Evelyn

But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

“You heading out early, Kent?” Lois asked, not even looking up. Her eyes were glued to her laptop, fingers flying like she was trying to out-type the devil.

He should’ve lied.

He absolutely should have lied.

Told her he was going to the dentist. That he was finally replacing the broken lightbulb in his kitchen. That he was volunteering at the community center. That he was doing laundry. That he was doing anything that did not involve another human being who could be grilled for information.

But Clark was honest. Painfully so. Reflexively so.

And the truth slipped out as naturally as a breath.

“I have dinner plans,” he said.

Lois didn’t react at first. She just typed faster.

Then Clark made the worst mistake of the week.

“With my girlfriend.”

Silence.

A sudden, violent, newsroom-wide silence—like someone had pulled the plug on reality.

A ripple ran through the bullpen. Heads turned. Chairs squeaked. Papers rustled.

Lois' head popped up so fast Clark swore he heard her neck crack.

“Girlfriend?” she repeated, eyes narrowing like she had just smelled a scandal. “Since when?”

Before Clark could formulate a sentence, Jimmy—who had been leaning back in his desk chair scrolling through photos—jerked so hard he flailed. His chair wobbled, his elbow slammed into his desk, and his camera flew out of his hands and hit the floor with a very expensive-sounding clack.

“Dude—what?” Jimmy blurted.

And like a bomb had gone off at her desk, Cat swirled around dramatically in her chair from across the room, her blonde hair bouncing with enough force to backhand someone.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice pitched high with disbelief, “did Farmer Boy just say girlfriend?”

Clark immediately regretted being alive.

He cleared his throat, aware that half the bullpen was now listening.

“Yes,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Girlfriend. It’s not… new new, but—”

Lois pointed her pen at him like she was cross-examining a criminal.

“What’s her name?”

Clark blinked. “Lois—”

“Her. Name.”

“I’m not giving you her name.”

Lois smirked in triumph, slamming her laptop shut. “Oh. Ohhh. How convenient.”

“It’s not convenient,” Clark insisted, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s private.”

Cat scoffed. Loudly. “Kent, darling. Sweetheart. Sunshine. You work in a newspaper. Privacy is a myth created to sell home security systems.”

Jimmy crossed his arms. “Look, no offense, man, but I’ve known you for years. Years. And you have never—never—mentioned a girlfriend.”

“I’ve mentioned her!” Clark argued, even though he knew it was futile.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Once. Right now. In this exact conversation.”

Lois stood up, hands on her hips, expression a lethal mix of curiosity and incredulity.

“Okay. Let me make sure I understand.” She took a step closer, circling him like a shark. “You, Clark Kent—whose idea of flirting is apologizing when someone bumps into you—have a girlfriend you have never brought up, never shown us, never introduced us to, never posted about, and yet now suddenly you’re leaving work early for her?”

Clark opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Opened it again.

Still nothing.

This was becoming an unfortunate trend.

“She just… likes her privacy,” he tried lamely.

“Oh my god,” Lois whispered, horror washing over her face. “She’s Canadian, isn’t she.”

“What? No! She’s not Canadian!”

“Right,” Jimmy said solemnly. “And I totally have a British supermodel waiting for me at home.”

Cat raised her hand like they were in a boardroom. “For the record, I vote imaginary.”

“Seconded,” Lois said immediately.

“Thirded,” Jimmy added, already typing something into his phone, probably starting a betting pool.

Clark stared at them, mouth hanging open, heart pounding—not with fear, but with sheer, bone-deep exasperation.

And from that point on, they decided—collectively, aggressively—that you did not exist.

One week later, Clark was walking home through the early-evening Metropolis glow, the sky soft lavender over the skyline. His tie was loosened, askew from where he’d tugged at it repeatedly during the day. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His messenger bag hung off one shoulder, heavy with notes he knew he wouldn’t touch tonight.

He was tired—but in that good way. The way that came from knowing he was heading home to you.

To your voice. Your laugh. Your warmth. To the way you always kissed him hello like you meant it.

He’d been thinking about you all afternoon—your hands in his hair, your smile when he walked through the door, the way you sometimes wore his shirts around the apartment, the sound you made when he kissed your neck—

He sighed, cheeks pinking even in the cool evening air.

He just wanted to be home.

That was the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Jimmy Olsen.

Clark stared at the screen.

He considered letting it ring—he really, truly did. But ignoring a friend felt wrong, and Clark Kent was, unfortunately, helplessly decent, even when it was inconvenient.

He answered.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

“Clark.” Jimmy’s voice was suspiciously upbeat. Too upbeat. “How’s it going, man?”

Clark narrowed his eyes at no one. “Good. Heading home.”

“Mmmhmm,” Jimmy said in the tone of someone who was absolutely not believing him but pretending to. “Big night with the lady, huh?”

Clark stopped at a crosswalk, pressing the button even though he didn’t need to.

Why did he tell them you existed? Why?

Jimmy continued, “So, how’s your girlfriend doing?”

Clark frowned. “She’s good. We’re cooking tonight.”

“Cooking,” Jimmy repeated slowly. “Right. Got it. Sounds legit.”

“It is legit.” Clark’s voice came out sharper than he intended.

Jimmy burst out laughing—loud, delighted, unhelpful. Clark had to pull the phone away from his ear.

“Dude, I’m messing with you!” Jimmy managed between wheezes. “Relax! I’m just saying—Lois has a bet going.”

Clark froze in the middle of the sidewalk.

“A bet?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy said—and Clark could hear the grin in his voice. “We’ve all got money on the table.”

Clark resumed walking, slower now. “…What do you mean?”

“Well,” Jimmy said proudly, “Cat says your girlfriend is one hundred percent imaginary. Lois says she’s imaginary and you made her up to avoid after-hours staff mixers because you’re a giant nerd. And I said maybe—maybe—you’re seeing someone but she’s, like… a chatbot.”

Clark blinked. “A… a what?”

“You know,” Jimmy said cheerfully, “like those AI girlfriends you can text at 3 a.m. and they send you motivational quotes and call you handsome.”

Clark gripped the phone harder. “Jimmy.”

“I’m just saying!” Jimmy said. “If she’s real, let us meet her.”

“I will,” Clark said automatically, even though his stomach swooped uncomfortably. “I just haven’t—”

“Haven’t made her up yet?” Jimmy supplied helpfully.

Clark shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Jimmy. She’s real. We’ve been dating for months.”

“Okaaay,” Jimmy said in a tone that very clearly meant I do not believe you at all, Clark Kent, but I am willing to humor your delusion.

“Then prove it.”

Clark stopped dead.

“Prove it?”

“Yeah!” Jimmy said, as if it were obvious. “Invite us over! Let us meet her! Lois will bring a lie detector. Cat will bring tequila.”

“No,” Clark said automatically. “Absolutely not.”

“Unless, of course,” Jimmy added innocently, “she’s. Not. Real.”

Clark inhaled.

Exhaled.

Counted to five.

Considered super-speeding to the moon.

But then he remembered your voice this morning—soft, teasing, your fingers in his hair as you kissed him goodbye.

Do my kisses feel real to you, honey?

And in that moment, Clark knew you’d just smile at him, kiss his cheek, and say yes.

Clark clenched his jaw.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Jimmy repeated, shocked.

“Dinner,” Clark said, rubbing his forehead. “My apartment, next Saturday, 6 pm. All of you.”

There was a moment of stunned silence—and then Jimmy whooped so loudly Clark startled.

“YES!! Lois owes me twenty bucks either way!”

Clark sighed. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”

“Bye, man! Tell your imaginary girlfriend I said hi!”

Clark hung up.

Stared at his home screen.

And muttered to himself, “I’m in hell.”

And that was how Clark ended up standing in the hallway of his apartment, staring into the mirror like it was a hostile witness. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Twice. Then he smoothed his hair. Then he fussed with his shirt collar before fussing with it again, as if neatness alone could protect him from Lois Lane’s investigative instincts.

He leaned in closer, whispering to his own reflection like someone practicing for trial.

“They’re going to like her. They’re definitely going to like her. Right? They like… nice people. She's nice. She's nice—”

His voice cracked a little.

“…they have to like her.”

From the kitchen, you stuck your head out, hair pulled back loosely, your sleeves rolled as you stirred whatever delicious thing was simmering on the stove. You watched him with an amused, fond little smile—the one that always made his heart go soft and silly.

“Clark,” you said gently, “sweetheart, you need to relax. It’s just your friends.”

He turned, wide-eyed. “They’re my only friends.”

You gave him a sympathetic look.

“And,” he added, as if this was crucial, “they’re reporters. They treat fact-checking like a competitive sport. Lois once fact-checked a birthday card I sent her.”

You blinked. “…She what?”

Clark nodded solemnly. “She thought the rhyme sounded suspiciously familiar and wanted to make sure I hadn’t plagiarized it.”

You laughed—warm and bright and soft in a way that melted the tension right out of him like sunlight on snow. He loved that sound. He loved you. He didn’t know how to express it without kissing you breathless.

So instead, you walked over and stood in front of him, reaching up to fix his crooked collar. “Let them inspect,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric with your hands. “Let them interrogate. Let them poke and prod. I’m real, aren’t I?”

Clark breathed out slowly, his shoulders loosening. Something in him untangled—something that always did when you were close.

He dipped his head and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, long enough that time blurred. Long enough that the simmering anxiety boiling in his chest cooled instantly. Long enough that if you’d asked him his own name in that moment, he might’ve forgotten it.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment like whipping a rug out from beneath him.

Clark jerked back, eyes wide. “They’re early.”

You grinned. “Perfect.”

“No,” Clark whispered, “not perfect—”

“Perfect,” you insisted, squeezing his forearm. “Let’s blow their minds.”

He stayed frozen in place, somewhere between dread and awe, as you padded lightly toward the door, your steps quiet on the hardwood floor. He swallowed hard, actually tugging on his shirt as if bracing himself for a hurricane.

You pulled the door open.

Three jaws hit the floor.

The room stilled, like even the air was holding its breath.

Lois blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes went from you—standing gorgeous and real and impossibly confident—to Clark, who was ten feet behind you, looking like a deer caught in fluorescent headlights.

“Holy—Clark?” Lois said finally, sounding personally betrayed. “Kent. Kent. You?”

Jimmy was slack-jawed, clutching his imaginary pearls like it had betrayed him. “Dude. No way.”

Cat put a manicured hand dramatically to her chest. “Kent. Kent. Explain yourself immediately.”

Clark made a noise reminiscent of a squeak.

You smiled pleasantly, leaning against the doorframe like you were hosting a magazine photoshoot instead of a confrontation between your boyfriend and three deeply suspicious coworkers. You’d thrown on Clark’s soft plaid shirt, the one you stole more than he wore. It hung just right—oversized, sleeves rolled, a few buttons undone so the slightest hint of skin peeked through.

Lois caught that detail. Her eyes widened.

Jimmy swallowed audibly.

Cat muttered something like, “This boy needs to be studied.”

“Hi,” you said warmly. “You must be Clark’s friends. Welcome, come on in.”

Lois walked in first, suspiciously slow, eyes darting back and forth between you and Clark like she was searching for the trapdoor. Like maybe you were a paid actress. Or a hologram. Or a fever dream.

“So,” Lois said carefully, “you’re real.”

You deadpanned, “Last time I checked,” and Lois actually snorted.

Jimmy finally entered, lifting his camera instinctively before catching himself. “I mean—Clark, man, why would you hide her?”

“I wasn’t hiding—!” Clark sputtered, voice squeaking a little.

Cat swept inside like a fashion hurricane, pointing dramatically toward you. “Clark Joseph Kent.” (He winced; she always added the middle name when she wanted to bully him.) “This is not a ‘casual mention’ girlfriend. This is a parade her around, rub it in everyone’s face girlfriend.”

You laughed—bright, musical, genuine.

Clark’s heart squeezed, something tender and helpless blooming under his ribs. God, he loved you.

“Clark didn’t hide me,” you said, stepping closer to him. “We were just… keeping things ours for a little while.”

As you said it, you glanced up at him—the soft, affectionate kind of look that made his breath catch. He stepped forward without thinking, sliding an arm around your waist in a claiming-but-gentle way, his body relaxing the moment you leaned into him. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was relieved. Grounded. Home.

“Exactly,” he murmured, cheeks pink but eyes proud.

Lois narrowed her eyes at him, but a faint grin tugged at her lips. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll allow it. But only because she’s too good for you.”

“Hey,” Clark protested, flustered and red-eared.

You patted his chest, smirking up at him. “She’s kind of right.”

He ducked his head with a shy, crooked smile he only ever gave you.

Soon everyone was crowded into the living room—Lois on the armchair with her legs draped over the side like she owned the place, Jimmy cross‑legged on the floor fiddling with his camera lens even though it definitely didn’t need fixing, and Cat perched elegantly on the edge of the couch like she was preparing to interview royalty.

You’d laid out snacks—actual snacks, not Clark’s version of snacks (meaning: whatever was in the fridge and also possibly oatmeal). The room smelled like warm garlic bread, honey butter, and that candle Clark always said reminded him of you.

The atmosphere turned bright, warm, easy—almost shockingly easy, considering Clark had spent all week imagining worst‑case scenarios. You laughing. Them interrogating. Him fainting.

Lois sipped her drink, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So,” she said, “what do you do for a living? And is it something that explains why you haven’t run screaming from Kent’s sweater collection?”

You grinned. “I’m a psychologist.” You told her, while Clark watched the tension drain from Lois' posture. She nodded, impressed despite herself.

“Okay,” Lois said. “So you’re smart. Great. Hate that for me—I really wanted ‘imaginary’ to win the bet.”

Jimmy jumped in, eyes bright. “Do you like movies? Because Clark pretends he’s cultured but he fell asleep during Citizen Kane.”

Clark groaned. “It was one time—”

“You snored,” Jimmy added.

Cat, meanwhile, leaned toward you conspiratorially. “Where’d you get your shirt? It’s adorable.”

Clark choked on his drink. You patted his knee. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “It’s vintage.”

Clark silently thanked every Kryptonian god you didn’t clarify whose closet it was “vintage” from.

But every now and then—when Lois was mid‑rant, when Jimmy was telling a story with his whole body, when Cat was giving you unsolicited fashion advice—Clark found himself glancing at you.

Just a flicker, a check‑in, an instinct. And every time, without fail, he saw it.

That soft awe in his own eyes reflected back. That gentle, stunned I can’t believe she’s real. I can’t believe she’s mine. He had to look away before someone noticed, because the last thing he wanted was for his friends to see him looking like a man who’d stumbled into heaven.

Unfortunately, Lois Lane noticed everything.

She leaned over to him during a lull in the conversation and muttered—loudly enough that everyone probably heard—“Kent… you’re punching so far above your weight I’m getting altitude sickness.”

Clark sighed. “Thank you, Lois.”

“It’s not a compliment, it’s an investigation,” she shot back, but she was smiling—genuine, warm. Not a single hint of skepticism left.

Jimmy raised his glass toward the two of you. “To Clark’s very real, very beautiful, very patient girlfriend.”

You laughed. “Patient is right.”

Clark groaned. “You’re all impossible.”

But when he looked at you again, you were already looking at him—eyes soft, amused, full of something warm that made his pulse skip. And suddenly the teasing, the nerves, the entire week of dread felt stupidly small.

Later, after the door closed behind the last guest and the apartment finally settled into silence, you and Clark practically fell onto the couch.

The shared blanket was crooked from earlier but neither of you bothered fixing it—you just dragged it over yourselves, legs tangling instinctively, like magnets that had spent the whole evening politely staying apart for company.

The coffee table was a disaster zone: empty glasses, snack bowls, napkins Lois kept forgetting she dropped mid‑rant, and Cat’s lip gloss, which she’d left beside a half‑finished glass of wine like she meant to claim your vanity next.

Clark let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against your shoulder—warm breath fanning your skin, his whole body relaxing like someone had unplugged a month’s worth of tension.

You gently threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “What?” you asked, amused already because he was clearly trying not to fully laugh.

“They really didn’t believe you existed,” he murmured, voice muffled, half‑laughing, half‑mortified. “Jimmy kept staring at you like you were CGI.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Until I opened the door and blinded them with my beauty?”

Clark snorted—actually snorted—before quickly burying his face in your neck like he could hide the sound. “I mean…” He peeked up at you, cheeks rosy, glasses askew. “That did happen.”

You smirked, tapping his nose lightly. “You know, you could’ve just shown my picture or something.”

Clark froze at that—not offended, not flustered, but something warm and intense blooming behind his eyes. He lifted his head fully, looking at you like you were the one who invented starlight.

His hands slid up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with the kind of tenderness that made your pulse flutter.

“I know, but I think I just wasn't ready to share you with anyone,” he said softly, firmly—like it was a vow he’d been waiting to make out loud. “ This is the first time where I feel at ease in a relationship, you’re… where I belong.”

The words melted right into the center of you—sunlight, warmth, something steady and grounding. You felt it in your ribs. Felt it in your heartbeat.

Your voice was gentler when you spoke. “Come here.”

You cupped his cheeks, mirroring the way he held you—soft palms, soft eyes—and pulled him in. “And you’re where I belong,” you whispered. “Always.”

Clark kissed you then—slow, deep, reverent—as if the whole week of stress had been building to this moment. As if every joke, every doubt, every “imaginary girlfriend” comment finally dissolved under the reality of you in his arms.

You could feel him smiling into the kiss, could feel the relief radiating off him like warmth. Could feel the way he melted when you threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled just a little.

Clark tugged the blanket higher over both of you and pulled you into his chest, the weight of him warm and grounding and entirely yours.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.

“For what?” you asked.

“For being real,” he said with a soft laugh. “And for proving it so dramatically.”

You laughed too, snuggling into him. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

He tightened his arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

Not imaginary. Not unbelievable. Not a joke or a rumor or a bet.

Real. Here. And his.

Much older than you were led to believe in the feeble, short few days you had to come to terms with the betrothal.

Fear chokes you, holds your lungs in terrible, tight fists, as work roughened hands lift your veil.

This is how you first see him, cloaked in lace quickly scrounged by your mother for this moment, fingers trembling in white sleeves that don't belong to you. You have avoided looking at him, until this moment, unsteady gaze on his shoes instead, the hem of his trousers, afraid that you might lose your composure otherwise. And you will not give anyone the satisfaction of your tears.

The veil softens his features, rubs out some of the lines from his face like charcoal smudged on a page. You tilt your face up as he folds the fabric back. His movements are surprisingly gentle, careful not to brush your face or hair.

You keep your expression carefully composed, stony. He might be your father's friend and peer, but he is certainly older. His forehead is lined; crow's feet bracket his eyes. His beard is mostly gray, and it looks as though his dark hair is following suit. A scar bisects the bridge of his nose, others mark the high points in his cheeks, faint nicks that could have been from shaving or something else entirely. Brawling when he was a boy, maybe, falls taken while drunk.

It's hard for you to pass judgment since you don't know him at all.

Despite that, his shoulders are broad. His chest and arms are thick. He looks strong and capable, and that could bode very badly for you.

Even so, even so much older, he is handsome.

That handsomeness means nothing for you know nothing of him, of what kind of man he is, how he might treat you as a wife.

The chapel echoes around you, empty but for your father and the priest. White winter light spears down from a window set high in the stone wall, cold, high wind whistling just beyond.

His eyes travel over your face, cataloguing your features like you have been memorizing his. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of moments. The touch is not warm; his brows lower over a hardened gaze. He looks to the priest and nods, who begins the ceremony without preamble. Apparently your looks have been found suitable enough to go through with it.

You will yourself not to cry, to keep the bile rising up the back of your throat in check.

The words pass over you in a torrent, meaningless and loud, vows and promises of obedience and faithfulness, humility and deference. All, it seemed, directed at you. Your husband, you gather, would be your shepherd, your judge and jury, your king, dealing out punishment as he saw fit for the mistakes you were guaranteed to make.

Like a child. For obviously you, a girl, a woman, needed such guidance. Your family would.

Your stomach knots at the thought. Children, which meant you would have to endure the act you'd been accused of in the first place to land you here, in this quiet church on a blindingly cold Saturday morning. In shame, in relative secret.

"You have been ruined," your mother had said when you were told of the arrangement, spittle flying in her anger and disappointment. "We have no choice."

"Mother," you had pleaded, "It isn't true."

Her gaze had been cold and hard by necessity, steeling herself for the fate that awaited you. All because jealous girls had condemned you. "The mayor's daughter has spoken against you. Would accuse her of being a liar?"

Bad enough, to have relations out of wedlock; terrible, wretched, that you had done so where someone could see. That you had been caught in the snow, against the side of her father's stables with a farmhand. Loud and unseemly, and, worse, unabashed. The picture of untrammeled lust.

"I did not—" You had protested, throat thick with tears. "I haven't spoken more than a word to the boy." Boy, because he was a few years younger than you. He'd eagerly taken up the story from the mayor's daughter, something swaggering in his voice, falsely humbled by his mistake for which he would not be punished. The only reason you were not being forced to marry him, was his engagement to the daughter's best friend. Though, she had not looked happy to be taking on the embarrassment of being attached to a man with a wandering eyes, something mean had glittered in her face too. "I wasn't even anywhere near those stables—"

"Enough!" Her voice had rung loudly in the kitchen. "It's been settled. You will be grateful anyone would marry you with those accusations hanging over your head. It's this or-or," she stammers over the words, "destitution."

It doesn't matter. You know nothing you could say matters. It's the mayor's darling daughter's word, and all her friends', against yours, and you have spent too many years being untamed for it to matter. You should have been married years ago, instead you disappeared into the forests surrounding the village for days at a time, read when you should have been pursuing the womanly arts of cooking or mending or weaving, argued when you should have practiced humility and silence, skipped Sunday service. Worn trousers only once, because you had received lashes for that.

You were accused of waywardness or sharpness of tongue and ill discipline. Someone, the whispers said, should have beaten it out of you long ago; that a timely marriage and children could have mellowed you out.

Too late for all that now.

"An old friend of your father's has graciously agreed to help us," she'd said casually, bustling about the washing. "You're lucky he is in need of a wife."

It froze something within you. "Mother, please—"

"You should have been married years ago, anyway," she says briskly. "Your father should have never allowed you such wildness and freedom. It does not suit a lady. Look where it has landed you."

Her scorn hurt, and your venomous tongue retaliated. "But to a man I don't know? You would throw me to wolves for this? He might be a brute—"

"You could do with a hard man," she'd said, not looking at you. "It might finally teach you your place."

"I would rather die—" you'd all but choked.

"By all means," she'd all but snarled, throwing down the washing in her hands, "drown yourself in the river if you see fit to. It would spare us the shame."

She had refused to come to the chapel, though she'd helped you dress, done your hair, that morning. She walked as far as the gate at the end of the yard, and you'd sworn as you walked away, through the encroaching blizzard, that you'd heard her sob.

You suspect your father is only present because it is his duty to present you, and give you away. Since the accusation, he hasn't been able to look at you. His darling daughter he'd always been so kind to, so proud of despite the way people spoke of you, your cleverness.

The thought makes your throat ache, that they could so easily lose their only child.

A hand touches yours and you jump.

Your fiance slides his rough palm around your hand and grips it softly in his, squeezing. He says your name, a question in his voice, and you feel faint, dizzy.

The priest clears his throat and you sense that you've been absent from the room for longer than you meant to be, lingering in memories that already seem a lifetime ago. The vows are repeated again, droning and long.

His hand is warm on yours, your trembling, icy fingers.

You are thankful you don't have to repeat the vows verbatim. Saying his name would rot something inside you, falsehoods hidden inside promises. I take thee, Joel—

No. You couldn't bear it.

All you have to do is say—

"I do."

You aren't sure it's your voice but who else could have said it?

Far away inside yourself, you watch in horror as his mouth repeats the same.

"I do."

A deep voice, like his mouth is cave.

You brace yourself for his kiss, his touch, his head bowing over yours, but he only squeezes your hands again and releases you.

Like birds with broken wings, they fall limp at your sides.

The men gather themselves, leave you at the altar along as the descend from the pulpit and cross the chapel.

You hear warnings as you stand there alone in the pale shaft of light that grows fainter with each passing moment, the storm worsening outside, the sun already sinking on this terrible December day.

Headstrong, you hear of your character.

Willful.

Stubborn.

Needlessly reckless, sharp tongued, sly.

A tricky little thing.

"She may require a firm hand," the priest says, "I know her temperament well, have known her since she was a child. But she's a good girl and will learn her place, with the proper corrections. She can learn to be an obedient wife."

Your father doesn't dispute this as help from the church is offered, if needed, to assist you in learning the place and pace of an obedient, good wife. Spending time with godly women, instead of among the trees. "And mother," he adds. "Of course." He chuckles, "Winter is very long here. And she is nearly past childbearing years."

It's bullshit, of course.

It should not be possible for your stomach to knot itself more, but something sours and you have to press a hand to your stomach to keep the empty maw yawning open inside you at bay.

You still stand at the head of the church, listening to this, thinking that the icy water of the river might yet be an option. Maybe you can fling yourself off the wagon as you pass over a bridge.

The priest calls your name sharply, and makes an exaggerated gesture toward your husband. "Off with you, girl. Your husband is waiting or did you not notice?" His expression, when he turns back, says, see? this is the obstinacy I tell you of.

Joel doesn't comment and you can't yet read the expression on his face .

He pushes the church doors open and disappears into the worsening storm, the coming night.

You are not even afforded a wedding band.

.

.

.

Though his home is supposedly only a half day's ride west from your town, it is full dark by the time you arrive.

You have never really left your village before, and to you it seems a world away and terribly lonely. Isolated. A cottage at the edge of the world, hemmed in by bristling fir trees, whispering snow drifts.

You're glad to be there, if only to get out of the snow and wind, away from his body next to yours on the wagon bench that you want to curl into just to warm yourself for a moment.

Joel offers you a hand which you reluctantly take, helps you down from the wagon. He ushers you inside and says something about the horses before he disappears back into the storm, leaving you there alone. The space is small and cold, the hearth only ashes after his day away from home.

Though you're freezing, you can't make yourself stoke the fire.

Although, maybe if you did and he could warm himself, he might not want to warm himself with you. On the other hand, maybe warmth would encourage him, would tempt him.

In either case, you're a wife now and you watched your mother long enough to know what that means. Aside from the rest of it, he will expect cooking, a hot meal when he comes back inside.

But, the priest and your father had called you stubborn, and so you would be. You might as well be all the things they accused you of.

Something petulant pulses in your belly.

Swallowing your anxiety, you perch at the table and decide to wait. You don't want to serve him; you don't want to be his wife. And, besides, you don't know what provisions he has, where the larder is. He may beat you for poking around where you don't belong while trying to find it.

Every choice seems worse than the last, so you refuse to make one. You sit at the table, freezing slowly as the snow on your shoulders melts and bleeds into your coat. You feel a distance from yourself, as though you are literally frozen to the chair, mind pulling apart from your body like sticky caramel leaving looping threads behind. Time crawls by and you aren't sure how much of it passes before the door bangs inward in a swirl of white.

When he comes in, his eyes flick to the cold grate, to the empty stove. He does not berate you. He doesn't look at you at all.

Joel merely passes you at the table and builds up the fire, a process that takes longer than it should because the wood is wet. He hadn't any by the stove and had to bring some in, snow flecked and iced over.

You don't offer him any conversation, and he leaves you to your thoughts until quietly coaxed meek flames sputter into a roar.

It's only then that he speaks to you for the first time.

"You're cold. C'mon over here and warm up."

You're terrified to approach him, and hesitate to buy time. "You've been working so hard," you offer demurely as you can. These are some of the first full sentences you've spoken to him. "You should warm up."

He eyes you for a moment. "You're shiverin'."

There's no denying it. Tremors rack your shoulders, the thick wool of your coat soaked and weighed down.

You clear your throat and stand, steeling yourself to stand next to him at the grate, to surely have his hands press against you. You're his wife now, sold like a pig to slaughter, and he will want to touch you. You might as well stop being prudish about it and get over it. As far as he's been told, as far as your reputation is concerned, you are versed in this anyway.

You smooth out your skirts and approach.

To your surprise, he moves out of the way, giving you a wide berth to stand at the fire alone.

"You can take your coat off," he offers.

"Must I?" You ask, a tad snarkily, without thinking.

"No," he answers, and you swear his mustache twitches, like he is repressing a smile, "might help with the cold, though."

It weighs heavily on your shoulders, cold and wet. You know he's right but shedding it feels like peeling off your skin, all that's beneath is that thin, hurried, second-hand wedding dress.

Even as unconventional a girl as you were, as opinionated and strong willed, you'd always dreamed of a wedding. A love match, in a dress sown by your mother's hands, witnessed by your friends and family, merriment, so many flowers you could drown in them. Instead, this. A fist closes tightly around your heart, squeezes until it feel like something might pop.

Joel opens cabinets, pulls out provisions you hadn't dared to look for earlier. His hands are rough and red from the cold, the brutal weather. The knobs of his knuckles are swollen. You sense he's keeping his back to you, moving slowly, so that you can observe him uninterrupted. Snow is peppered over his shoulders and hair, still unmelted for how cold the room is.

Despite it all, you find you'd like to touch that fine snow, curl a lick of dark hair around your finger just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

You unfasten the buttons and let the coat slip down your shoulders. The warmth is sudden and hot against your back through the thin material of the dress. You turn into it and close your eyes, try to imagine you're by the hearth at home, flames flicking hungrily behind your eyelids.

Joel clears his throat, nearer than you expect, and you start. "I'll hang that up to dry," he says, holding out a hand. "You hungry?"

You clutch the coat to your chest before releasing it to him, careful not to touch his hand. "No," you answer, sure that putting anything in your body would come straight back up. "But please, you should sit," you plead. You hate how simpering you sound, your voice an unrecognizably anxious animal in your throat. But he wields so much power over you, will always now, and should be decide you weren't fit to be his wife he could cast you out, or correct you as he saw fit. You are now this, forever. Nothing but this. "I'm your wife," you continue, the word hot and dry in your mouth, "and it's my duty. Let me fix something for you. I'm a decent cook."

You are a terrible cook. You never had the patience, which had made your mother click her tongue. But there are a couple things you learned to make.

Joel, to your surprise, waves you down, after hanging your coat on a hook by the door. "That's all right. I've been feedin' myself for awhile; one more night won't hurt nothin'."

You hover awkwardly and only sit when he insists that you do, warming yourself by the hearth while he rummages around.

The wind moans outside, rattles the shutters and the panes of glass in their window frames. The front door creaks, like someone is leaning on it, trying to get in.

The sounds are lonely but you don't break the silence of his quick dinner.

He clears the table and then sets about filling a warming plate with hot coal from the grate.

You heart stutters a nervous tattoo in your chest when he disappears with it through a door behind you. Your mind had skimmed over it, not let you contemplate where it might lead.

All the stories you've heard from the many girls that married before you told of pain, that it was just something you endured for your husband's pleasure. It feels okay, you'd heard from one blushing friend, whispering just outside the belfry on summer afternoon, once you get used to it. But it's awful to start.

It does not help matters, that your mother made the man out to be a brute, that he might be the man to cure you of your willful ways.

What wilfulness, you have to wonder.

You simply did as you pleased, which, you suppose was the point. Women were to be obedient and meek, led not leaders. You took your own counsel, spoke your mind. Look where that had landed you. With the mean daughter of the mayor jealous and telling tales of all that time you spent alone.

It had all ended with a husband twice your age, that you did not know, that might be a strict disciplinarian. Your world had always been small, but you were free to roam it. Now it has shrunken to the size of a pin. To this room and this man and nothing more.

And, you are terribly afraid of violence.

Your parents were never strict with you, had hardly ever used corporal punished. You don't know how to endure that kind of pain. Better to be cautious for now, follow each of his whims, bow to any request or demand. You can push later, find the weak spots later, you only have to bear him for now.

Joel returns twice for more pans of coal, lids snapping closed with a metallic clang, before he carries your little suitcase through.

You stand when he gestures you within.

The room is spare and clean, and you have to tramp down the instinct to turn and run, fling yourself into the snow and run until your legs gave out.

The door closes behind you with a soft snick. To contain the heat of the room, you think desperately.

Something rustles and you turn to find him undressing.

You have never seen a man's nude body before, aside from the time you and a friend has spied on boys at the river once when you were young, seeing nothing but murky water and thin, veiny chests, and the curious part of you just wants to watch, to discover it. Instead, you reach for the buttons on your dress and follow suit, fingers shaking.

It seems odd, you think, that he isn't touching you, tugging the fabric loose himself, but maybe this is how it's done. Maybe this is how he does it. Perhaps you should be helping him.

You glance up to find him still not looking at you, redressing in warm underclothes.

You falter, unsure, and let the buttons hang loose at your chest.

The uncertainty is making you feel like a caged animal.

What does he want with you? You can take it into your own hands.

They had called you brave and determined, let that be true.

You let the dress slip off your shoulders and pool on the floor. You step out of the ring of fabric, approach him slowly, presenting yourself to him in your underthings, shoulders bare, nipples perking against the fabric in the bone-deep cold.

His eyes travel the length of your body, eyes eventually landing on yours.

His gaze doesn't seem aggressive, but men are good at hiding it when they liked to. Maybe you're seeing what you need to, to reach for his hands.

Joel curls one hand around both of your wrists, stops the trajectory of your hands toward his chest. "We don't have to."

A confused combination of rejection and relief rushes through you. "I'm your wife. You don't want to have me?"

He exhales, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. "It ain't that. I know you didn't choose to marry an old man," he says, tongue soaked with a bitterness turned inward. He releases your hands, steps back. "I'm sorry I don't have nowhere else for ya to sleep."

"Oh," you murmur, a tight fist clenching around your throat.

You had been prepared for anything but consideration, but this.

None of this is how you imagined marriage, a husband, this long night.

He nods, doesn't seem to expect you to say anything else. You close your hands around one of his. "Husband," you say softly, saying his name feels too intimate. "I can't bear the uncertainty. Please, I would rather have it done."

Joel watches you, his eyes flicking between both of yours. He covers your hands with his free hand and pushes them down. "Nothin' to be uncertain about. I won't touch you."

He moves away, seeming to mean what he said.

The candles are blown out, the room plunged into darkness and you settle in the blissfully warm bed together, a wide space between your bodies.

The coverlet smells of sweet summer hay, at odds with the chill in the room, freezing your nose. It smells of something deeper too, a heady scent of salt and skin and cotton.

You don't dare sleep, despite his words and supposed kindness.

It could be a trick, a test, something to make you loosen your guard, for you to fall asleep only to wake with those rough hands on your body, pulling you apart in ways you can only guess at.

You lie in the dark, missing something you never even really had.

His breathing evens and deepens in sleep, but adrenaline and distrust and worry won't let you follow. You do not want to follow. You watch his shoulders lift through the dark, the line of his nose, the part of his chapped lips.

Eventually the world lightens to a gray muteness beyond the shuttered windows, and only then do you let yourself cry.

Mourning, but relief, too, that at least the first night is over.

.

.

.

While the blizzard abates over the next few days, the snow does not.

It continues down day after day, making the already perilous, winter weathered roads, completely impassable. You are stuck, trapped, an animal with it's foot caught in a snare.

For the first three days, you don't sleep at all, forcing yourself to stay awake and vigilant by any means, pinching your skin until you bled to forego sleep. But eventually exhaustion forces you to, shepherds you into dreams where it's warm, there are no men, no churches or mayor's daughters, and you walk unmolested through green forests alone, only a leather-bound notebook and leaping fish for company.

You wake and mourn something that will never be.

The land is beautiful, at least, iced white like the little cakes you sometimes saw in the baker's window just down the road from your home, but brutal and harsh, unforgiving.

You become aquatinted with Joel's house and the keeping of it, and feel quietly relived when he spends most of the day tending to the land, the horses, the other animals in the stables you've yet to see. You sense that he doesn't know what to make you of either, what to do with you, how to interact with you, how to fit together now that you're condemned to be stuck that way.

Loneliness infects you like a sickness, an unattractive melancholia that's only broken in the evenings when you warm yourself at the grate and eat dinner with Joel. Even though you don't speak the company is welcome, just the presence of him buoys you a little, shields you from the cold. Your fears that he would be a terror to you pass slowly, though you haven't had the opportunity to do something that might require his retributive, readjusting hand, stuck inside as you are.

A guiding hand, the priest would call it, towards the just path of being a good wife.

You mend clothes, cook to the best of your ability, sweep and scrub and wash until your hands are raw and stinging from the pervasive cold. You yearn to wander as you used to, to walk among the swaying, frozen trees, to at least go outside. You tell yourself that you are working toward asking him, that you won't neglect tasks for it.

As long and terribly lonely as the days are, the nights are worse. You ache with homesickness and betrayal. You are without even the comfort of your own things, since passing the roads are impossible, you only have the small suitcase you'd been able to carry. Your father had been set to deliver your things the next day. You have no way of knowing if he even attempted the journey.

A different feeling has joined that cacophony of confused familial hurt, something like lust and shame.

Joel washes before bed at the basin on the dresser, and you are often subject to this display though he turns his back to you. You are the one to lie out the cloth, the soap, and warm the water he uses to wash away the stink of the stables. Musky leather and hay and heady sweat, replaced with the clean scent of soap and skin. Often, water drips down his broad shoulders, pools at the base of his spine, curves over the thick, twisting muscle in his biceps and forearms.

He is no boy at a river, but neither is he your contemporary. His chest hair is gray as the hair of his beard, wrinkles tucked into curious corners of his body. It fascinates you, so different from your own body.

Betrayal of yourself pulses between your thighs, an ache that you want to reach beneath the coverlet and touch away, though you don't dare.

Each night, you expect to be the one where he reaches for you, claims you and seals your marriage but he never does.

You remember your friend's words. It would hurt and then be okay. You want to know for yourself what okay feels like.

It makes you wonder what it would be like, a curious daydream.

One horrible night, your usual dream of freedom morphs into that want, only it's not your hand massaging away the want, but Joel's. Those rough, broad fingers between your legs. You had to roll out of bed and gulp down water at the pitcher in the corner of the room, feeling stupid and wretched. Silly, even. For what would he get out of touching you there? Nothing, just your own desire run amok.

The closest you get to touching him, is bandaging his cold ruined hands, standing between his legs where he sits at the table, looking and not looking at him, his eyes raking over you. He had said thank you so earnestly, it had made your face warm.

Weeks pass into more than a month and a half in this way, one cold, dark day bleeding into the next, the soft humiliation of feeling unwelcome and unwanted and terribly alone, like a butterfly with it's wings pinned. For all your intrigue, he seems profoundly uninterested in you. He leaves you to your own mind, to your own lonesomeness. You are, maybe, just a girl that did his cooking.

You long to stretch your legs, take a walk, explore uninterrupted as you used to, report what you saw in the journal you haven't dared to take out in front of Joel, buried in your case beneath your clothes. You're already trapped, what if he didn't like you to write? Trapped by body and mind might really drive you to drown yourself in a river or go seeking a length of rope.

Things change when he finds you crying one evening, from the ache in your chest, from the caged wounded-ness, from the fear that still occasionally lurched to the front of your mind, for all the cruelties he could inflict so suddenly, if he chose.

You don't dry your eyes quickly enough and the next sleepy afternoon, eyes drooping from boredom, Joel slips inside in a burst of cold, snow peppered in his hair. Before you have the chance to offer him supper from the stove, he's saying your name and giving you pause.

"You want to come out to the stables? Maybe it'd do you good to get out of this house." If you didn't know better, you'd say he sounds worried.

"Are you—"

"I ain't puttin' you to work just yet," he says with a smile. It's a joke, and you find it disarming. "Just to stretch your legs. See another living thing that ain't me."

"Yes, okay," you agree, maybe too quickly and eagerly, because he laughs. You let him hold out your coat so you can slip your arms into the sleeves.

Joel holds the door open and offers his arm for you to balance on as you cross together through the thick icy drifts of snow to the stables. His arm is sturdy and strong beneath your fingers, warm even through all the layers you're both wearing. Fat flakes of snow sticks to your lashes, white flurries drowning your vision of Joel. His strong jaw, the tight squint of his eyes against the white glare of the world.

You glance away, feel that tightness bloom in your belly.

It feels good to walk, to cross a distance instead of pacing the cottage floor in circles all day long. He pulls back the stable door. It's surprisingly warm within, from the combined heat of the animals' bodies and whatever work he'd been sweating over. There are two horses and a cow, a smattering of chickens with their own little coop at the back.

You can't help but rush to them, patting noses, feeling hot breath on your face. The chickens squawk something terrible, but a spotted one rubs against your leg and let's you bend at the waist to pet it.

Joel fiddles around at a bench in the corner, breath puffing before his face. You see the flash of a pairing knife, wood shavings fluttering to the ground.

You tentatively creep closer, trying to peer over his shoulder at what he might be making. You would have never guessed he was creative.

"We only have goats," you say as you stroke the face of the mare whose stall is nearest Joel, as near as you can get without being obvious. "Very mean and terribly stubborn."

He chuckles, puts down his work and leans over the side of the stall. "Well, none a' those here."

It's silent for a long time, the plunk of snow against the roof, the quiet sound of the animals breathing. Joel clears his throat awkwardly after awhile and you stiffen. "Listen, I know we ain't had the best start with the weather and all. That and I'm not exactly the husband anyone looks for."

You turn to him, meeting his eyes, and feel something between you soften. "You've been kind to me. Kinder than I deserve," you answer. "Considering that marrying me will have hurt your reputation."

You wonder what he was promised in return for this. You assumed it was a child, that he was getting older and wanted to continue his line and so needed a young wife. But, he hasn't attempted to touch you at all.

"Ain't really got a reputation to speak of anyway," he chuckles. "Never cared about it neither."

How you wish you had the luxury of not caring about it. You glance away, smooth your fingers down the horse's freckled nose. "Were you ever married before?"

"Once," he answers. "Long time ago."

"When did she die?"

Joel shifts. "Hasn't," he grunts. "Far as I know. One mornin' she was gone, never came home."

You feel your eyes go wide. "Oh. I didn't know."

A runaway wife.

A vast thing you did not know possible.

"It's all right." He shakes his head. "I'm guess I'm askin' what I can do to help you feel better about this whole mess. I shouldn't have—" he waves a hand toward the direction of the house, "just left you on your own for so long. In the house. I figured it was better. That you might not. . ." He doesn't continue and you don't need him too.

He thought he was making you more comfortable, that you wouldn't have liked his company.

You don't correct him, because it's true. When you first arrived it was very true.

"Oh." You think for a long moment, of all the silence and tiptoeing around each other. Maybe there's a better way than that, if not the way of a married couple. "They lied about me, you know. The mayor's daughter and her friends and that boy. I didn't do anything wrong."

He looks a little embarrassed to be hearing talk of your supposed sin of the flesh so bluntly. "I figured," he answers, rubbing his chin.

You blink. "You did?" He nods and you continue. "She was jealous, I think, that I did as I pleased. I guess that's what could help me." You hurry to continue, because he'd only just told you of his first wife disappearing without a trace. "Of course, I would keep up with the work, and I can help here, too," you gesture around. "I'd like to help with the animals. . .But I'd like to roam, too."

He thinks on it for a long minute. "I'd maybe even appreciate work out here more. I can milk the cow, if it's anything like milking a goat. I can chop wood. If you'd allow it."

That earns you a chuckle. "You want to chop wood?" He asks, a little amused.

"If you'd allow it," you cast your eyes down. "Of course I don't want to disobey you."

You aren't expecting him to take your hand and jump when he does. You'd both removed your gloves when you entered the barn and his skin is warm and calloused against your own.

His jaw works as he contemplates you, a fascination in his eyes. "Forget all that nonsense about obeying and whatever else that priest was goin' on about." He shakes his head, "I'm too old to think any of it means anything."

You aren't sure what he means by that, but nod all the same.

"So, how 'bout this. We'll start takin' it all on together. I did my own damn housework for years so I ain't completely useless. And you can help chop wood, if it suits you to."

It sounds too good, so you contain your enthusiasm and nod. "A fine idea. We might know each other better then, to spend some time togeher."

He nods, and something pink rises in his cheeks. "And," he shuffles his feet, squeezes your hand in both of his. "that's enough. Understand? You're might be my wife, but I'm no fool."

You understand what he means. That this thing is more partnership than relationship. It soothes you, if it also disappoints you a little. All those parts of him you think of exploring, suddenly out of reach.

"I understand."

"Good, come spring, when it's warmer, we'll figure something better for sleepin'."

You nod and then dare to ask, "And wandering? If the work is finished and I'd like to walk alone?"

He touches your cheek for the first time, the barest brush of his fingers, a tentative affection. "Always home before dark. That's all I ask."

"I can do that." You cradle the hand that had touched your face against the mare's stall, daring to hope.

You feel like you can breathe for the first time since the mayor's daughter stood and pointed her finger at you in church all those weeks ago.

.

.

.

Spring comes late in the year this far north.

The roads turn to mud that sticks the horses' hooves in place, bogs down the wagon.

Joel watches you lift the ax above your head and bring it neatly down on the splint of wood balanced on the stump in front of you, just the way he'd shown you months ago, in the dead of that terrible winter. If you wanted to chop firewood, who was he to tell you not to?

The shawl around your shoulders flutters in the breeze as you retrieve the fallen logs, reveals the strength in your forearms.

He glances away. You are the most unsettlingly pretty creature he's ever set eyes on, and much too young for him. Much too good for him, much too good for anyone. All the warnings he'd been given on your temperament had sounded only like compliments to him, and he'd been proven right. And now that you'd loosened, he appreciates your unflinching opinions, your sharp pointed tongue.

And, Joel doesn't necessarily mind being bossed all that much. You're usually right, anyway.

If he is worried sick right up until the moment when you return to the cottage when you roam about, no one is the wiser of it. You always return before dark, and he never tells you not to go.

Some creatures just didn't need caging; they'd come home all on their own if you let them.

Preventing you from walking alone, taking time to yourself to explore would be akin to clipping a bird's wings. He's sorry for all those weeks at the start when he left you inside, hadn't realized you thought you couldn't leave the cottage, not even just outside.

It's still cold and your breath unspools in front of you in a pale cloud as you work, sweating and breathing hard through your teeth.

He feels a longing for you that he probably shouldn't. He had made a promise to you and he intended to keep it, wife or not. You content now, at ease, in his presence. The longer he keeps that vow as the days grow longer, the more you'll settle.

Soon, the roads will clear and you can go into the village for supplies that are bitterly needed after such a long winter. He thinks you'll like the town, less haughty and judgemental than the one you grew up in.

The afternoon sun dapples over your skin, makes the sweat on your brow, at the base of your throat, shimmer. He glances away, his thoughts already spiraling toward what you will smell like that evening, coated in a day's hard work. Lying beside you each night in bed is a sweet, unending torture. You dream often, murmuring in your sleep, occasionally pierced with a cry, sometimes a grunt and moan. Mouth parted, chest heaving. He wonders what or who you dream of, and goes to great pains to hide how hard he often is in the morning.

It feels sort of like a betrayal, how quickly his mind conjures up your bare skin, waiting and open, unfolding just for him, the imagined taste of you on his tongue, the plush part of your lips, little pink tongue pressing against your teeth.

He could only endure it. Once summer came, he might be able to take care of it elsewhere and not risk you overhearing, or worse, catching him.

Aside from the torture of sleep, everything else is fine. You're clever and quick; a better chess player than him by far. You best him nearly every evening you plat. You write and draw in a little notebook that you once squirreled away like he might take it. Now, you leave it on the table, let him read little bits of stories, thumb through your drawings of animals you come across. You only have to hear something once to be able to repeat it verbatim, reciting poetry or stories not in your notebook for him when requested.

You've improved his life, the cottage and farm, in way he wouldn't have been able to picture before. This isn't what your father had meant when he came begging him to marry you and save their reputation, said Joel could use a woman's touch, a kind of helper.

It was bullshit, but maybe the loneliness finally got the better of him. After his wife disappeared, he hadn't thought of remarrying. Clearly he's the type you leave.

He continues watching you, brushing the mare, when the sound of an approaching wagon meets his ears. Joel glances up to find the ax abandoned against the stump, you hurrying quickly toward him in the mouth of the open stable.

"Someone's coming," you say, brow creased with worry, reaching for his sleeve. "Joel, I thought the roads were too—"

"Me too," he answers, checking the revolver at his hip. "Let's see who it is." He pushes his hand against your spine and feels your body loosen as you walk together toward the distant road.

The wagon plodding up the road eventually pulls to a muddy stop just at the fence line, a man jumping down from the driver's seat. "Father," he hears you murmur, before starting across the yard without waiting for him.

Joel follows, watches his old friend wrap an arm around you, murmuring your mother's sent greetings. You face folds at the mention of your mother, but you brighten quickly.

Joel hadn't even known your father had a daughter, until he appeared like a wraith at the edge of his land all those months ago, begging a favor.

Joel had told you of his own daughter one late evening when neither of you could sleep. Feeling your comforting warm attention across the mattress as he spoke to the dark ceiling. How his wife leaving, had also been a mother leaving.

Sarah had died very, very young, and though he'd never know for certain, he can't imagine selling her off the way your father had you. A wad of cash offered like you were goods to be traded in service of their name. It had soured his opinion of the man, and any leftover good will he felt toward him when they were younger.

Soiled, now that Joel was a hypocrite, finding comfort, among other feelings, in you, even if you were his wife. You're young, and you've placed immeasurable trust in him that he'd had to very carefully earn.

Joel joins you and shakes your father's well meaning hand as you say, "Stay for dinner, please. We'd love to have you and hear any news from town. We've been alone all winter."

"Of course," he answers jovially, glancing over you. "I thought for sure you'd have a spring chicken on the way, my dear."

It takes you a long moment to realize what he's getting at. A complicated knot of feelings writhes over your face before hurt dominates.

He clearly expected to find you pregnant.

You smile and don't answer, leading them toward the house instead.

.

.

.

The afternoon air is already below freezing again when your father finally leaves, wagon disappearing back down the road, unloaded of your meager things that you haven't missed in months. An odd anxiety has taken hold of you, and though you have too many chores to get done, you tell Joel you're going on a walk and leave without waiting for an answer.

You feel like a lamb put out to slaughter, though what else should your father have expected than to find you a pregnant wife, muted and different than you had been before marriage. It stings that he hadn't even asked after your well being, if Joel was treating you well, was good to you. It didn't matter you suppose, you aren't his problem, and if your husband saw fit to be cruel to you, that was that man's right.

He'd sat at the table and talked only to Joel where once he used to look to you, find pride in his clever daughter's conversation.

Now, you are silent, talked about like you aren't present, about how well you are or aren't fulfilling wifely duties. Clearly you'd failed in at least one respect since you were not pregnant. Never would he guess that Joel had never even stuck you, left the marriage unconsummated. It makes you feel adrift, all the easier to discard, since he could easily nullify the marriage for something like that.

You couldn't read how Joel felt about the whole thing as your father threw out childhood anecdotes about your petulance and reluctance to learn from your mother without care.

Humiliating. It made you seem frivolous and silly. Worse, many times over he implied thanks to Joel for the purchase of damaged goods, your supposed fling with the farmhand referenced repeatedly and only thinly veiled by polite convention.

Joel, apparently a damned martyr for marrying you. He was suffering so greatly by taking your hand in marriage.

Though, your father had said, wiping his chin of the grease spilling down it, good to have a woman's touch, as I told you before. It's no good for a man to take on duties of the home, or be, ah, alone all the time. I don't know how you stood to be without a wife for so many years.

It was a humiliating, punishing few hours. Clearly, your family had not thought of you beyond gladness that your indiscretion no long sullied their name.

You feel foolish too, for the affection you feel for Joel. When you are only a little help mate to him. That is why he draws no closer, doesn't really want to know you as a husband would know you.

You walk and walk, head down, alternating between seething rage and despair in turns. You don't notice the shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision, how quickly the sun has sunk behind the mountains. A horrible shame traces up your spine, making you shiver.

The world is still icy and cold, snowbanks piled high between muddy ruts cut into the earth. You don't notice how close you've strayed to the rushing creek, swollen with melted snow runoff spilling down the mountainside. Your boot catches on the edge of a slick stone.

You grasp at a low hanging tree branch to keep upright but fall into the water heavily, spluttering as it sweeps you into it's rush. Your lungs feel frozen as you gasp and flail for anything to find purchase on. All those times you thought of throwing yourself to a river's mercy, here was God doing it for you, for your ungrateful hardness, a nasty little girl that wanted too much and had no good sense.

Maybe God thought you had sex with that farmhand too.

Or maybe it was the sins of the flesh you imagined with a husband that did not return your desire.

It's almost easy to stop fighting the current and let it drag you down instead. You can't swim and maybe this is fate. No one would miss you, people would sigh and say maybe it was the most decent thing to happen to you, a blight scorched off the town's good name.

The water closes over your head, darkness swims at the corners of your vision.

You aren't sure how long you're under when something hard catches under your elbow, hauls you coughing and spluttering to shore.

A face looms above yours as you try to draw breath into your frozen lungs, coughing until you turn on your side and throw up, first water and then the little dinner you'd been able to stomach. "Breathe," a voice murmurs, which you only belatedly connect to Joel. Then, angrier, "What the hell were you thinkin'?"

You can't answer him just yet, feeling faint, still hiccoughing into the dirt, lungs still spasming from the shock of the cold water.

"Before dark," he growls suddenly when you finally manage to suck in a full breath of night air. "Come home before dark. That is the one goddamn thing I asked from you."

A new fear steals into you, that you will finally find out what happens when you disobey, and on the heels of your father, Joel's good friend, reminding him that you were dirty and used, beneath him in almost every way.

You cower, waiting for a blow on the black soil of the creek bank. "Joel, please, I'm sorry—" The word sicks in your graveled voice.

It doesn't come right then. Instead, his arms fit beneath your legs, around your back, and lifts you from the ground. "Jesus, sweetheart, no—I got you," he says softly. "Just breathe."

"Joel—"

"'s all right, now."

"Please don't—"

"We're just goin' home, or you'll freeze to death."

Your mind sways in and out of consciousness as he walks, dark branches wheeling above your head in a dark tangle, the world silent and near pitch black by the time you return to the cottage.

He sets you on your feet in the bedroom, yanks your coat down your arms. "Help me here, darlin'," he says, his voice softly desperate, that sweet little pet name a suspected accident. "You might lose fingers if you don't."

You help him wrestle with the fastenings of your clothes. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

Only a muted embarrassment and helplessness reaches your mind, that he is seeing you nearly naked for the first time like this. His hands seem far away.

Joel tugs the blankets around your shoulders and hastily fills a pan with coal from the hearth. "Too damn cold," he mutters, and you wonder how long and far you'd gone if the fire from dinner was already spent. Distantly, you realize he is peeling himself out of his own clothes. "You'll get warmer faster," he explains. You nod, feeling very tired. "Don't close your eyes," he says, voice suddenly harsh. "Keep lookin' at me."

You struggle to follow his command, watching as so much skin is revealed, then pressed against yours.

His body is so hot, when your skin touches his, that it feels like being set aflame, touched by a scorching fire.

You whimper and he shushes you, presses you closer, head tucked beneath his chin. "You're all right," he murmurs, though it sounds as though he is trying desperately to convince himself. "You'll be all right, sweetheart."

For a long while he holds you in silence, scratchy lips against your forehead, beard pressed against your temple. You feel every part of him pressed against every part of you, the hair on his legs and chest, the muscle of his biceps and forearms, chest and collarbones and feet. The first time his hands are on you this way, because you'd been a little too emotional and nearly drowned yourself.

His broad palms splay over your spine, cradling you as shivers start to rack your body again. You hadn't realized they had stopped.

A relieved sigh climbs out of his throat.

"Were you trying to leave?"

You don't know how he means it, like his first wife had, or like you were trying to die. "No," you answer, "No, I fell in. I was upset." Your teeth chatter, click together so violently you're afraid you might bite your tongue. "I didn't realize how late it was. I'm sorry, Joel."

"Scared me, is all."

"I'm sorry," you whisper against his throat. "For all of it. I'm so ashamed."

He shakes his head. "Should be your father that's ashamed."

"I'm being punished," you continue. "For something I did not do."

Joel's hand pauses in its path down your spine, for just a moment. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "I'm sorry for it."

"Not you," you nest down against him. Maybe if you were more coherent, you'd feel nervous about it, but it just feels good, his arms around you, his body against yours, finally. "I don't mean you, Joel. You are not my punishment."

"All right now," he mutters. "Enough a' that."

You are sure you move first, though if asked, Joel will say he did. You tilt your chin up and press your cold mouth to his.

Stolen little girlhood kisses amount to nothing compared to this. His heavy hands, his scratchy cheeks against yours. Full and warm blooded. Cradling and caressing and sighing just like you. His breath is yours.

It's all consuming, like a star parting the night sky.

.

.

.

Summer arrives quietly, softly.

You visit your family as a married couple, and Joel holds your hand through the Sunday church service you attend together even though some of the congregants eye you with stony, judgemental stares. You take pleasure in the burning gaze of those girls on you, angry that you don't seem uncomfortable with the man they'd indirectly sentenced you to.

As quickly as is possible, you leave again. It's hard to be there, among the stares but also among a village that used to be your home.

"Sure you wanna go so quick?"

"Yes, Joel."

He mulls it over, hands on his hips.

"What?" It occurs to you that maybe he isn't ready to leave. He has no family; you've only spoken to each other for months and months aside from that visit from your father and once from Joel's brother, who had been taken by surprise at your presence. Maybe he was craving company other than your own. "Would you like to stay longer?"

"No, I don't want you to feel like we're in any rush to get back."

You blink, taken aback. "I don't. I'd like to. . .go home."

His face softens. "All right, girl. Let's get a move on then." Joel helps you onto the wagon bench and starts to climb up when the priest, who Joel had managed to avoid earlier, passes by your parents' house.

"Mr. Miller! A moment?"

"What's he want, I wonder?" He asks, leaning his arms against the side of the wagon, his face close to yours. "I ain't his parishioner. Technically."

You roll your eyes. "Go see what he'd like," you say tenderly, touching his cheek just to nettle the other man. Indecent touching! You can hear the sermon already forming. Lusts of the flesh! Good thing you no longer attend to this town's church and will not have to hear it.

"Yes, ma'am."

Despite the intimacy, he has not touched you, not really, since that day you nearly drowned. You long for him to kiss you again, just once, but fear it may have been an accident borne of your stupidity, his fear of loss.

Joel steps back down from the wagon and approaches. You watch the robin's egg sky instead of the men, counting the crowding of little white puffs on the horizon, pretending that you can't hear every word being spoken, of being tamed, cowed, broken. How is he faring with his new wife?

You mean to hear Joel's answer, but your mother is suddenly laboring onto the wagon bench beside you. You had not heard her approaching and had avoided speaking to her at church and lunch, Joel dutifully standing between you.

"We didn't get a chance to speak."

"Should I have something to say to you?"

You mother catches up your hand, holds it between both of hers. "I didn't want to send you away."

"And yet you did, for something you know I did not do. To a man you knew nothing of."

She huffs. "What's done is done. We did it to protect you, to save your name." You nod and tug your hand away. "Never mind all that," she says gently. "Tell me, how is he as a man? Does he treat you well?"

"I think," you start, watching Joel and the priest. "He might be the best man I've ever known."

She peers at you curiously. "He doesn't hurt you?"

"It would be much too late for your guilt if he did," you answer, "but no, he doesn't."

"You listen to him." Your mother sounds amazed.

"He listens to me. Let's me be." You shrug, "So I do the same."

She seems bewildered by that, that by not holding you down, forcing you to something else, you were better for it.

Your mother doesn't get to give an answer, because Joel is approaching.

She kisses you goodbye and he helps her down from the wagon. "So," you say when the village is finally behind you. "What did you tell the Father? How did you break my restless spirit?"

He chuckles. "I told him there wasn't anything to break."

It warms you to think he believes it. "Even when I fall into creeks in the cold?"

"I think your spirit is what kept you from drownin' so—"

"Oh, ha ha, very funny."

You want to lean into him, but wait until you're on the final stretch of dusty road when the evening sky is beginning to darken at the edges to do so, heavy against his shoulder.

You work together to curry the horses and stable them for the night, exhaustion aching in your bones by the time you turn in. Summer is as bright as winter is dark, and the sky is only just starting to darken, blushing pinks and smouldering orange over the trees.

Joel is saying something about a book, something about chess. He talks so much, now. Even when he's quiet, you know the language of him.

"Why don't you kiss me again?"

He blinks and meets your gaze, looking like a fish out of water. "I, uh—"

"If the first time was a mistake," you say. "It doesn't offend me. I like things as they are."

He clears his throat and bows his head, approaches you slowly, all the time looking down at his feet, brows tilted together. "I didn't mean for it to go like that," he admits. "That's true."

You meant it when you said you like things as they are, but disappointment still burns hot that his affection had been unintentional. "Okay," you agree when he stops in front of you. "That's just fine."

He shakes his head. "It ain't that I don't want that. But I promised you, I wouldn't. Our, uh, marriage vows didn't mean shit. But that, sweetheart, it meant something. I meant it."

"And if I said I wanted it?"

"You don't need to feel like you have to," he says quietly but firmly. "I wouldn't be able to stomach it."

You push your palm against his cheek, stand nearly chest to chest with him. "You have never made me feel like I needed to do or be anything at all for you." You lean against him, "I'd like it if you kissed me. And if, um, you'd like to—" Long held shame, years of hearing about how women were lustful temptresses comes creeping in. "Well, the rest of it—"

"If I'd like to what?" He teases, something wicked in the grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Touch you?"

"I suppose," you say haughtily, flustered.

"Where?" His hot hands press to your sides, over the curves of your hips where no one has ever touched before. You startle and fall against him, your skin alive beneath his hands. "Here?"

You cover his hands, guide them boldly over your body, to your ass and waist and just beneath your breasts, back down to your hips. You lean in so your mouth just brushes his. "You should make more vows to me. New ones that say you promise to never stop touching me."

"That could be arranged."

"Oh wonderful. I should hate to have to hunt down another husband."

He's pulls you toward the bedroom, the bed beyond. He hasn't kissed you again, but he intends to do something to you, that much is clear.

"Hunt one down, huh? I think I fell into your lap."

He fell into your lap. The thought is a nice one.

You nod, bum hitting the edge of the bed. "I should think so. Had those girls witnessed even this behind that barn, I would have been killed where I stood. A happy accident that they didn't and I was given you instead."

His laugh is like a bark. "Ain't you somethin'."

He tilts you back, looks at your coiled body and hums. Your knees are pressed together out of habit, arms folded across your belly now. Still fully clothed and you feel naked as he looks down at you with a reverence and devotion you have only before seen in a pew. You settle your heels at the edge of the bed."Tell me again," he requests.

"I want you," you say quietly. "I want you to touch me."

Just as in your dreams that you thought frivolous and unrealistic, he peels your thighs apart and pushes his hand between your legs. You gasp and fight not to skitter away from his touch, to keep your hips against the mattress. If that's how warm only his hand felt through your clothes, you can't imagine what it will be like without.

He leans over you, moves his hand to tilt your chin up instead, finally presses his lips against yours again after so long.

"Joel," you sigh against his mouth, scratchy cheeks that you cup in your hands. "You'll be gentle with me."

It's not a question.

"Mm." His nose draws a line down your cheek to your jaw, mouth pressing against the underside of your jaw. You gasp when his teeth scrape along your skin, just a little. You tangle your hands in his hair, tug at the graying strands that slip through your fingers until he grunts against you.

Joel settles between your parted thighs, lost to you, apparently. "Joel."

"Sweetheart," he answers, lifting his head to look at you.

"I know it will hurt. Please make it easy on me."

He leans on his forearm, placed above the crown of your head, his other hand yanking the skirt of your dress up. "I will do everything to make it easy on you."

"Okay," you breathe, smoothing the worry. He wouldn't hurt you on purpose, of that you're sure.

He works you out of your clothes as you pull at his. There's only one part of him you haven't seen, one part of him you've never seen of any man. You tug at his trousers until a button pops open and you can push your hand down.

You gasp at the feeling of him in your hand, hard and warm, his skin soft and damp. You aren't sure what to do, not the way he moves with such certainty, thick fingers slipping beneath your underwear, parting the folds of you.

You watch his face as you move your hand, circling your fingers around him seems the natural fit of things, sliding your fist up and down his length. There's friction though and you wonder if it feels good for him.

He is signularly focused on you though, and for a moment you forget his cock in your hand because he touches something that makes your back arch off the bed, a moan yanked from your chest.

"There she goes," he coos, still moving his fingers over you, not even inside you yet.

That will go inside you, you remember suddenly. It feels too big for your hand, let alone your cunt. You squeeze his cock and rub your thumb along the head where you feel something leaking, helping your hand slide around him.

"How does that feel—"

He groans, and you turn your gaze to him, repeating the action, watching him shudder. "Am I doing okay?"

It gives you no small satisfaction to literately have him in the palm of your hand, giving to him. You stroke him slowly, tightening your grip as you reach the tip. "Jesus, girl," he murmurs, and then thrusts into your hand.

"Am I?"

"Little too good," he grunts. "I ain't gonna be much use to you if you keep that up."

You don't know what he means, especially since you want to keep making him sound like that forever. But you trust him, so you release him and kiss him instead, nipping at his bottom lip, feeling like an aching wound as his slips a finger inside you.

There's a little pressure but it doesn't hurt. You can feel how damp you are, easing the passage of his fingers, a second and third following, stretching you to almost the point of pain, but mostly it feels good, his hands working some kind of spell over you in tandem until your world bursts with pleasure.

Waves of it crash over you, slicking your skin with sweat in the warmth of your bedroom. He helps you out of the last bit of your clothes, nude body bared to him, hands scooping your breasts in too warm palms, brushing tentatively over your nipples.

So many thngs that you did not know could feel good.

Your mouth goes dry when you finally see his cock, aching from your attentions, the head an angry red. You have the most bizarre desire to out him in your mouth, that is only vindicated as not odd when Joel puts his head between your legs and makes you come again without his fingers even entering you.

"Please," you whine, beckoning him toward you, so open and vulnerable and never so safe. "Please just do it. I'm ready."

"You are, sweetheart," he coos. "Best I can get you anyway."

He lets you grip him and guide him to your entrance, pushing inside you in increments. You wonder at what brutes the men in your village must be like to have all the girls saying this is only something to endure. For though it hurts a little, it overwhelmingly feels good. Like stretching a sore muscle. He is heavy and warm, your bodies locked together in a way you will mourn when it parts.

Joel holds you close, pushes his forehead gently to yours, breath ghosting over your lips, so warm and present it makes something deep inside you sigh in satisfaction.

Here you belong, you are sure, here you are understood and wanted. You touch him wherever your hands can reach, marveling at the plains of his body as he ruts into you, skin slapping against skin.

He grunts against your neck when he comes and you follow only a moment later, panting into the dark of something that is now yours, clutching him tightly to your chest.

A new vow kept.

.

.

.

He wakes you in the middle of the night with gentle prodding.

The night is a soft sweet song outside your window, the low sounds of the land around you. "Joel?" you ask, pressing one hand over your eyes, rubbing away sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," he assures. "There's just somethin' I wanna show you."

"Now?"

"If you're willin'."

Well, you are always willing, with him. Wrapped in only your dressing robe, he leads you outside, across the yard to the stables by lamplight.

He is shirtless, and you are close enough that you can see the flex of muscle in his arms when he rolls the doors open, and the cratered parts of him you finally got to touch.

"Joel—" You complain. "What—"

"C'mon, now," he motions you inside, the red light flickering over his features comforting instead of eerie.

"I'm sore you know," you grumble. And you are, a pleasant kind of pain that accompanies the pleasure he had given you. It's nothing like the girls had described to you. It had only been good. He had only been good.

He just chuckles, no small amount of pride in it, and leads you to the workbench that you can never quite tell what he does at. "You feel okay?" He asks, sincere.

"Okay," you scoff. "You very well know what you did to me."

"All right," he says softly. "Enough of that."

"Show me."

He clears his throat, and nods, pulling you near him at the bench.

There among the softly snuffling horses, he presents you with a tiny wood carving of a woman that looks just like you. You gasp and take her carefully from his hands, holding her up to moonlight and then lamplight, the exquisite detailing of her.

She has your nose and eyes. The shape of her body in movement, the exact way you hold your hands in miniature. An expression on her face of determination and muddled anxiety. Afraid, but getting on with it.

He has adored you, you see, from the moment he met you. He studied you as closely as you studied him. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he agrees, hand on your spine, "suppose I've got a good muse, though."

Your face feels hot, your whole body alight. "When did you—" just to confirm what you think you know.

"Morning after we married," he says. "Somethin' about the way you looked, I just. . .I had to get it down somewhere."

You rub your thumb over her silhouette. "She is missing her wedding band."

Joel's eyes flick to your hand, empty. "I suppose she is." He takes your hand and kisses it's fingers. "As you are."

You couldn’t pinpoint the moment you fell in love with him. You only knew that you did—hard. Not the cinematic kind of love with birdsong and flower fields. No, yours was deeper. Raw. The kind of love that burns at the edges, that makes breathing both easier and harder all at once. Clark wasn’t someone you ever imagined meeting, and yet when you did, every kiss, every touch, every whispered “I love you” felt like it carried the weight of entire universes.

Even after nine months together, he still stumbled over his words like that shy farm boy he had been the first time he asked you out. And you still went speechless when he smiled at you across the room or worse, when he was shirtless, his broad shoulders filling the doorway like something out of a dream. He loved you with a sincerity so fierce it terrified you sometimes.

Which is why, when he hurt you—even unintentionally—it tore you apart in a way nothing else ever had.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Not betrayal, not malice. Just little things. Little stings.

Like when he brought her up at dinner. Or when you caught them laughing together at work.

The knife twisted because you understood. God help you, you understood.

You couldn’t stop comparing yourself to her. Couldn’t stop noticing every way Lois shone brighter, louder, surer. It wasn’t jealousy rooted in hate. It was jealousy rooted in love—and in the gnawing fear that maybe, no matter how much Clark loved you, you’d never measure up.

Lois Lane.

The woman who could land an interview with Superman. The woman whose name was always praised in the newsroom. The woman so beautiful she seemed almost unfairly carved from starlight. Everyone saw it. Jimmy, Steve… you were sure Clark did, too, even if he’d never admit it.

Sometimes, in your darkest thoughts, you wondered if he was pretending, when he came home after a long day with her, kissed you on the lips, and told you he loved you. You knew him better than that, though. Clark wasn’t a liar. If he said he loved you, he did. The problem wasn’t him.

It was you.

You cared too much. Saw too much. Thought too much. Lois was everywhere, her name on Clark’s tongue, her laugh echoing down the hall, her kindness pressing against you like a weight. Sweet torture. Because she wasn’t cruel. She was kind. Devastatingly kind.

She complimented your work, offered to help, smiled at you like a friend. And every word, every gesture, landed on your skin like tiny bullets—not because she meant harm, but because you couldn’t stop the ache of wondering why you couldn’t be enough.

The feeling always hit worst at work. Always. Perry’s voice boomed from his office, barking about deadlines. Reporters darted between desks with notebooks in hand.

And in the middle of it all—always—Lois.

Smart, sexy Lois.

Why did she have to be the greatest thing to ever exist?

She leaned against Clark’s desk like she owned the space, her presence filling the room without effort. She waved a stack of papers, speaking animatedly, her laughter bubbling out like it had been scripted to charm the entire bullpen. Clark was laughing too, that deep, easy sound that carried straight to you like an arrow. He didn’t laugh that freely often, but Lois seemed to draw it out of him like it was nothing.

It wasn’t unusual of course, they were partners. Still, watching the two of them together was like pressing on a bruise you knew would never heal. The way the light caught in Lois’ hair, the way Clark’s whole face lit up when he listened, it made your chest tighten until your breaths felt shallow.

You turned back to your desk, fingers flying over the keyboard harder than necessary. Maybe if you focused on the screen, you could drown them out. But their voices threaded through the noise anyway.

“…and then I told him, if he wants Superman’s time, he’s going to have to offer more than stale donuts and weak coffee,” Lois quipped.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “Only you could get away with saying that, Lois.”

She winked at him. “What can I say? Charm goes a long way.”

Your jaw tightened. You pressed your keys too hard, and the word on your screen came out a jumble of letters. Delete, delete, delete. It wasn’t fair—Lois wasn’t cruel, Clark wasn’t careless. But god, it stung.

“Hey,” Lois’s voice suddenly broke through your fog. She was standing at your desk now, holding one of your drafts. “This piece on the housing project? Incredible. Seriously, you nailed this. You’ve got such a sharp eye. You caught angles I completely missed.”

You blinked, caught off guard, your throat a little dry. “Oh—thanks, Lois.” You smiled, but it felt thin, strained. Compliments from her always landed like lead on your chest. She meant them, you knew she did, but her kindness was its own kind of weapon—it left you with nowhere to place the ache.

Clark joined her, hands in his pockets, that easy smile tugging at his lips. “Told you she was good,” he said, nudging Lois lightly with his elbow. His eyes softened when they found yours. “Didn’t I?”

Lois rolled her eyes, laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Smallville. You were right. Again.”

Both of them smiled at you—genuine, warm, like there was no reason in the world for you to feel small. But you did. God, you did.

“Thanks,” you murmured, ducking your gaze back to your keyboard. The words on the screen swam out of focus, dissolving into nothing. The newsroom felt too bright, Lois too luminous, and Clark’s kindness suddenly unbearable in its weight.

Clark lingered a moment longer, though Lois had already turned back toward her desk. He bent down slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“Hey,” he whispered, concern etched in his tone. “You okay?”

You forced another smile, this one weaker than the last. “I’m fine. Just… busy.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned in closer, brushing the lightest kiss against your lips—quick, careful, hidden in the chaos of the bullpen.

It was nothing, barely a touch. But your heart lurched painfully in your chest, because in that fleeting moment you could almost believe you were enough. Almost.

And then he straightened, gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, and walked back to his desk—back toward Lois’ laughter.

Leaving you in the glow of fluorescent lights, fighting the ache all over again.

“Yikes.”

The voice made you jump. Jimmy plopped into the empty chair beside your desk, balancing a camera on his knee and a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. He raised his brows at you knowingly. “That looked painful.”

You blinked, frowning. “What did?”

Jimmy tilted his head toward Clark’s desk, where Lois had already swept back into conversation with him, her laugh ringing through the bullpen. “That,” he said simply. “The Clark-and-Lois Comedy Hour. You’ve got the front-row seat every day—must be exhausting.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You quickly shook your head. “Jimmy, it’s not like that. Really.”

He gave you a flat look, unimpressed. “C’mon. I take pictures for a living. I know what people look like when they’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you insisted, tapping at your keyboard a little too loudly. “I’m working. That’s it.”

Jimmy leaned back in his chair, crunching into his granola bar with exaggerated slowness. “Mmhm. Totally. You just happen to type like you’re trying to murder your computer every time Clark laughs at Lois’s jokes. Coincidence.”

You shot him a glare, whispering harshly, “Jimmy!”

He smirked. “What? You think I’m wrong?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “You are. Completely.”

Jimmy studied you for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully. Then he leaned in, dropping his voice so no one else could hear. “You don’t have to admit it to me. But don’t lie to yourself, okay? It’s written all over your face. Every time she walks over here, you shrink a little. And every time Clark mentions her name, you flinch. I see it.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re imagining things.”

Jimmy shook his head, his tone softening. “No, I’m not. And I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because you don’t need to torture yourself. Clark… he’s crazy about you. He can’t even hide it. Everyone sees it.”

You tried to laugh, tried to wave it away, but it came out brittle. “Jimmy, please. Lois is… Lois. You know how incredible she is. If I compare myself to her, I’ll always come up short.”

He leaned forward, eyes earnest. “That’s where you’re wrong. Lois shines like neon—bright, bold, impossible to ignore. But neon’s for show. Clark? He doesn’t need neon. He’s drawn to steady light, the kind that guides you home. And that’s you.”

The words hit harder than you expected, carving right through the walls you’d been holding up. You looked away quickly, blinking down at your screen, refusing to let him see how much it stung and soothed all at once.

A beat passed. Then you forced a chuckle, shaking your head. “Didn’t know you became a poet, Olsen. Gonna start publishing sonnets on the side?”

Jimmy grinned, leaning back with his arms folded. “Maybe I should. I’d make a killing. Daily Planet photographer by day, hopeless romantic by night.”

You arched a brow, glad to steer the spotlight away from your own emotions. “You should save those lines for your own girlfriend. Or do you just hand them out to anyone who looks like they’re about to cry in front of a keyboard?”

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Hey, don’t diminish my art. This is Pulitzer-worthy wisdom right here. You’re just lucky I don’t charge for it.”

You snorted, grateful for the levity. “I’ll be sure to add ‘Jimmy Olsen, accidental poet’ to your business cards.”

Jimmy leaned closer again, smirking. “As long as you add ‘terrible liar’ to yours.”

You froze for a second, the joke hitting a little too close to the truth, but before you could respond, Perry’s voice boomed from his office, calling Jimmy by name. Jimmy straightened, shot you a wink, and slung his camera over his shoulder.

“Think about what I said,” he murmured, softer now, before hurrying off.

You stared after him, heart thudding, the ache still there—but dulled by the distraction, by the joke, by his refusal to let you hide.

The newsroom thinned out as the evening dragged on. Phones stopped ringing, the clatter of keyboards slowed, and even Perry retreated to his office with a fresh cup of coffee. You were still at your desk, pretending to finish an article that had been done for twenty minutes, when you caught sight of Clark again.

He was by Lois’s desk, gathering his things, that easy smile tugging at his mouth as she rattled off something animated. They laughed together, their voices carrying across the bullpen just as easily as they had that morning. Your chest tightened in the familiar way.

“See you tomorrow, Lois,” Clark said warmly, slinging his jacket over his shoulder.

“Don’t be late, Smallville,” she teased back, smirking. “Deadline waits for no man, even you.”

He chuckled, then turned—and his whole expression shifted the second his eyes landed on you. Softer. Warmer.

“Hey, you,” Clark murmured as he walked straight to your desk, as if the entire office had disappeared. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, and finally your lips—quick, tender, but enough to make your heart stumble. “God, I missed you today.”

You blinked up at him, startled. “You… b-b-but you saw me all day.”

“Doesn’t count.” He gave that small, sheepish smile that always knocked the air from your lungs. “Work-Clark doesn’t get to sit with you. Doesn’t get to hold your hand. Doesn’t get to do this—” He bent down again, brushing another kiss across your lips, lingering a second longer this time.

The bullpen wasn’t empty, but the few people still lingering pretended not to notice. Your cheeks flushed anyway. “Clark…” you whispered, half-scolding, half-melting.

“What?” he teased softly, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. “I did miss you.”

And you knew he meant it, you could feel the truth of it in every word, every touch. But still, Lois’s laughter echoed faintly in your ears, stubborn and cruel, making you wonder why it was so easy for him to split his warmth between two worlds when you could barely handle sharing him with hers.

You slid your hand into his as you stood up, letting him lace his fingers through yours. The simple warmth of him grounding you made your chest feel both lighter and heavier at once—the ache hadn’t left, but it was softened, just a little.

“Ready to go home?” Clark asked, voice low and easy. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear.

“Yeah,” you whispered, squeezing his hand back. “I’m ready.”

The two of you made your way across the bullpen, passing Jimmy’s desk on the way out. He was still there, hunched over a pile of photo proofs, but he perked up the second he noticed you.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Jimmy said, grinning. He leaned back in his chair, camera strap looped around his neck. “Don’t wear yourselves out too much tonight; you still have to get here early in the morning tomorrow.”

Clark chuckled, glancing back at him. “Goodnight to you too, Jimmy.”

Jimmy pointed his finger at him dramatically. “Mark my words, Kent. You’ll thank me one day.” Then his gaze flicked knowingly to you, and his grin widened. “Both of you will. Hey, don’t forget the amazing advice I gave you today, I’m serious.”

Clark raised his eyebrows, curious. “Wait—what advice did he give you?”

Your heart gave a tiny jolt. You bit your lip, forcing a small, playful smile. “Oh, nothing important. He… he said something about making your bed after you wake up to manage moisture and discourage dust mites.”

Jimmy barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed slightly, still amused but unconvinced. “Dust mites, huh?”

“Yep,” you said quickly, leaning into his side as you tugged him toward the elevator. “Biggest story of the year. So don’t make the bed tomorrow like u always do or else our bed will be filled with them.”

Clark laughed under his breath, squeezing your hand as the two of you stepped into the elevator. “Uh-huh. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Goodnight, Jimmy!” Clark called just before the doors slid shut.

“Night, guys!” Jimmy answered cheerfully, already turning back to his desk.

The elevator hummed as it carried you down. Clark’s thumb stroked lazily over your knuckles, the small gesture making your chest tighten and ease all at once. For a few moments, there was no Lois, no Jimmy, no shadows—just him, just you, and the quiet space between you both.

Once outside, the cool evening air wrapped around you. Clark immediately slipped his jacket over your shoulders, the weight and warmth of it sinking into your skin.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, his voice close to your ear. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m fine,” you said, but you didn’t move away. You never did when he did that.

“Good,” he chuckled, tightening his grip on your hand as you walked toward the car. “Because I plan to keep you this close all the way home.”

You laughed softly, resting your cheek against his arm. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Only with you,” he teased, leaning down just enough to brush another kiss against your temple.

And just like that, the world felt lighter—even if the ache still lingered beneath it all.

By the time you reached home, the heaviness of the newsroom had been replaced by the comfort of routine. Shoes kicked off at the door, jackets draped over chairs, the faint smell of takeout boxes filling the kitchen. You’d eaten together at the counter, laughing over nothing, Clark sneaking fries from your plate with a sheepish grin until you smacked his hand playfully.

Now, changed into pajamas, the two of you were curled up on the couch. A half-watched movie flickered on the TV, but neither of you cared. Somewhere between the opening credits and the halfway mark, you’d ended up straddling Clark’s lap, your cheek pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

His arms were wrapped tight around your waist, big hands drawing slow circles against the thin fabric of your shirt. He bent his head every so often, trailing kisses along your hairline, your temple, then down to the curve of your neck.

Each kiss was slower than the last, more deliberate, until his lips lingered just beneath your jaw. A hum left his throat, low and satisfied, as if kissing you was enough to make the world stop spinning.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin between words, “how much I love this. Love you.”

His hands shifted lower, sliding over your hips, his thumbs pressing softly into the curve there. Another kiss landed on your neck, firmer this time, and you shivered. He chuckled against your skin, his voice rougher now. “Could stay like this forever.”

Your hands fisted lightly in his shirt, pulling him closer. You tilted your head to give him more space, breath catching when his mouth grazed that sensitive spot just beneath your ear. He was everywhere—his scent, his warmth, his voice and for a moment you let yourself drown in it.

And then, your brain betrayed you. Lois’s laughter flashed in your head, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of Clark’s touch.

Before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, quiet but clear:

“What did Lois say that was so funny today?”

Clark froze. Instantly. His lips stopped, his hands stopped, even his breath seemed to still beneath you. The sudden absence of movement was louder than a shout.

He leaned back slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

Regret hit you like ice water. Your heart sank, but you forced a nervous laugh, trying to cover the crack in the moment. “Nevermind,” you said quickly, cupping his jaw with both hands. You leaned in, desperate, pressing your lips to his with a fervor meant to erase the question.

But Clark pulled back just enough to stop you. His blue eyes searched yours, steady but sharp, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “No,” he said softly, but there was steel in it. “Why are we talking about Lois all of a sudden?”

Your stomach twisted. You tried for lightness, though your voice wavered. “It’s nothing, Clark. Just… popped into my head, that’s all.” You forced a small smile and tilted forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, hoping he’d let it go.

But he didn’t kiss you back this time. He was still watching you, brows knit, the warmth in his gaze now mixed with worry. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice lower now, “you know you can tell me anything.”

You went from warm to frozen in the space of a heartbeat—his hands, the movie glow, the brush of his lips—everything suddenly too bright. For a long second you were a statue, chest tight, pulse thunderous, the apartment shrinking to the distance between his face and yours.

“Drop it,” you said, your voice flat and small at once. You stood up so fast the cushions sighed behind you, embarrassment and panic mingling in the motion. Your breath hitched; your fingers fumbled at the hem of your shirt as if getting out of it would unglue whatever had loosened inside you.

Clark’s expression changed from concern to alarm. He reached for you, but you stepped back. “No,” he said, voice steady but urgent. “I don’t want to drop it. I want to talk about this. You were weird at work today. You were—” He swallowed, finding the words as if they hurt to pull out. “You can tell me everything. Please. I only want to help.”

Something inside you broke with that simple, aching plea. For months you’d held the ache in alone, folded it into quiet hours and drafted it in the depths of your heart. Now, with him only a hand away, the pressure that had been building under your ribs finally burst.

You laughed—brittle, forced. It turned into a sound that was almost a sob. “Finally,” you choked, incredulous. “Fine.” The dam gave. Your knees trembled and you dropped back onto the couch, the movie’s light painting the room in pale blue. Your hands covered your face because you couldn’t bear his eyes on you while you ruined the picture of yourselves.

“I can’t, Clark!” The words came out jagged, raw. “I can’t talk about it. I can’t say it out loud.” You pressed your palms harder to your temples like you could stop the sound of your own voice. “I can’t—” Your chest heaved. “Clark, I can’t talk about how I will never be enough. Never perfect enough like Lois.”

You felt so small saying it—the admission that had been a private, burning thing now scorched the air between you two. You forced out a laugh that dissolved into a sob. “I can’t talk about how I will never amaze you the way she does, because I’m not smart enough. I’m not that… I’m not going to talk about the fact that I admire her so much it eats me alive.” Words tripped over one another, each one a fresh wound. “I can’t talk about how every little thing she does chips away at me, at whatever little confidence I have left. Okay? I can’t, Clark. I—” A sound tore out of you, half-cry, half-plea.

“The worst part,” you blurted, voice raw, “is that she’s perfect in the ways that matter. Lois is—God—she’s the kindest, most clear-headed person I’ve ever known. She never does anything wrong, she’s always ready to help, she doesn’t grandstand or expect praise—she just shows up and fixes things. Watching her makes me feel small in a way that stings. It’s like…I don’t just fall short, I’m wrong for feeling this way about someone who’s all goodness.” You swallowed hard. “I hate that I resent her for being admirable. I hate that I love her example and also hate myself for not being it. It’s humiliating.” I despise my rotten mind a-a-and how much it worships her.”

You pressed your palms to your face, trying to stop the words from coming and failing. “I admire her so much it feels like a knife. Admiring someone to the point where it corrodes you, where every laugh she lets slip, every clever thing she says, is another reminder you’ll never be that—that makes me ugly inside. I’ve never despised myself this much. So please—please don’t ask me to explain it. Don’t—” The rest of the sentence choked off into ragged breath, and for a moment you let the shame sit raw and honest between you both

You could feel the room tilt. Your hands were shaking now; tears blurred the edges of the TV screen and the neat lines of the coffee table. You wanted to crawl into the couch and disappear. You wanted to rip the words back into your mouth and swallow them whole. But they were out, and they hurt in the telling.

Clark was there without a moment’s hesitation. He came to you the way he always did—quietly, with the kind of gentleness that tried to patch things with touch. He sat down on the floor beside the couch and took both your hands in his, thumbs stroking circles over your knuckles as if he could knead the pain into something that made sense. “Hey,” he said, voice breaking with his own rawness. “Hey, look at me.”

You did. You saw everything in his face—shock, and then an aching compassion that made your stomach twist anew. “Why would you—” He stopped, searching for the right way around the hurt. “Why would you ever think you’re not enough? You’re brilliant. You’re brave. You make me laugh. You make me—” He swallowed hard as if the weight of his own love was a physical thing. “You make my life better. Please don’t do this to yourself.”

You couldn’t form a sentence. You wanted to believe him so badly you could taste it, sweet and impossible. Instead, you let another sob break; it shook your whole body. “It’s not that simple,” you gasped. “It’s never that simple. You don’t see what I see when she walks in—how she carries the room like she owns it, how everyone listens. You don’t feel the way I feel when you laugh at her jokes and I’m standing there like I’m… like I’m invisible.”

“Hey,” Clark said, wrapping his arms around you then, pulling you down off the couch into his lap so you were curled against his chest like a small animal seeking shelter. His embrace was sturdy and unflashy—everything you’d thought you wanted a thousand times over. He pressed his lips to the top of your head. “I laugh because you’re my partner in crime. I smile at Lois because she can be ridiculous. Those things don’t undo what I feel for you.”

You let your forehead rest against his shirt, the fabric warm beneath your tears. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was a clumsy apology—too little, too late—but it was all you had. “I wish I could stop feeling this way.”

“You don’t have to wish it away alone,” he murmured. “We’ll work through it. Together.” His words were firm this time, not placating but determined. “We’ll figure out why this is eating at you. I don’t want you to hurt like this.”

You hiccupped, half-laughing, half-crying. The ache didn’t vanish; it had only shifted, now mingled with a fragile thread of relief that he knew, finally, the shape of your pain. You clung to that thread like a lifeline.

Clark tucked a stray tear behind your ear and rested his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he said simply, utterly. “None of that changes because Lois is good at her job. None of that changes because you notice her. I love you.”

The confession didn’t heal everything. The comparison didn’t evaporate. But it was the beginning of something you’d been too afraid to ask for: truth laid bare and met with an answer that wasn’t dismissal or mockery, but steadiness.

Clark didn’t let go of you. If anything, his hold tightened, his chin resting on top of your head as if he was keeping you anchored to this moment, to him. His chest rose and fell in long, steady breaths, like he was trying to pass some of his calm into your storm. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear, the warmth of his shirt dampening with your tears, and it made you ache even more.

You sniffled against him, voice breaking as you whispered, “I’ve made a mess of everything.”

Immediately, Clark pulled back, hands cradling your face so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were wet, red-rimmed, not because of his own pain but because of yours. That was always him—carrying your hurt like it was his own. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head just enough for his hair to fall into his forehead. “You told me the truth. That’s not a mess. That’s… brave. Braver than I’ve been, maybe.”

The word caught you off guard. You blinked at him, raw, small. “Brave?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice low, steady, meant to sink into your bones. His thumb brushed the tear tracks from your cheeks, soft but unrelenting. “You carry all that, all the hurt, and you still come home to me every night. You still laugh at my dumb jokes. You still hold my hand when you’re tired. You still choose me, even when it’s hard. That’s the bravest darn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Something inside you cracked again, but this time it wasn’t from shame. It was from the unbearable tenderness of his words. You folded into him, burying your face in his neck, arms clinging tight around his broad shoulders.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmured, muffled against his skin. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Clark let out a soft, broken laugh, one that vibrated against your cheek. He pulled back just enough to kiss your hairline, his lips lingering there like he could breathe you in. “You’ve got that backwards,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you. Do you have any idea what you are to me?” His voice shook, but his eyes—his impossibly blue eyes—burned with truth.

You tried to answer, but your throat locked up. He didn’t let you look away.

“You’re the reason I don’t give up on people,” he said, raw, stripped down to the core. “You’re the reason I believe the world is worth saving every day. You’re the reason I even feel human sometimes. Every morning, before I even open my eyes, you’re the first thing on my mind. Every night, when I’m so exhausted I can barely stand, you’re the last thing I think about. And in between?” His lips twisted in something close to a smile, almost in disbelief. “In between, I think about how darn lucky I am. How I’ll never understand why you chose me. But God—” his breath caught, and he shook his head—“God, I am so grateful you did.”

You opened your mouth, tried to protest, but he held your jaw gently, thumb resting just beneath your lip, and shook his head.

“You amaze me every single day,” he whispered. “Not Lois. Not anyone else. You.” His thumb brushed under your eye, catching another tear before it fell. “The way you see people. The way you give, even when it hurts. The way you look at me when you think I don’t notice. The way you kiss me like it’s the first and last time, every time. The way you love me like I’m not—” He stopped, his voice cracking, his throat working as if he had to force the words out. “—like I’m not two people, like I’m not half of myself. You make me feel whole. Do you understand that? You make me feel like I finally have a home. You are my home.”

Your lips trembled, words trapped behind the sob tightening your throat. You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t all those things, that he was blind. But the way he looked at you, like he was seeing not just your face but your soul—how could you fight that?

Fresh tears welled, but this time they didn’t feel jagged. They rolled down softer, like rain instead of glass.

Clark leaned in, closing the small space between you. He kissed them away, catching each tear with his lips, one by one, whispering against your skin. “You. Are. Enough.” A kiss after each word, deliberate, reverent. “You’re more than enough. For me. Always.”

Your hands clutched at his shirt, desperate, aching, needing to hold onto something real. His words rang through you, overwhelming and impossible, and yet—yet—for the first time in months, maybe years, you let yourself believe him. Not completely. Not perfectly. But just enough to let your body soften against him, just enough to let out a shuddering breath and press your forehead against his.

Clark exhaled too, as if he’d been holding his breath with you, and the sound came out shaky. His large hand slid up your back, cradling the nape of your neck, and his thumb stroked slow, soothing lines into your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

You shut your eyes tight, letting the words sink in even as your chest still ached with doubt. “I don’t know how to stop,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “The comparing. The… tearing myself apart. It’s like my brain won’t let it go.”

Clark tilted his head until your foreheads pressed harder together, his lips brushing yours when he spoke. “Then let me fight it with you. Every time that voice tries to tell you you’re not enough, I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll say it as many times as it takes until you believe it.”

That promise—it was so earnest it made your throat burn. A fresh tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away without hesitation.

“Clark…” you whispered, not even sure what you were asking for.

“I love you,” he said instantly, like the words were the only answer that mattered. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, then finally your mouth—slow, deep, lingering. It wasn’t rushed or hungry, but it was steady, grounding, a kiss that said you’re here, you’re mine, I’m not letting go.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, clutching, as if he might slip away otherwise. When the kiss broke, you rested your face against his, breathing him in.

“You make it sound so simple,” you said softly, almost like an apology.

“That’s because it is,” he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. His lips ghosted over your mouth again, gentle, coaxing. “I don’t need perfect. I don’t need you to be Lois. I need you. Exactly as you are. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

You couldn’t answer. Words would have cracked under the weight of the moment. So instead, you pulled him close again, clinging to his warmth, his solidity, his impossibly steady heartbeat.

The movie had long been forgotten. The room was quiet except for the occasional hiccup in your breath and the steady sound of him whispering little nothings into your hair. Things like you’re safe… I’ve got you… I love you more than anything…

At some point, the tears stopped. At some point, the trembling in your hands eased. And by the time the credits rolled on the TV, you were curled against his chest, half-asleep, with Clark’s arms still wrapped around you like he had no intention of letting go.

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, painting the room in your favorite colors. You stirred first, tangled in the sheets with Clark’s arm draped over your waist, his chest warm beneath your cheek. For a few seconds, you just breathed, letting the lingering warmth of his skin and the softness of the night before wrap around you like a shield.

But then the quiet nudged at you, and with it, the guilt crept in. Memories of yesterday—of Lois, of the quiet ache you’d buried deep—surfaced, relentless and sharp. You shifted carefully, tugging the covers around your shoulders, trying to steady the flutter in your chest.

Clark stirred, his voice thick with sleep, a low, rough whisper against your ear. “Morning,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as he yawned.

“Morning,” you whispered back, your stomach twisting. You hesitated, then finally looked at him, eyes searching his. “Clark… I feel… I feel like I should apologize to Lois.”

He blinked, lifting himself on one elbow, worry touching his features. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong to her.”

“I know, but she didn’t either. She’s never done anything to me. She… she was just being herself, and I—” Your voice caught, thick with shame. “I let myself get so caught up in comparing… I was too harsh on myself… and I feel like I should apologize for that.”

Clark reached over slowly, tilting your hand so his thumb could brush gently over your knuckles. The motion was soft, grounding, as if the world could shrink to the space between your hands. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe her an apology. You didn’t hurt her. Lois is amazing, yes—but she’s not the measure of you. And honestly?” He gave a small squeeze, his gaze unwavering. “You should be apologizing to yourself for being so hard on you, not anyone else.”

You bit your lip, tears prickling anew, and for the first time in days, you let yourself just look at him, feeling some of the tension in your chest unclench.

Clark’s lips curved into that small, mischievous smile you loved. “And to be quiet honest… I was only laughing at her jokes because, honestly, I’m scared of her anyway.”

You started to laugh, admiring how he was trying to change the mood. “You’re scared of Lois Lane?”

Clark chuckled, leaning in to press his forehead against yours. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb brushing softly across your temple. “Yeah. She’s smart, fearless… fierce. She could probably figure out how to take apart a Kryptonian before breakfast if she wanted. So, I laugh. I smile. I survive. You don’t have to feel threatened, okay? It’s not about her—it’s about us. You’re mine.”

Your chest loosened, and another laugh, quieter this time, slipped out. “Even when I feel… jealous… or small?”

“Especially then,” he said gently, tilting your chin so your eyes met his. “Because I see you. I love you. I notice everything about you—the way you care, the way you think, the way you make me laugh. That’s more than enough. Always.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, letting yourself melt a little into the warmth of him. The morning light painted him beautifully, soft and kind, and for a moment, the shame faded to something lighter.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice small.

“For what?”

“For… reminding me who I am,” you said softly. “For reminding me I don’t have to measure myself against anyone else.”

Clark kissed the top of your head, holding you just a little tighter. “You never have to. You’re already everything I could ever want. Always have been, always will be.”

You let yourself smile, finally letting the lingering tension in your chest ease. Lois’ shadow might still flicker faintly at the edges of your thoughts, but Clark’s words, his arms, the soft golden light—it all made it feel like you could finally breathe.

Clark shifted slightly, nudging your nose gently with his. “Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get breakfast before I start stealing all your pancakes.”

You laughed softly, brushing a hand over his arm. “You say that every morning.”

“Every morning,” he agreed, his voice low and teasing, and you let yourself snuggle closer, enjoying the simplicity of the moment. No comparisons, no shadows—just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of morning.

For the first time in ages, the newsroom did not feel threatening. You had Clark’s hand in yours, warm and solid, a tether grounding you as you navigated the familiar chaos.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” Clark said softly, as you stepped around a cluster of busy reporters. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, just enough to let you know he was there, fully present.

The tension you’d carried yesterday, the fears that had haunted you, felt lighter now, dissipating into the comfort of his presence.

Lois’ voice cut across the room like a spark. “Well, well, look at you two.”

You froze mid-step, the “you two” hanging in the air like a spotlight. Lois leaned back in her chair, arms crossed casually, one eyebrow arched. “Morning, lovebirds. Didn’t know the Planet provided breakfast cuddles with the coffee.”

Clark chuckled beside you, squeezing your hand gently. “Morning, Lois,” he said, his tone warm but teasing. “We’re just… walking in sync today.”

Lois smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Walking in sync, huh? That’s one way to put it. You know, I could write an article about how affectionate people are in hallways. Exclusive exposé on the Clark-and-y/n phenomenon.”

You blushed, heat rising into your cheeks, and glanced quickly at Clark. His reassuring smile met yours, and it steadied your racing thoughts. “I think we’ll pass on that, thanks,” you said, trying to keep your tone light.

Lois laughed, leaning back and shaking her head. “Suit yourselves, but don’t think I haven’t noticed. Hands held, little smiles… careful, you might make the rest of us sick with happiness.”

Clark pressed a soft kiss to your temple, quiet, grounding. “Don’t worry about it. We’re not here to impress anyone,” he whispered, his voice warm and private against your ear. You felt a shiver of comfort run down your spine at the intimacy, the quiet reassurance amid Lois’ teasing.

You laughed softly, glancing at Lois with a teasing smile of your own, though it was tinged with nerves. “We’ll try not to cause too many casualties,” you said lightly, playing along but letting Clark’s warmth soak into your bones.

Lois shook her head, clearly enjoying herself. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you two. Just to make sure the lovebirds don’t fly too close to the ceiling,” she said with a smirk, turning back to her computer with a satisfied hum.

Clark squeezed your hand again as you settled at your desk, whispering softly, “Ignore her. She’s just jealous she didn’t get a good morning kiss.”

You leaned your head against his arm, letting out a quiet laugh. “I think I’m starting to understand why you stay so calm around her,” you murmured.

He smiled down at you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to compare yourself to anyone here,” he said softly. “Especially not Lois. You’re amazing exactly as you are, and you know it now, right?”

You nodded slowly, letting the warmth in his voice and the feel of his hand in yours seep in. “Yeah,” you whispered, “I think… I think I’m starting to.”

For a few minutes, you worked in quiet comfort, fingers occasionally brushing against his, small reminders of the bond between you two. Then, when you were alone at your desk a little later, Jimmy appeared out of nowhere, crouching slightly behind your chair.

“Boo!” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, letting out a startled squeak and whirling around. “Jimmy! Seriously, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

He laughed, standing up straight. “Someone actually listened to my advice this morning. Look at you—holding hands and all.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands and laughing nervously. “You’re impossible.”

Jimmy grinned, leaning on your desk casually. “Impossible? Maybe. But look at you. Clark, too. You two are ridiculous together, but I can’t lie… it’s kind of perfect.”

Clark chuckled softly from across the room, watching the exchange with amusement and fondness. “See? Even Jimmy approves,” he said, squeezing your hand as if to say I told you.

You shook your head, laughing softly but feeling the warmth settle into your chest. Lois’ teasing, Jimmy’s interruptions—they all felt softer now, manageable, because Clark was there.

You realized for the first time in a long while, the newsroom didn’t feel like a battlefield. You had your anchor, your calm in the storm—and for now, that was enough.