You smile at him.

He smiles back, shaky and wide and so, so sweet.

Later, you find a folded note tucked into your textbook. It's a little star, drawn in blue ballpoint pen, with a speech bubble.

"thinking about u."

Then underneath, in his neat handwriting.

"Hope your bio quiz goes good. Not that you need luck. You're the most hardworking person I know."

You keep all his stupid notes in a shoebox under your bed.

Lunch is his favorite part.

You know this because he told you once, very seriously, that lunch was "the highlight of his whole day, probably his whole week, honestly maybe his whole life so far." Then he got embarrassed and tried to stuff an entire sandwich in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk about it.

He’s already at the table when you get there. Saved you a seat right next to him. There’s a brown paper bag in front of your spot and you recognize it immediately—Martha’s baking. Clark pushes it toward you with this nervous little duck of his head.

“Ma made apple pie. I told her you liked it so she, um. Made extra. For you. Specifically. I cut it into slices the way you like. Triangles, not squares.”

You open the bag and there’s a little note tucked inside. His handwriting. Messy, rushed, like he scribbled it in the tractor on the way to school.

"Hope today’s a good day. You deserve it."

—C

He’s not looking at you when you read it. He’s very intently studying the cafeteria wall, ears turning pink. His knee is bouncing under the table and his fingers are shredding a napkin into tiny little snowflakes.

“Clark, this is so sweet,”

His head whips around and he smile.

Smile.

Like the sun came out.

Like you just gave him everything he’s ever wanted.

“Yeah? It’s nothing. It’s just pie. Ma did the hard part. I just— I just wanted you to have something nice. You work so hard. You’re so smart. You’re the smartest person I know, actually. Did you study for the biology test? I can quiz you if you want. I made flash cards.”

He digs them out of his backpack. Handmade. Color coded. There are little stars drawn in the margins and your name at the top in careful block letters.

He made you fucking flash cards.

He's so fucking cute.

He barely eats his own lunch. Too busy watching you enjoy yours. Too busy making sure your water cup is full and you have enough napkins and nobody’s bothering you.

At one point you catch him just… staring. Chin propped on his hand. Eyes soft. A tiny smile playing at his lips.

“You’re not eating,” you say.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Clark.”

“I ate a big breakfast.”

You give him a look. He fall for it immediately.

“Okay, I forgot to eat breakfast. I was too busy thinking about— about stuff. School stuff. Nothing weird.” His ears are crimson now. He shoves a carrot stick in his mouth to prove he’s fine. Chews too fast. Almost chokes.

You pat his back and he nearly melts into a puddle under the cafeteria table.

God, he’s pathetic.

He's jealous. He's so jealous.

He doesn't mean to be—he hates that he's jealous, you can see it on his face—but he can't help it. It's written all over him the second you so much as smile at another guy.

Whitney stops you in the hall to ask about a group project and Clark's immediately standing behind you.

Doesn't glare or puff up his chest or do any of that macho posturing stuff. He just stands there, hovering, his eyes big and worried, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Whitney leaves. Clark visibly exhales.

"Everything okay?" you ask, because you're not oblivious, you know exactly what's happening, you just want to hear him say it.

"Yeah," he says, too quickly. "Yeah, totally. Fine. Normal. I'm normal. He just... he's tall."

You raise an eyebrow. "Clark, you're taller than him."

"Oh." He pauses. Processes this. "Right. Yeah. I am." A beat. "Do you... do you like tall guys?"

You laugh. You can't help it. He looks so worried, so genuinely distressed by the possibility that you might have a height preference that doesn't include him, even though he towers over basically everyone in Smallville High.

"Clark," you say, and you let your voice go soft, the way you might talk to a nervous shelter dog. "You're my boyfriend. Okay? You're always my favourite."

His whole body sags with relief. He ducks his head, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sweet.

Sometimes you catch him doing things.

Little things.

You'll drop your pencil and he'll catch it before it hits the ground, fast as a blink, and then look startled at his own hand like he doesn't know how it got there.

Or you'll shiver in the hallway and suddenly his jacket is around your shoulders, and he's standing there in his t shirt looking proud and nervous and a little cold (he's not), but he won't take it back no matter how much you try.

"Your lips were turning blue," he says, like that's a reasonable justification for giving you the clothes off his back.

"They were not."

"Were too. A little. Around the corner."

You squint at him. He squints back, stubborn, jaw set in his gentle way that means he's not budging.

You wear the jacket for the rest of the day. It smells like hay and laundry detergent, and when you give it back, he holds it to his chest for a full three seconds before putting it on.

Later, you'll swear you saw him inhale.

After school he finds you at your locker again.

He doesn’t even pretend he just happened to be passing by. He’s leaning against the row of lockers across from yours, clearly waiting, arms full of your favorite wildflowers.

Black eyed Susans and goldenrod and a few cornflowers he definitely picked from the edge of the Kent property (just now).

“These are for you,” he says, and his voice cracks a little on you.

You take them. He watches your face like a hawk. He's nervous. You can tell.

“Clark, they’re beautiful.”

Relief.

“Yeah? They’re just weeds, really. I mean technically they’re wildflowers but— I saw them and thought of you. They’re the color of your— I mean they match your— they’re pretty. Like you. Not that you’re a weed. You’re definitely not a weed. You’re more like a— a rose? No, that’s corny. I’m gonna stop talking now.”

He doesn't stop talking.

“Do you wanna come over? To the barn? We can watch the stars. Ma’s making dinner, she said you can stay if you want, no pressure, totally fine if you’re busy, I just thought maybe— it’s supposed to be clear tonight and I fixed the telescope and I found this new constellation I wanna show you—”

You say yes.

He fist pumps.

Actually fist pumps.

Then immediately tries to play it cool by leaning on the lockers and misses, stumbling sideways, catching himself halfway through.

Smooth. So smooth.

The barn is your place.

You don't remember exactly when it became your place. Sometime between the first time he showed you the telescope and the first time you fell asleep on the old couch in the loft. Now it's just... yours. Yours and his.

You’re curled up on the couch and he’s beside you, not quite touching, because he’s always so careful about that. He doesn’t want to assume. Doesn’t want to push. Even though he wants it with every cell in his body.

He’s telling you about the stars. Pointing out Cassiopeia, his voice soft and a little sleepy. His flannel sleeve brushes your arm and he shivers. He’s so easy. So sensitive. Everything you do gets to him.

“You’re not listening,” he says, and he’s smiling. Not mad. He could never be mad at you.

“I’m listening. Cassie something.”

“Cassiopeia. She was a queen who bragged too much and got put in the sky upside down.”

“Like a punishment?”

“Yeah. But I think she’s still pretty.”

You're not looking at the stars.

You're looking at him.

The moonlight catches his profile, the soft angles and earnest expressions. His hair is slightly messy. There's a piece of hay in his hair from when he flopped down next to you. He's so beautiful it makes your chest ache.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?” He turns his head, and the full force of those pretty eyes hits you, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

"What's your favorite constellation?"

"Yours."

He doesn't even hesitate.

"Clark, that's not—"

"The one that looks like you," he says, and he's blushing but he's pushing through it. "I haven't found it yet. But I'm looking. Every night. I'll find it eventually."

You have to close your eyes for a second. When you open them, he's still looking at you. Soft. Hopeful. A little nervous, like he's not sure if that was too much.

"That's really cheesy," you whisper.

"I know." He winces. "Was it too cheesy? It was too cheesy. Sorry. I've been workshopping it and I couldn't tell if—"

"Clark?"

"Yeah?"

"I liked it."

The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than every star in the sky.

He falls asleep on you.

It happens during movie night. You're halfway through some old Western his dad recommended, and Clark has been slowly, getting closer to you for the past hour.

First it was a casual arm over the back of the couch. Then it was his knee pressed against yours. Now his head is on your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his breathing has gone slow and deep.

You look down.

He's out. His cheek is smushed against your arm and his mouth is slightly open and he's making this tiny little sound with every exhale, almost a snore but too soft, too sweet.

He looks more sweet like this. All the worry is gone. He's just a boy. A sleeping boy who trust you enough to let his guard down completely.

You reach up and gently, brush the hair back from his forehead.

He stirs.

"Mm?" His eyes flutter open, unfocused and drowsy. "Whassat? Did I—was I sleeping on you? Oh no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Clark."

He freezes mid freakout.

"It's okay." You card your fingers through his hair. "Go back to sleep."

He stares at you for a long moment. His eyes are all soft and confused and vulnerable. Then he sighs—a happy sigh—and lean back in your shoulder.

"'Kay," he mumbles. "G'night. Love you."

He freezes again.

Every muscle in his body goes rigid. You can feel him holding his breath, can feel him panicking.

You keep stroking his hair.

"Love you too," you murmur.

He melts. Literally melts, like butter in a hot pan, sinking into you with a whimper that's almost puppyish, almost a whine. His hand finds the edge of your sleeve and grips it, like he's keeping himself together, like he's afraid you'll disappear.

"You mean it?" His voice is so small. So hopeful.

"Of course I mean it."

He makes a sound that's half laugh and half sob and presses his face into your shoulder. His ears are bright red. His whole body is trembling slightly. He's so happy he doesn't know what to do with it.

"Cool," he says, muffled against your sweater. "Cool cool cool. That's—wow. Okay. Good. I'm—I'm gonna be normal about this."

"Clark."

"Yes?"

"You're shaking."

"I know." He lets out a breathless laugh. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just—you said—and I've been wanting to say—for like, two years, actually, and—"

"Two years?"

"Maybe three. It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine."

He's definitely not fine.

You tug him closer and he goes willingly, eagerly, curling into your side like he was made to fit there.

"Good boy," you tease, soft and fond.

He makes a noise. A tiny, strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. His head snaps up and his eyes are huge and his face is on fire.

"Did you just—"

"Maybe."

"Can you—" He swallows hard. His voice cracks. "Can you say it again?"

You smile. Brush your thumb across his cheekbone, right where his blush is deepest.

"You're my good boy, Clark."

He whimpers.

Then he buries his face in your neck and stays there, breathing you in, holding onto you like you're the only solid thing in the universe.

The movie plays on, forgotten.

Neither of you moves for a very long time.

In the morning, there's a note between your book.

It's a drawing of a constellation—a new one, one you don't recognize. It's shaped like a person, sort of, if you squint. A little crooked. A little imperfect.

Underneath it, it's Clark's handwriting.

"Found it. The one that looks like you. It's my new favorite."

— your good boy

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𖹭

When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.

"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."

"But I'm working for us—for the baby—"

"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."

You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.

He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.

"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."

"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."

The physical abuse escalated slowly.

A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?

Giving birth was a nightmare.

You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.

He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.

"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."

"Baby, I'm sorry, I can't—I can't walk—"

"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."

"B-But I can't."

Five minutes later, he grabbed your arm—the same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruised—and yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.

He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.

At home, things got worse.

The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.

If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.

If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.

If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.

"Shut that thing up or I will."

If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.

"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."

The beatings became routine.

Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.

He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.

Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.

Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.

Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.

Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.

Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.

He dislocated your shoulder twice.

The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.

"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."

So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."

He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.

He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."

One time you talked back.

Just once.

You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.

You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.

And you comforted him.

You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.

The isolation deepened.

He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.

He has "needs."

He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.

"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."

When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.

When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.

When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,

"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."

He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake up—your body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.

He'd choke you during sex.

Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.

Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,

"See? You can take it. My good girl."

He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.

He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."

He cheated constantly.

Openly. In your bed. On your couch.

He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.

"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."

And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.

One girl felt sorry for you.

"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."

He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."

The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mind—that never really went away.

"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"

"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."

"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."

"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"

"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."

"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."

And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.

You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.

You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.

You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.

Because you believed him.

God, you believed him with your whole heart.

You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.

So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.

"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"

"More than anything. More than my own life."

"Even after what I did?"

"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."

"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."

"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."

Until one day he just... left.

You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:

"You can keep the brat. I'm done."

It was after he left that you found out about the debt.

He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.

Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.

He destroyed your life.

But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."

You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.

And now Aerion wanted to take him.

You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.

"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."

"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."

"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "

You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.

They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.

And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.

You started screaming.

You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.

You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.

You remember Aerion's smile — quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.

You lost.

The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.

"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama please—"

You couldn't save him.

You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.

You watched his little hands pressed against the window.

You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.

And then they were gone.

And you were alone.

And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.

Two days later, they send you an email.

Official. Signed by his lawyer.

"Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately."

Ha.

Look at that.

Aerion fucking Targaryen — trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes —

Wanted you to pay child support.

At least he lets you see your son.

Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.

With him sitting right there.

Watching.

He's always there. He doesn't have to be—he has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the system—but he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.

Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.

"Your father took you back, I see."

You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.

He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.

Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?

"Of course. He's my father, after all."

After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.

"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"

"Bills don't pay themselves."

"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."

He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.

"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."

You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."

"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."

You just stare at him. The audacity.

"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."

His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.

"Oh, you're jealous, I see."

Jealous?

He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

What can you even say to a narcissist like him?

His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.

“So...” he murmurs, tilting his head.

Hmm?

“You got a boyfriend or something?”

If you want to be in my "shitty baby daddy" taglist let me know :)