gaze, focusing instead on the salt shaker, the wall, the floor—anyway but at you.

Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Did I do something?"

No. God, no.

You had done nothing but love him with both hands open. You had learned every scar he carried without ever demanding to know where they came from. You had waited through countless late nights, cold dinners, missed holidays, and half-finished conversations interrupted by "emergencies" you never questioned. You had asked for so little, and yet, he was still standing here, failing you.

"No," he said, his voice flat to keep it from shaking.

"So talk to me," you urged, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of you on the counter desperately trying to catch his eyes. "We can fix it. Whatever it is, Clark, we can fix it."

For a split second, his body betrayed him. His hand actually lifted from his lap, rising toward the counter to reach for yours. He wanted to squeeze your fingers, to pull you into his lap and tell you how sorry he was.

But then he remembered.

Lex Luthor’s cold, calculating eyes lingering on you for three seconds too long outside your office yesterday. He remembered Amanda Waller casually asking Superman if he had any civilian family she should clear for protection.

He remembered the dossiers, the patterns, the terrifying realization that his enemies were starting to look for his heart. Every kiss goodbye had become a countdown. Every heartbeat he listened to inside your chest had become another thing the world could tear away to break him. Loving Superman was a death sentence. And loving Clark Kent was impossible while Superman existed.

He curled his hand into a tight fist, keeping it on his lap.

"There isn't anything to fix," he said, forcing his voice to remain utterly devoid of warmth.

"Then why?"

He looked you in the eye, and he told the most absurd, cruelest lie he had ever spoken.

"I just... don't feel the same anymore."

The words landed between you like shattered glass.

You didn't cry. Not right away. If you had screamed, or thrown something, or sobbed, it would have been easier. Instead, you just sat there, looking at him with a quiet, devastating hope, as if you were waiting for him to smile, apologize, and tell you he had just made a terrible mistake.

He almost did. He wanted to fall to his knees and confess everything. He wanted to tell you about Krypton, about the Fortress, about the suit we always caried folded in his bag, folded beneath his civilian clothes. He wanted to give you every secret, every fear, if only to keep you from looking at him like this.

But he stayed silent. He sat there, a coward in his own skin, watching the light leave your eyes one agonizing degree at a time.

"...Okay," you whispered.

Just one word. No shouting. No accusations. No begging. The quiet dignity of it hurt infinitely more than any scream.

You stood up, the chair scraping softly against the floor. You walked around the counter and stopped right beside him. Clark couldn't breathe; his chest felt tight, his lungs seizing as if the atmosphere had been sucked from the room.

You reached out, resting your hand against his cheek one last time. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, your skin warm and incredibly tender.

"I hope," you said softly, your voice finally trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady, "that whatever convinced you this is what you need... lets you sleep at night."

Then, you leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his hair. Clark felt his chest being squeezed so tight, he felt weak in every sense of the word, something couldn't even be emulated by Kryptonite.

This was the exact kiss you always gave him when you knew he was carrying too much of the world on his shoulders. Even now, while he was breaking your heart, you were trying to comfort him.

Clark closed his eyes, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white.

Please don't, he thought desperately. Please yell at me. Please hate me. Just make this easy.

But you didn't.

Clark could almost feel his own heart breaking as you let go off of him, how it punched in a tumbling rhythm against his chest in protest as you walked away. The apartment door opened, and then closed with a soft, definitive click.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Only then did the man who could hold tectonic plates together through sheer brutal force, the man who could withstand the heat of a star finally break. He buried his face in his hands, and he sobbed.

Copyright © by writinginthenameof. All rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, or translate this work.

— if you like my work, please, consider relogging, leaving a reply or a feedback. that'd mean the world to me. ty💕