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hangmanwrites · 7 days ago

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pretend until forever — clark kent

word count : 22.6k words pairing : clark kent x f!reader synopsis : you have a problem, and it involves showing up to your sister’s wedding with a fake fiancé to keep your family off your back. the plan is simple enough, except clark kent agrees to play the part, calm and infuriatingly perfect, and suddenly nothing feels fake at all. how long can you survive the day without your carefully built lie unraveling completely? content warnings : fake fiancé trope, fluff, angst, sexual tension, smut-adjacent scenes, public embarrassment, emotional spirals, family drama, mild language, messy feelings, teasing, romantic tension, workplace interactions, fake relationship scenarios author’s note : okay so yes, this one’s long, i know, but please take it as my silly little sorry gift because i’ll be taking a break for like two to three weeks with uni tests eating my soul, but also, because i genuinely love you lot, i ended up scribbling this whenever i could anyway. also, heads up, there are probably some grammatical errors because i’ve been learning more about american english, so it’s kind of a mix of british and american english throughout. also, some parts might be a bit confusing because i literally had no time to proofread properly, with everything else i’ve got going on, so i basically just sneaked it off as it was. anyway thank you for sticking around and seeing me through my chaotic mind, and see the comment below for the full author’s note if you’re curious for more rambles!!

masterlist

“Please, Jimmy, I am begging you!”

“I told you that I have a strict ‘no deals with the devil’ policy. NO.”

“You’re my only hope, Olsen, please!”

“I am not Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

You’re doomed, completely and stupidly doomed, not in a poetic sort of way, not in a funny way either, just in that sinking, slow, full-body ache sort of way where you already know the damage is done and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to un-say the words that came out of your mouth, not when your sister had called you before the sun had even risen and your voice was still heavy with sleep and your brain hadn’t caught up yet with the concept of reality or consequences.

All she said was something about table arrangements and final numbers for the caterer and how excited she was to finally meet the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for four years, and instead of stopping her, instead of correcting her gently or pretending the call had dropped or even saying something mildly coherent, you just said, “Of course,” and that was it, that was the beginning of your undoing.

Because now you’re engaged, and not just vaguely in a cute, Pinterest board kind of way, but fully, publicly, logistically engaged to a man who doesn’t exist, who has never existed, who you made up months ago to get your mum to stop setting you up with her friend’s nephew who’s a dentist and plays the trombone.

And now it’s too far gone to fix.

There’s a ring involved, a fictional proposal at a café, something you vaguely remember muttering about lavender lattes, and apparently he’s vegetarian now, because that somehow came up during brunch with your aunt last month, which means there’s a custom meal waiting for him at the reception and the sheer scale of the lie, the details, is making you feel slightly ill.

And yes, you know you did this to yourself, you know that nobody told you to keep going with the story or build him a backstory or describe his terrible driving and love of crossword puzzles, but you also know that it felt good at the time, it felt safe to be able to nod along when everyone else was talking about their partners and it felt good to have an answer for once instead of just a tight smile and another glass of wine.

You thought Jimmy would help; you thought if anyone would understand the desperation of the situation, the sheer absurdity of it, it would be him, and for a second you thought maybe he would say yes, maybe he’d pretend for a few hours, hold your hand during dinner, say something mildly charming during speeches, and let you get through the evening with your dignity barely intact.

But no! Jimmy Olsen, your last shred of hope, has looked you square in the eye and said absolutely not, and now you’re sitting at your desk with four days to go and not a single person you can reasonably ask to stand next to you in a suit and pretend to be in love with you for an entire night, not just in passing, but with the kind of history and weight that four years of fiction apparently carries.

And you know, deep down, that you should probably come clean, probably tell your family that you made the whole thing up and accept the embarrassment and pitying looks, but you also know how that’ll feel, how it’ll sound when your mum asks why you lied and when your sister gives you that smile that means she’s not surprised, just disappointed, and when your ex looks at you across the room like you’re still the same person you were when you let him walk away without fighting back.

You’re spiralling; you can feel it in the base of your skull, in your chest, in the weight of your hands where they’re curled too tightly around the edge of your desk, and you don’t know how to fix it, but you do know one thing for certain: you are not walking into that wedding alone.

You just need to figure out who’s walking in with you.

“Jimmy, please, I swear there’ll be food—”

“Look,” Jimmy let out a deep sigh, turning to you with an exasperated look, clearly frustrated with you asking him the same question for about twenty-three times now, “I would really love to help you, but not that kind of help…you know what I mean?”

“What exactly do you mean, Jimmy?”

He let out a groan, dragging his hands down his face like just speaking to you physically aged him, “You know what I exactly mean. I don’t do that. I am not a liar, and certainly not someone who’s good at it.”

“You literally fake-laughed through a conversation with my aunt about antique doorknobs last Christmas.”

“That was different, that was me trying to be polite while she showed me photos,” he pointed at you like that made some kind of moral distinction, “and I didn’t have to kiss anyone or pretend to be in a deeply committed relationship in front of multiple people.”

You blinked, “You wouldn’t even have to kiss me.”

“Oh, great, so you want me to pretend to be in love with you coldly, that sounds really convincing.”

“It’s not like anyone’s going to test us,” you snapped, “It’s not a hostage situation, I just need someone to show up in a nice suit and look like they’ve heard me snore before!”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes, “Do you snore?”

“Not the point, James!”

He crossed his arms, clearly done with entertaining the idea, even though you could see the part of him that was starting to feel guilty, the part of him that always looked a little bit like a kicked puppy when someone asked for help and he couldn’t give it, but also, unfortunately, the part of him that had enough self-preservation not to get dragged into your absolute car crash of a lie.

“I’m not doing it,” he said, firm this time, like he’d made peace with it, like he was trying to coach himself through the boundary in real time, “I’m not going to your sister’s wedding and pretending to be your long-term, deeply devoted fiancé. I’m not good under pressure, I have a very obvious tell when I lie, and your family terrifies me!”

You squinted at him, “What’s your tell?”

“I start talking in third person,” he said, dead serious, “and I sweat through my shirt.”

“So? Wear black.”

“Oh, my God, are you listening to yourself right now?!”

You slumped dramatically in your chair, letting your head fall back with a groan that felt like it came from your soul, “Do you have any idea how bad this is going to be? I told them we got engaged. Engaged, Jimmy. That’s not something you can backpedal from gracefully. There’s a ring involved. There was a café, and a latte, and I might’ve said he cried.”

Jimmy looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “You said what?”

“I don’t know why! I panicked! Mum looked so happy!”

“You are actually insane,” he said, pointing at you again, like saying it out loud would make it any less true, “and for the record, I still think you should just tell the truth and face the music like a normal person.”

You glared at him. “If you think I’m walking into a wedding alone with three exes in the guest list and a whole table of aunties who think I need to freeze my eggs, then you’ve clearly never known true fear!”

He opened his mouth, probably to make another point about morality or dignity or whatever other trait you’d long since abandoned, but then paused, squinting at you in that way he does when he’s trying to be delicate about something stupid, “Okay, but, if not me...then who?”

You stared at him, brain empty, mouth slightly open, the same low buzz of panic beginning to climb your spine again like static electricity, because you hadn’t actually gotten that far yet, hadn’t planned anything beyond “beg Jimmy until he caves.”

And the worst part is, he could see it.

“Oh, Christ,” he said again, voice full of dread, “you don’t have a backup plan, do you?”

“I didn’t think I’d need one,” you muttered, and even you heard how sad it sounded.

Jimmy sighed, already regretting asking, and shook his head like he was trying to physically shake himself free of your chaos. “You’re on your own, dude. I mean it.”

“On your own for what?” came Lois’s voice from behind you, curious and immediately too aware, and you didn’t even have time to flinch before she was rounding the corner of your desk with a coffee in one hand and that look on her face, the one that meant you’d been talking loud enough to be heard from Mars.

Jimmy blinked at her, looked at you, and then immediately bailed with a muttered, “Nothing. It’s nothing. Don’t get involved. I need to live.”

And then he was gone, the coward, vanishing into the newsroom like he hadn’t just abandoned you at your lowest.

Which left you sitting there, clearly distressed, clearly unravelling, and now with the added bonus of Lois Lane, a Pulitzer-winning journalist and very inconveniently perceptive human being, standing over you with narrowed eyes and that tilt of her head like she was already ten steps ahead of whatever story you were about to try and sell.

You tried to recover. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—Jimmy’s being dramatic. It’s really nothing.”

“Mm,” she said, noncommittal, sipping her coffee like she didn’t believe a single syllable of that. She sat on the edge of your desk, legs crossed, one eyebrow raised. “So what are you actually spiralling about?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, already regretting every decision that led to this exact moment. “It’s my sister’s wedding.”

“And…?”

“And,” you mumbled into your palms, “I might’ve told my family I’ve been dating someone for four years and that we’re now engaged, and that he’ll be coming with me to the wedding this Saturday, which is in four days, and also completely not true, because I made him up.”

Lois paused. “You made up a boyfriend who’s now your fiancé?”

“Yes.”

“Four years ago?”

“Yesssssssss.”

“And kept it going all this time.”

“I panicked, okay?!” you cried, finally looking up at her, your hands flailing a bit too dramatically for the office setting but at this point, who cared,

“My mum was giving me that face, and my other sister had just told me she was pregnant again, and everyone was being so smug and fulfilled with their real relationships and real lives and I just…said it. And then I had to keep saying it. I don’t even remember what lie I told about how we met. There was a café involved and I think he drinks oat milk.”

Lois blinked. “You’re unwell.”

“Thank you, Lois, very helpful!”

“Okay, but like, genuinely,” she said, shifting a bit on the desk, her tone softening just slightly in that way she sometimes let slip when she wasn’t in full reporter mode, “you should just tell them the truth.”

You let out a strangled, deeply unconvincing laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great. ‘Hey everyone, sorry, the love of my life I’ve been raving about for years doesn’t exist, I just invented him so you’d stop looking at me like I’m a broken microwave.’”

Lois sipped her coffee again. “You know your family will still love you, right? Like, yeah, they might be weird about it for five minutes, but they’re not going to exile you to the woods for being single.”

You frowned. “You don’t know my family. My cousin Monica live-tweeted her boyfriend proposing and now my entire family uses it as the standard for public affection. My sister’s second baby is already booked for a baptism before it’s even born. My mum bought a hat for this wedding, Lois. A hat. She doesn’t wear hats unless she’s going to cry in them.”

Lois snorted. “Okay, so your family’s insane.”

“Thank you!”

“But you’re still not actually solving the problem. You either tell the truth and deal with the fallout, or you find someone willing to be your fake fiancé, which, frankly, sounds like a logistical nightmare.”

“I tried that,” you said, slumping further into your chair like the embarrassment might kill you through posture alone, “Jimmy said no for like twenty-nine times.”

“Of course he did. The guy folds under pressure if someone just asks him what he wants for lunch. You’re telling me you trusted him with a full-on social deception at a family wedding?”

You groaned again. “He was my best shot.”

She looked at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed like she was scanning you for weaknesses, and then, in the most casual voice in the world, said, “What about, uh, Clark?”

Your heart stopped.

“No.”

Lois grinned. “Why not?”

“No,” you repeated, firm, terrified, already mentally spiralling into the void, “He’s—no. He’s too nice! He’d never agree. He’d probably short-circuit and start apologising to my mother for existing. And also, I barely talk to him. We talk about coffee and copy deadlines. That’s it!”

“Exactly,” she said, like that was a point in his favour, “He’s sweet and reliable. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t embarrass you. He might even be convincing.”

“Lois!”

“What?” She leaned in, voice low and smug. “You said you needed someone!”

You buried your face in your hands again, because if she said one more word, you might actually have a breakdown in the middle of the bullpen. And worst of all, you were already starting to picture it.

And that was the problem. That was exactly the problem.

Because part of you didn’t hate the idea at all.

And that was far more dangerous than anything you'd invented so far.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

You knew you shouldn’t be doing this, you knew it from the moment Lois leaned in with that smug little glint in her eye and said his name like she was handing you a loaded gun, like she wanted to see if you’d actually pull the trigger, and you knew you shouldn’t have stood up, shouldn’t have taken a single step in this direction.

But you did, and now here you were, standing right in front of Clark Kent’s desk, heart racing in a way that felt both ridiculous and completely deserved, because there was no possible version of this where you came out the other side with your pride intact, and yet your mouth was already open and your voice was already forming syllables like you weren’t about to launch yourself headfirst into the most humiliating conversation of your life.

He looked up at you, smiling a little like he was happy to see you, even though you were very visibly deranged right now, and he just tilted his head a little and said, “Hey.”

And you panicked.

“Yes,” you said, immediately, before he’d even asked anything, and he blinked, confused but not alarmed, just blinking up at you with those stupid kind eyes like you weren’t seconds away from asking him to fully fake a relationship with you in front of your entire extended family.

Then he raised his eyebrows slightly, in a polite, concerned sort of way, like maybe you were short-circuiting, and said, “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” you said, lying through your teeth, too quickly, voice way too high, “fine, totally fine, I’m just—okay, so, uh, weird question, and I’m really, really sorry in advance, but are you doing anything this weekend?”

His brows pulled together in that thoughtful, in a way he did when he was trying to give a sincere answer to a weird question, and he said, slowly, “I think I’m free on Saturday... why?”

And that was when you knew you were too far gone to turn back.

“Uh,” you said, already wishing you were dead, “would you possibly, hypothetically, in a completely fictional and non-legally binding sort of way, want to get engaged?”

He blinked.

You then winced. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud than it did in my head.”

“Engaged,” he repeated as if he’d misheard.

“Yes,” you said, then immediately regretted it, “well—not engaged engaged, I’m not asking you to marry me, I’m asking if you’d pretend to marry me, or at least pretend that we’re going to get married, which is somehow worse, I know, but I swear I can explain—”

Clark was still just looking at you, blinking slowly like he was trying to figure out if this was a prank or a cry for help, and you would’ve felt bad if you weren’t already spiralling straight into the seventh layer of humiliation.

“My sister’s getting married,” you said, breathless now, already waving your hands like that would help slow your brain down, “and I may have told my entire family that I’ve been in a long-term relationship with a very real and definitely not made-up person, and that person may have also become my fiancé at some point, and I didn’t think it would ever come back to bite me, but now she’s getting married on Saturday, and I’ve been explicitly told to bring him, and they’re all expecting to meet him and coo over our engagement story and ask invasive questions about our future children!”

You paused, dragging in a deep breath like you were about to dive underwater, “and Jimmy said no, like very firmly no, and then Lois said your name, and now I’m here, and you can absolutely say no too, in fact you, uh, probably should, because this is crazy and embarrassing and possibly the worst thing I’ve ever said to another human being, and I am fully prepared to fake a concussion to get out of it if I have to—”

“Can I wear a tie?” Clark asked, suddenly, with that tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like this was actually funny to him.

You stared. “What?”

“Well, I feel like a fiancé should wear a tie,” he said, shrugging a little, like this was a completely rational conversation, “I’ve got one that makes me look like I know things about property taxes.”

“You already look like someone who reads real estate blogs on purpose?”

“I don’t,” he said, smiling fully now, “but it’s nice to know I could.”

You stared at him, still half-convinced your ears were lying to you. “You’re saying yes?”

He nodded, still way too calm. “Sure.”

“You don’t even know what kind of unhinged family you’re about to walk into.”

“I grew up on a farm,” he said, “I’ve seen some things.”

“This is not that,” you said, trying not to sound panicked again, “this is five generations of nosy women with group chats and opinions and a frankly dangerous amount of curiosity. Someone is going to ask you about our sex life before appetisers! This is an actual social war, Clark, and you’re agreeing to walk into it as my fake fiancé for the price of one piece of cake and a lot of emotional damage!”

Clark adjusted his glasses, still smiling in that mild, impossibly steady way that made your brain feel like it was glitching.

“Do I get to pick the cake flavour?” he asked.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands, “this is going to end in flames.”

He leaned in a little, voice lower now, amused but serious enough that it made your spine go weird.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make us very convincing.”

And you felt that line in your bones, because you were unwell in the worst way, because you had just asked Clark Kent to be your fiancé and somehow, impossibly, he had actually said yes.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Jesus Christ, you absolute idiot,” you hissed at yourself, elbow propped on the sink as you dragged the eyeliner across your lid for the sixth time and of course it smeared into a crooked little tail that had no business being there.

“Brilliant plan, really, fake-engage the most obvious man in the world, they’ll never suspect a thing,” you muttered, scrubbing at it again with the corner of a tissue until your skin stung.

You leaned back, squinted at your reflection, and nearly laughed because your eyes were already going red and watery like you’d been crying, which was just perfect, exactly the sort of look you wanted to bring home to your family when you announced that Clark Kent had miraculously agreed to marry you.

“They’re going to find out in five minutes, tops,” you said to the mirror, pointing at your own face like you were scolding a misbehaving child. “They know you, they know you can’t lie to save your life, they know you’ve never kept a boyfriend past a month, and you think you can walk in there with Clark bloody Kent and pull this off? You are insane.”

The eyeliner pen slipped out of your grip and clattered onto the counter and you wanted to throw it in the bin. You slammed your palms on either side of the sink, leaning forward until your forehead nearly touched the mirror, and whispered, “You’re going to die, you’re going to actually die when they start asking questions.”

Then louder, like that might help, “What were you thinking?!”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape, your hands wouldn’t stay steady long enough to finish one simple wing.

You grabbed the mascara instead, hands shaking, and muttered, “Fine, we’re just going to have lopsided eyes. Whatever. Clark said yes, somehow, impossibly, and now you’ve got to make it through dinner without collapsing.”

And then, quieter, almost pleading, “Oh please, God, don’t let me sweat through this dress.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The doorbell went off and you nearly jumped out of your skin, the mascara wand slipping straight out of your hand and rolling into the sink like even your own things were sick of you.

You groaned, properly loud, because of course it was already happening, of course you’d run out of time, and you were still standing there staring at eyeliner wings that didn’t even belong to the same face. The left one was drooping, the right one was flying off into space.

It was bad.

It rang again, longer this time, like whoever was outside already knew you were falling apart and wanted to make it worse. You looked at the clock. 6:41. Which had to be wrong, because there was no way morning was allowed to arrive this fast. But there it was, blinking at you, reminding you that you were officially out of time.

You muttered at yourself about being stupid, about how your family were going to bury you alive, and then you stomped down the hall in your robe like some gremlin dragged out of a hole, you always did, and then your stomach dropped out completely because it was Clark.

Except it wasn’t Clark like normal, not with his crooked tie and hair that looked like the subway had bullied him. No. This Clark looked like he had been styled. His shirt was fitted properly, his sleeves rolled, his hair slick in a way that made you want to cry.

You opened the door and almost choked.

“Hi,” Clark said, easy, like he had not just wrecked your entire morning.

“What the hell are you wearing?” It fell out of you before you could stop it, because if you didn’t say something you were just going to stand there like an idiot.

He glanced down at himself and then backed up. “Clothes?”

You pointed at him, furious. “Do not. You look like some dream guy out of a film and it is offensive. You were supposed to show up looking like you.”

He blinked at you once instead, calm as ever. “Thanks? You look great.”

You nearly combusted. “Say that again and I will hit you. I mean it. I cannot deal with that right now.”

He almost said it again, you could see it, but then he softened and shrugged with that tiny smile that was somehow worse. “Alright. I will not say it again.”

“Good,” you muttered, arms crossed so tight you thought you might pass out. “Because this is already a disaster. My eyeliner is criminal, my hair is tragic, and then you have the nerve to turn up like that.”

He leaned against the doorframe, calm as ever, and said, “So, do I get to come in? Or are you just going to roast me from the hallway?”

You glanced at the clock again. 6:43. You sighed so loudly it rattled your chest. “Fine. Come in, but do not touch anything. And stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, grinning, stepping inside.

“Like that,” you snapped, slamming the door shut a little harder than necessary, because maybe the noise would drown out how fast your heart was going. “That thing where you look like you know something I don’t. Stop it.”

Clark glanced around your flat like he was taking mental notes, slow and polite, like he hadn’t just wandered into the lion’s den. He set his overnight bag by the sofa like he belonged there and then turned back to you with that maddening calm. “I don’t know anything,” he said.

You squinted at him, still clutching your robe closed. “Yes you do. You’re smug. It’s smug, that’s what it is.”

He raised his eyebrows, pretending innocence in a way that made you want to throw something. “Why do you think I’m smug?”

“I think you’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered, stalking back toward the bathroom because if you stood in front of him another second you’d combust. “And I don’t know why. You should be terrified. My family is going to eat you alive.”

Clark followed at a slower pace, leaning in the doorway as you picked the mascara back up like it might save your life. “I’m not really worried,” he said, and you nearly dropped the wand again because how was he like this, how was he so calm when you felt like your organs were about to start a mutiny?

“You should be,” you told him, catching your reflection and grimacing. “They will ask you questions. They will interrogate. They will want dates and names and embarrassing stories. Someone will ask about the proposal. Someone will ask about the honeymoon. Someone will ask about…” You waved the mascara at him. “Things.”

“Things,” he repeated, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, things,” you said, stabbing it back toward your lashes. “Personal things. They don’t know what boundaries are.”

He watched you for a moment, arms folded now, and then he said, easy as anything, “So you’ll tell me what they need to hear.”

You whirled on him. “Me?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, smiling like this was all so simple. “You made him up, didn’t you? You’ve already got the backstory. I’m just here to play the part.”

You stared at him, mascara still in your hand, and wanted to scream. “Oh, my God. You’re going to be useless.”

Clark laughed, actually laughed, and it was so warm and low that you forgot what you were about to say next. He pushed his glasses up his nose, still smiling, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep up.”

And you hated it, you hated how much you almost believed him.

By the time you’d shoved half your wardrobe into a suitcase and burnt your tongue on instant coffee, Clark was still just… there. Carrying your bag down the stairs without breaking a sweat. Opening the passenger door for you like it was normal. Sliding behind the wheel like he wasn’t about to impersonate your fictional fiancé in front of five generations of relatives who could smell fear a mile away.

The car was quiet for all of thirty seconds before you broke.

“They’re going to ask about the café,” you blurted, gripping your coffee cup like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. “The one where he proposed. I said it was by the river, I said there were lavender lattes, I said he got down on one knee and cried. They’re going to want details. They’re going to want to know the exact date. What the weather was like. What he said.”

Clark glanced at you, then back at the road, and said, “Alright. So what did he say?”

You blinked at him, throat tightening, because of course you had never thought that far. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking on it. “I just said he cried.”

Clark smiled a little, eyes on the traffic ahead. “Then I guess I’ll have to improvise.”

You nearly spilled your coffee. “Clark, no, do not improvise!”

“Why not?” he asked, all innocent.

“Because you’ll make it sound sincere and then I’ll die.”

He chuckled, soft and low, and you wanted to throw your coffee out the window.

“This isn’t funny,” you said, turning in your seat to glare at him. “We need to get our story straight. You can’t just stroll in there winging it.”

Clark kept his eyes on the road, maddeningly calm, hands loose on the wheel like you weren’t both heading toward disaster. “So we build it. Isn’t that what we do?”

“What?” you asked.

“Stories,” he said, glancing at you with the faintest smile. “We’ve both made a career out of getting the details right. Same principle, just personal. It’s not exactly breaking news, but it’s still a narrative. We just… write it.”

You gaped at him. “You’re actually suggesting we treat my fake fiancé like an article?”

He shrugged. “Why not? You’ve got the bones already. We fill in the rest. Motive, timeline, quotes, anecdotes. Keep it consistent. No contradictions.”

You groaned and slumped against the seat. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not enjoying it,” he said, but he was smiling, and you knew he absolutely was.

“Fine,” you muttered, shoving your empty coffee cup into the holder. “Timeline. Four years. We met at…” You stopped, wincing. “Gosh! I can’t even remember what I said anymore!”

Clark hummed thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Library?”

You shot him a look. “Do I look like the kind of person who meets people at libraries?”

“Alright,” he said, still calm. “Bar, then. You spilled a drink on me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a cliché.”

“You made up lavender lattes,” he reminded you. “We’re already past cliché.”

You shoved a hand through your hair, heart pounding. “Okay, fine, bar. I spilled a drink. It was rum and coke, not wine, because wine is too obvious.”

Clark nodded like he was taking notes in his head. “And I said—what? That you owed me a replacement?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, leaning into the lie before you could second-guess it. “And you hated me at first. You said I was rude and clumsy and distracting.”

He smirked at that, eyes still on the road. “Sounds about right.”

“Don’t,” you snapped, pointing at him. “You don’t get to enjoy this.”

“Noted,” he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched and you wanted to scream.

You slumped back again, muttering under your breath. “Proposal was last spring. Café by the river. Lavender latte. You cried. I don’t know why, but apparently you did. Honeymoon is booked for Italy, Tuscany maybe, I can’t remember which part I told them. Vegetarian, crosswords, terrible driver.”

Clark repeated it under his breath, like he was memorising lines. “Terrible driver?”

“Yes,” you said. “You almost hit a dog once and we argued for a week. My cousin remembers that. Don’t mess it up.”

He glanced at you again, amused. “You realise you’ve basically been running a four-year con, right?”

You groaned into your hands and dragged your palms down your face because of course this was happening, of course he was going to ruin everything by pointing out the one detail you had not thought through.

“I know, do not remind me,” you muttered, muffled and pathetic, like you could somehow smother the entire problem with your own skin if you just pressed hard enough.

There was a silence, and it was the kind that sat heavy enough to make your ribs ache, the kind that made you look up because you could feel him staring at you.

Clark had that careful expression, the one he always got when he was about to drop something you were not going to like, and you felt your stomach twist before he even opened his mouth.

“What?” you snapped, sharper than you meant to, but he was still gripping the steering wheel.

He hesitated, the pause stretching long enough that you wanted to scream, and then he said, almost cautiously, “You don’t… have a ring, do you?”

Your entire chest caved in. You clutched your robe tighter out of pure reflex even though you had changed into actual clothes an hour ago, because suddenly you were naked, you were exposed, and your heart dropped so fast it made you dizzy.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my actual God, Clark. I don’t! I never bought one. They’re going to see it immediately, they’re going to stare at my empty finger and it’s over, it’s done, they’ll know I’ve been lying for four years and then I’ll have to fake my own death and disappear to the mountains because that is the only way out of this.”

“Hey,” he cut in, calm and steady like his voice alone might anchor you before you spun yourself into oblivion. “Breathe. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine,” you hissed, shoving your hand directly at him like evidence in a trial. “Look. Naked finger. Do you see this? They will see this from across the room, they will drag me into the kitchen, and then they’ll demand answers, and then its social execution. They will bury me alive in the garden!”

Clark pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile, which only made you want to throttle him, and then he let out a small, sheepish laugh. “Okay… so I might’ve thought of that.”

You blinked at him, wild, your voice climbing. “What do you mean, you thought of that?”

Instead of answering he flicked the indicator and pulled the car over, gravel crunching under the tyres, the sound loud enough that it scraped at your nerves. When you finally looked up the sea was spread out in front of you, pale and endless and stupidly beautiful, the kind of view you might have cried over if your brain wasn’t on fire.

“Clark,” you said slowly, suspicion crawling over you as he shifted in his seat, “what are you doing?”

He cleared his throat, awkward, his hand dipping into the inside pocket of his jacket, fumbling in a way that made your stomach drop further, and then he pulled out a small velvet box.

Your heart lurched so violently you actually gasped. “Oh my God. Is that—”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but you, his ears already going pink. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a ring.”

You stared at him, properly stared, your brain stuttering and blank. “You… you got me a ring?”

Clark finally met your eyes and for a second he looked so nervous you almost forgot how to breathe. “I figured it would come up. People notice rings. I didn’t want you to panic more than you already were.” He held the box out with both hands, hesitant, like he was afraid you’d shove it back into his chest. “This is… this is the one.”

Your fingers brushed his when you took it, your chest too tight, and your voice cracked. “This is a ring?”

His laugh was soft, embarrassed, so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. “Yeah. Kind of obvious, right?”

You opened it and the air left your lungs in one violent sweep.

It was beautiful, and not in the flashy gaudy way that would’ve been easier to shrug off, but in the kind of way that hurt to look at.

A gold band, simple but solid, with a diamond that caught the weak morning light and scattered it across the dashboard like it was mocking you. It looked old, and it looked like it had been waiting for years.

“Clark,” you whispered, throat burning, unable to stop staring, “I can’t wear this.”

He swallowed, his voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile. “It was my ma’s. Her mother gave it to her. She wanted me to have it. Said it was for when I met… you know. The one.”

Your head snapped up so fast it almost hurt, your eyes wide, panic spilling everywhere. “Clark, no, absolutely not. I cannot wear this. This isn’t a prop, this isn’t—this is family, Clark.”

He gave a tiny shrug but his jaw was locked tight, his whole body saying he meant it. “She’d want it used. Not left in a drawer.”

You shook your head, clutching the box like it was a live grenade, because this was insane, it was so far beyond the boundaries of your fake plan you could hardly process it. “Clark, this is wrong. We’re lying, we’re faking it, we’re—God—we’re tricking everyone, and you want me to do it wearing something that actually matters?”

His gaze held steady, nervous but immovable, like he was bracing himself to take the hit. “It means something if you let it. Otherwise, it’s just a ring.”

You wanted to tell him no, to shove it back into his hand and demand he find you something cheap and plastic, something that could never feel heavy in your palm. But your throat was thick, your eyes stung, and the diamond kept catching the light like it was laughing at you for ever thinking you could control this.

You sit there gripping the box so tightly it feels like your knuckles might split, like if you loosen your hold even slightly it might detonate right there between you, and he just sits steady the way he always does, like nothing in the world could shake him, and it only makes you feel worse, because you’re sitting here on the verge of combustion while Clark Kent looks like Clark Kent, calm and patient and maddening.

The silence stretches and stretches until it feels like a weight pressing down on your ribs, so thin and fragile it could snap at any second, and you can’t take it anymore, your breath breaking out of you in a shudder, and all you manage is a single word, low and wrecked, “Fine.”

His shoulders drop in that instant, a subtle easing, relief softening the set of his jaw, and before you can swallow the word back or decide you’ve made a terrible mistake he reaches forward, so slow, so deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away even though you don’t, and his fingers brush yours, warm, steady, achingly gentle, and it’s ridiculous how that single touch is what undoes you more than anything.

He takes the box from you, cradling it like it isn’t a bomb, like it’s nothing more than a box, and then, without a flicker of hesitation, he opens it. Pops it open like he’s just unwrapping something ordinary, not stepping with you into something that feels like walking into fire.

He slides the ring out, holding it between his fingers, turning it once, the smallest movement, and then he looks at you, properly looks at you, and your chest twists, your pulse stumbles, because there’s something in his gaze you can’t read, something heavy and intent, and it makes everything so much worse.

“Clark,” you breathe, your voice breaking with the panic already clawing up your throat.

He clears his throat, quiet, unhurried, but steady enough to make your stomach lurch. “Will you marry me?”

Your head jerks, eyes wide, your mouth open but empty, because what the hell, because it’s insane, because you know this is supposed to be fake and yet hearing it out loud like that is nothing you were ready for. “Why are you asking me like that?”

“Because,” he says, calm on the surface but a thread of something else tugging underneath, almost sheepish in the way he meets your stare, “you’ll have to get used to it. People are going to want the story. They’ll ask, over and over. And if I can’t even say the words to you, then how am I supposed to convince anyone else?”

The laugh that rips out of you is half-choked, almost hysterical, and you clutch at the seatbelt across your chest. “Gosh. You’re rehearsing? You’re actually rehearsing this? In a car by the sea, Clark? Are you serious?”

His lips twitch, the smallest crack in his composure, and he says it so simply it drives you mad. “Practice makes perfect.”

Your head falls back against the seat, and you’re laughing because there’s no other way to survive the absurdity of this, because he’s insane, he has to be. “You’re insane,” you tell him.

But he doesn’t look away and just holds the ring, like it’s not just part of a scheme, his gaze steady on yours, and when he says, “Will you?”

It doesn’t sound like a joke, it doesn’t sound fake at all, in fact.

It should be easy, it should be light, it should be nothing more than a game you both agreed to play, but your throat is tight and your chest aches and you can barely force the words past the knot inside you. “Yes,” you laugh, except it’s wet at the edges, breaking against the tears you’re fighting, “yes, I’ll marry you, Clark Kent.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, something raw and unguarded that you can’t pin down before it’s gone, shuttered away so neatly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

And then he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that makes your heart cave in, slow and deliberate, like it belongs there, as if this isn’t fake at all.

The church was already spilling over by the time you pulled up, cars lining the road, people milling about in their best clothes, voices carrying in that bright early morning air, and your stomach dropped right through the floor because this was it, no more rehearsal, no more time to prepare.

Clark cut the engine, and for a second neither of you moved. You stared at the heavy wooden doors, the crowd of relatives and neighbours and people you barely knew but who all knew you, and your hand was already clammy before his even found it.

He reached across so simply, fingers brushing yours, and then he was holding on, steady, grounding, like he hadn’t just put a family heirloom on your finger minutes ago.

You wanted to pull away but you didn’t.

Walking up the path, hand in hand, you could feel the stares already, the whispers barely muted. Your aunt glanced down at your joined hands and her brows went up, sharp as anything, and you knew this was going to spread through the pews faster than the organ could get through the first hymn.

And then there was the sting, sudden and sour, when you saw your sister flanked by her best friends, all satin and flowers and cameras flashing, and not a spot for you amongst them. It should have hurt more. It didn’t. You weren’t here to be her bridesmaid, you were just here to stand and clap and smile when she said her vows, and that was fine. This was her day, not yours.

Except Clark’s thumb brushed your knuckles, light as a whisper, and it dragged you right back into the absurdity of it all, because while your sister was about to marry the love of her life, you were standing here pretending, your pulse hammering like you’d stolen someone else’s story.

Someone called your name, your cousin maybe, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the glint of the ring under the church lights, sharp and cruel, and all you could think was how in the hell you were supposed to carry this off when you already felt like the lie was carved into your skin.

Clark leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard. “Do I look okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, quiet, almost amused. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“Great,” you muttered, dragging yourself forward because there was no other option, the ushers were already funneling people inside like cattle and you couldn’t exactly dig your heels into the church steps and refuse to move. “Exactly the look I was going for.”

And of course, because the universe hated you, they were there, all of them, like they’d set up camp at the doorway purely to catch you. Your mum saw you first and her whole body jolted, hand flying to her chest like she’d just witnessed a miracle.

“Oh, he’s finally here!” she gasped, eyes bright as she turned that beam on Clark like she’d conjured him into existence through sheer force of will. “I was beginning to think you’d been keeping him hidden from us.”

“Mum,” you hissed, low, desperate, but it didn’t matter, she was already reaching for Clark’s hand, smoothing her hair like she was about to meet the Pope.

And then your brother, because obviously it had to be him, crossed his arms and gave Clark the slowest, most infuriating once-over, like he was appraising cattle. “So he’s actually real then? Thought maybe you’d rented him from the internet.”

Your hand flew out on instinct, smacking his arm hard enough to make him flinch. “You’re such an idiot.”

He grinned, rubbing the spot with exaggerated pain. “What? I’m just saying. We were starting to place bets. Months of ‘Boyfie said this’ and ‘Boyfie did that’ with no actual proof? Pfft suspicious.”

“Children,” your dad cut in, sharp enough that the word cracked through all the noise, that exact tone that used to send you lot scrambling when you were kids. “Behave. This is your sister’s wedding, not the playground.”

But of course your brother leaned in anyway, muttering, “She hit me first,” before ducking away with that smug grin that made you want to strangle him right there in front of God and everyone.

Meanwhile Clark, the traitor, menace, perfect bastard, just smiled all calm and polite, extending his hand like this wasn’t a firing squad. “Sir,” he said, warm, steady, with that faint drawl curling the edges, and your dad, your dad, who hadn’t smiled in weeks actually looked impressed.

“Oh, isn’t he charming,” your mum breathed, practically glowing, like Clark had just solved all her problems by existing. “What a lovely young man! I like him.”

You gawked. “You just met him.”

“That’s all it takes,” she said matter-of-factly, and then turned her entire focus back on Clark as if you weren’t standing there, as if you hadn’t just combusted into flames. “We’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, young man. She talks about you all the time. More than she realises.”

“Mum,” you snapped, heat crawling up your neck, but Clark was already glancing down at you with that infuriating glint, the one that meant he was eating this up, every humiliating second of it.

And because the devil works fast but your younger brother works faster, he leaned in on your other side, voice low but enough for Clark to hear. “He seems too good for you, sis.”

You spun, teeth bared. “Say that again and I’ll murder you in this church. I don’t care if God’s watching.”

Clark had the audacity to laugh, soft and low, disguising it like a cough, which only made you crush his hand tighter, knuckles white. He looked down at your grip, then back up at you, maddeningly calm, and murmured, “Easy there.”

Before you could even open your mouth to snap at him, there was another voice, cutting clean through the thick awkwardness, and there she was, your other sister, striding across the tiles, balancing her son on her hip as if the chunky little weight was nothing at all.

Her eyes swept over you first, then Clark, and the curve of her mouth shifted into that smile, the one that always meant trouble, the one that made your stomach sink because it was far too knowing already and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet.

“So this is him,” she said, her tone light and casual, almost airy, but her gaze sharp enough to make you bristle on instinct, like she was cataloguing everything about him now so she could interrogate you later over wine.

“Apparently,” you muttered under your breath, ready to roll your eyes skyward, but of course she didn’t even bother acknowledging you, adjusting her son higher against her shoulder before sticking her free hand out toward Clark.

“I’m her sister. The normal one. Nice to finally meet you.”

Clark, bloody saint that he was, smiled with that soft politeness of his and shook her hand with the same steady warmth he’d used on your dad, which only made you want to groan, because of course he was going to charm her too, wasn’t he, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, your nephew suddenly lunged toward him with both grabby little hands, chubby fingers stretching, babbling complete nonsense like Clark was the most exciting person in the world, like he’d just spotted the sun and wanted to pocket it.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” you hissed, glaring at the child who only grinned wider, cheeks dimpling like he knew exactly what he was doing. “He doesn’t even do that with me.”

Your sister laughed, shifting the boy’s weight easily, bouncing him once on her hip before tilting her head toward Clark with that amused gleam in her eyes. “He’s a good judge of character. Kids always know.”

Clark chuckled softly, not helping matters in the slightest, and brushed a fingertip over the baby’s tiny fist when it latched around his thumb with surprising strength. “He’s a strong one,” he murmured, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight.

You could feel heat crawling up the back of your neck, the tips of your ears burning, because this was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. “Don’t encourage him,” you snapped, crossing your arms tighter across your chest like that would somehow shield you from the scene unfolding right in front of you.

“Why not?” Clark said simply, like he genuinely couldn’t understand the problem, like it was the most natural thing in the world to let a baby cling to him as if they’d been best friends for years. Your nephew squealed in sheer delight at his voice, tiny fingers tightening their hold, refusing to let go, drool collecting at the corner of his smile.

Your sister raised her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Looks like he likes him. Honestly, I was expecting… I don’t know. Someone rougher around the edges, maybe, but you’ve done well.”

“I didn’t ‘do well’,” you snapped again, your voice climbing louder than you meant it to. “I’m not shopping at a bloody market stall!”

Clark’s lips twitched, his whole expression shifting as if he was desperately trying not to laugh, which only made it worse.

Your sister just rolled her eyes in that superior way she always had, switching your nephew onto her other arm as if to punctuate her point. “Whatever you say, but he’s definitely family-approved already, whether you like it or not.”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face, trying to cover the mortification burning across your skin, muttering through your palm, “I hate all of you.”

“Love you too, little sister,” she sang back without missing a beat, her heels clicking away as she disappeared down the hall, her son still babbling and giggling happily, his little hand stretched out toward Clark until they were both out of sight.

For a moment there was silence, the kind that pressed in on you, the kind that made your grip on Clark’s hand tighten without you even realising. He glanced down at you, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your knuckles, grounding in that soft way only he managed. “You okay?” he asked quietly, voice pitched just for you.

You tilted your head up at him, glaring through the flush on your cheeks. “Don’t start.”

The wedding begins slowly, almost shyly, like the air itself is holding its breath, the music soft at first and then swelling, filling every inch of the church with something grand and holy and terrifying, and it is the shift in the crowd that makes your skin prickle, the way voices drop, the way chairs scrape faintly before everyone rises at once, all heads turning toward the doors at the back.

You turn too, though your stomach has been clenched tight for what feels like hours, your lungs pulling shallow air that does not seem to reach deep enough, because you already know what is waiting, you already know the weight of it before it even happens.

And then she appears. Your sister, your baby sister, framed in the doorway in a dress so impossibly white it almost blinds you, the fabric catching the light like it is spun out of something celestial, her hand looped carefully through your dad’s arm, her steps hesitant and trembling in a way that breaks you even before she is halfway down the aisle.

Her face is soft and shaking, the kind of trembling that comes from joy too big to carry and fear too sharp to hide, and your dad looks so steady beside her, proud in a way that makes your throat close, his back straight and his jaw set like he is holding himself together for her sake.

The sight of them hits you harder than you thought it would, almost violently, like a hand pressing straight into the middle of your chest, because it is not just the image of your sister in a dress and your father walking her toward her future, it is the realisation of what this moment means, what it promises, and how far it feels from anything you could ever touch.

You cannot stop the knot in your chest, that ugly twisting, the whisper that tells you this kind of fairytale is not meant for you. Not the dress, not the aisle, not the someone waiting at the end with eyes already wet because you exist, because loving you is enough to undo them.

Not the story that makes entire rooms cry just from watching.

Your chest aches like it is hollow and your throat burns like you swallowed something sharp, and you hate yourself for it, for being so pathetic, for daring to feel grief in the middle of her joy, but it does not matter how much you tell yourself to stop, the sting behind your eyes rises anyway, hot and impatient and unforgiving in its timing.

And then Clark’s hands. They appear suddenly, folding around yours with such warmth and steadiness that it startles you, like you had forgotten you even had hands until he anchored them. His palms are firm, his fingers curling over yours with intention, as though he is tethering you, pulling you out of the spiral before you can vanish into it completely.

You glance up at him, startled, and he is looking at you the way he always does, but sharper now, more piercing, that gentleness too much, that patience too unbearable when you are crumbling in silence beside him.

His expression is open, impossibly kind, too soft for what this is supposed to be, and it only makes the ache worse because you know you do not deserve it.

You sniff hard, forcing your mouth into something that might pass as a smile, tight and fragile like cracked glass, nodding quickly as though you can tell him without words, I am fine, I am fine, do not make this worse, do not look at me like that.

His thumb brushes against your knuckle once, slow and grounding, not insistent, just present, and it is enough, somehow, to keep your chest from splitting entirely open in the middle of the ceremony.

When you force your gaze back to the aisle, your sister is already halfway to the altar, her bouquet trembling in her hands the same way her lips tremble when she blinks too fast.

And then she reaches him, her husband-to-be, standing there at the end of the aisle with his whole world written across his face, his expression undone in the most devastating way, his tears catching in the light, his mouth trembling open as if the sight of her is too much to contain. He is not composed, not stoic, not trying to hide how much he feels, and it cracks him wide open right in front of everyone.

Your dad takes her hand so carefully, almost reverently, and places it into his. The gesture is simple, tradition etched into every movement, but it lands inside you like a blow, the lump in your throat so sharp it forces you to swallow hard, your vision blurring just as the two hands meet, as her life folds into his.

And all you can do is stand there, blinking against the burn, anchored by Clark’s grip and undone by everything else, watching your sister step into a story you are certain will never be yours.

The murmurs died down and then the officiant began, voice soft and steady, guiding them into the moment that was supposed to be sacred and contained and almost unbearably beautiful. You could feel the tension in the room stretching through you, every seat in the church suddenly pressing against your ribs as if the air itself were waiting.

Your sister inhaled, her chest rising under the delicate fabric of her gown, her eyes locking on him, her hands trembling slightly even as they held onto his.

And then he spoke, his voice quiet at first, but every word carving through the church like it belonged there, like it could not be stopped. “I never thought I’d be standing here, marrying you, because I never thought anyone could make me feel like this, like I was home for the first time in my life, like everything else fell away when I looked at you.”

Your chest clenched immediately, instinctive and sharp, and your hand tightened around Clark’s without thinking, your knuckles whitening against his.

It was such a simple, human reaction, a tether to the world that didn’t feel like it was going to rip apart under the weight of this moment, because even though you knew it wasn’t about you, even though it was your sister’s day, hearing those words made everything inside you combust in ways you weren’t prepared to name.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark glance down at your hand, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes, a question, a warning, an acknowledgment, but you did not allow yourself to meet it.

You had to keep your gaze forward, had to keep watching her, had to keep pretending that this distance, this air between you and the raw ache in your chest, could be managed. Your eyes stayed locked on your sister, on the way her lips parted in that tiny, unguarded smile that made everything else feel sharp and impossible.

Her husband’s words continued, each one carefully measured, filled with everything he had kept in his chest for years, and you felt the pulse of it, the way it settled deep under your skin, and you knew you were holding your breath, holding onto Clark because it was the only thing that made the ache bearable, the only thing that let you stand upright without collapsing entirely in front of all these people, because the world was collapsing inside your chest and this hand, warm and steady, was the only anchor you had.

You forced yourself to blink, to nod ever so slightly, just enough to convince the world you were present, just enough to convince yourself that you weren’t dissolving entirely, and even as you did, the words continued to land, quiet and devastating, a tide pulling at something you hadn’t wanted to admit was there, a part of you that had always wanted that kind of certainty, that kind of love, and yet you had never, and would never, have it.

And still, the hand in yours squeezed just enough to say we’re here, we’re holding, we’re surviving, and for now, that was enough.

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, because suddenly the room felt too bright, the polished pews too shiny, the quiet sniffles too loud, and you were hyperaware of everyone’s eyes, even though they weren’t on you. You could feel Clark’s gaze lingering, steady but soft, like he was reading you without needing words, like he knew you were unraveling and he wasn’t going to let go.

Your sister’s voice wavered slightly as she replied, her vows trembling but full of that raw, unpolished honesty that made people lean in, made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit. And your hand squeezed Clark’s without thinking, your grip tightening as if holding onto him could somehow hold the world together.

You stole a glance at him from the corner of your eye, just a flicker, and he gave you that small, almost imperceptible nod, letting you know it was okay, that he was right there, that he had you. And then you had to look away, focus forward, because her words, beautiful, unguarded, full of that impossible hope, were searing right through you, and your chest felt too tight to breathe normally.

He spoke again, low but steady, recounting memories you knew only she could understand, and you felt that familiar ache flare up again, sharp and quick, because here she was, standing in the kind of love story you’d been convinced you’d never get to have, and yet you were tethered to it, through the hand in yours, through the warmth and calm of Clark’s presence.

The officiant’s voice cut in softly, directing them through the last pieces, and your sister’s hand slid into his completely, her fingers lacing through his, and for the briefest moment, your chest unclenched slightly, not because it was easy but because it was complete.

The moment was absolute, and while the world spun around you, the tightness in your stomach, the fluttering of your pulse, it was almost bearable because his hand was there, grounding you, reminding you that you were still tethered, still whole, still managing to exist in this impossible, perfect chaos.

And then, as they spoke their final words, promising themselves to each other, the whole room seemed to exhale, and your shoulders finally loosened just a fraction, your grip on Clark easing, but not letting go, because even in the midst of their story, even while your own chest ached, you realised that holding onto this small, solid connection was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing keeping you from tumbling entirely into the kind of longing you’d spent years burying.

After the wedding, the reception was chaos and glitter and flowers and everyone trying too hard to be polite while quietly evaluating every single detail as though the entire day depended on them, and you could feel the tension and excitement vibrating in the air like static electricity, your heels pinching at the wrong places, your dress slightly itchy in all the wrong ways, and Clark’s hand never leaving yours as you navigated the sea of relatives and distant acquaintances you mostly pretended to remember.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked, leaning close so his breath brushed your ear, calm and steady in a way that almost made you forget you were still about to combust from sheer social panic.

“I need water,” you muttered, dragging him toward the drinks table, your voice low enough so no one could hear, though somehow everyone probably did anyway, because you were you, and subtlety had never been your strong suit.

He handed you a glass, watching you with those ridiculous eyes that seemed far too focused, far too kind, and you took it like it was a lifeline. “Thanks,” you said, and immediately felt like an idiot for the dryness in your throat, because of course your voice had gone all shaky again.

“People are staring,” he said quietly, nodding toward the crowd that was definitely noticing the two of you, which only made your stomach twist further because yes, they were looking, and yes, it felt like everyone could read every thought and panic bubbling under your skin.

“I can feel them,” you hissed under your breath, glancing around, and then muttering, “They know, they all know, they can smell the lie on me, I can feel it in the air.”

Clark chuckled softly, a sound that made your chest tighten in an entirely different way, and he squeezed your hand. “They’re just looking,” he said, calm as anything, and you nearly rolled your eyes. “It’s a reception, not an interrogation.”

“Sure,” you muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm, “except everyone here is judging every breath I take, and I have to smile and nod like a normal human being while my eyeliner is sweating and my shoes are stabbing my feet.”

He leaned closer again, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing fine,” he said, quiet but firm, and you could feel the weight of his certainty like a grounding force, and it was almost enough to make you believe it for half a second before your cousin’s laughter nearby reminded you that you were still very much on display.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked suddenly, tilting his head toward the band, and you froze, because of course, yes, dancing. That was an excellent idea, entirely going to be a disaster.

“I can’t dance,” you said immediately, panic rising in your chest, and Clark tilted his head, patient but amused, and you had to explain, because apparently that was necessary, “I mean, I literally cannot dance. I trip over flat surfaces, and if you think I’m going to sway gently and gracefully like some romantic movie character, you are dreaming. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Clark’s lips twitched, that little amused lift at the corner, but he didn’t say anything, just waited, which made you continue, spiraling faster, “And yes, I’ve thought about it, okay, I’ve tried to fake it in the privacy of my room, spinning around like a human windmill, but it never works. I always end up dizzy, tangled in my own arms, muttering nonsense, and frankly, it’s better for everyone if I just stay put, sway awkwardly in a corner, or pretend I’m just really into observing the décor. That’s the safest option.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, exhaling sharply. “So don’t ask me to dance. I cannot, I will not, and this is not negotiable. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m just nervous, but this is not nerves – ”

You hadn’t even finished your tirade about your catastrophic dancing skills when Clark’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the room, that faintly mischievous glint in them making your stomach sink.

“Someone’s coming,” he murmured, just low enough that you could hear, and before you could ask who, your eyes went wide and you knew immediately.

Your nosy aunts. The ones who could smell a lie from a mile away and whose sole purpose in life seemed to be monitoring everyone’s social behaviour with surgical precision.

You froze for a second, panic threatening to take over, and then your brain, working at full chaotic speed, fired off a plan. You set your glass down a little too firmly, grabbing Clark’s hand with a grip that was both desperate and decisive, and yanked him toward the centre of the dance floor.

“Oh babe, come on, let’s dance!” you called out, loud enough for your aunts to hear, forcing a fake giggle that sounded far too shrill for comfort, and immediately cursed yourself internally because now you were fully committed and there was no turning back.

Clark’s eyebrows rose, but that familiar soft smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t protest. Instead, he slid his hand into yours and led you toward the first slow song of the evening, the band swelling in that way that made every bride, groom, and their unfortunate guests look like they were part of some cinematic moment you had no right to be in.

As soon as you were on the floor, you realized just how unprepared you were. You tried to sway gently like people in films did, but your knees went stiff, your feet refused to cooperate, and every attempt to move in sync with the music ended in what could only be described as flailing. You were convinced that if someone filmed this, it would be used as evidence against you in some future court of humiliation.

Clark, sensing your rising panic, didn’t let go. He kept his hand on your waist, guiding you with a patience that was infuriatingly perfect, murmuring, “Hey, it’s fine, just follow me, look at me, don’t think about anything else.”

His voice was calm, a soft anchor in the storm of your nerves, and you tried to focus on it, though your limbs still insisted on moving like they had a vendetta against you.

You laughed nervously, half-groaning at your own lack of coordination, and he tilted his head, still patient, guiding your steps, “There, see? You’re doing fine, just trust me.”

“Fine?” you echoed, eyes wide as you nearly tripped over your own feet, “Fine is catastrophic, I am a danger to everyone on this floor.”

He chuckled, tugging you slightly closer so you wouldn’t fall, “No, you’re doing fine. Just don’t stop moving and don’t think, just follow my lead.”

And somehow, impossibly, it started working. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but enough that you weren’t dragging anyone into disaster. Your arms were still stiff, your steps awkward, and you were acutely aware of your aunts’ sharp eyes from the sidelines, but Clark’s presence grounded you.

His hands were steady on your waist, guiding your turns, soft murmurs in your ear making you relax just enough to stop panicking, and every small movement you managed to pull off felt like a tiny victory.

You kept your voice loud enough for the nosy aunts to hear, “Oh babe, you’re amazing at this, I don’t know how I got so lucky!” forcing another fake giggle, and Clark laughed quietly, eyes glinting with amusement, holding you steady, making you feel like maybe, just maybe, this disastrous dance could somehow pass.

You stumbled slightly, foot catching his, and your breath hitched, but he didn’t let go.

He adjusted your hold, murmuring, “It’s okay, you’re fine, really,” and somehow, despite every instinct screaming that you were about to collapse, you found a rhythm, messy and imperfect, but real, anchored by him, and for the first time since you’d set foot on the floor, you allowed yourself to forget the crowd, forget your aunts, and just follow.

You blinked up at him, breath still shaky, and whispered, “Are they gone?”

Clark’s lips curved into that maddeningly calm smile, and he shook his head just slightly. “They’re watching,” he murmured, low and steady.

Your stomach lurched and you opened your mouth to say something, some panicked protest about public humiliation or the sheer absurdity of it all, but before a word could escape, his hand on your waist shifted, and he swayed you gently against him. Just a little, a teasing, impossibly smooth motion that made your chest tighten and your pulse spike in ways that were far too loud in your own ears.

The music then slowed, the band easing into a soft, lingering song that made the room shrink to just the two of you, the laughter and clinking glasses fading into the background. His other hand found yours, holding it lightly but with enough pressure to steady you, and you realized that even with a dozen eyes on you from somewhere out there, none of it mattered.

You wanted to protest, to pull away, but every instinct that normally screamed disaster in social situations was muffled under the sheer weight of how close he was, how careful and deliberate his touch was.

Your cheek brushed against his shoulder when you turned slightly, and you caught the faint scent of him, clean and familiar, like this was home and you weren’t allowed to panic.

“Clark,” you whispered, voice tight, “this is… too close.”

He tilted his head, that little smirk curling the corner of his mouth, but didn’t let go, didn’t break the sway. “It’s fine,” he said, soft, almost tender. “Just follow me.”

And so you did, more because you had no choice than any kind of skill, letting him guide you, the gentle rhythm of his movements anchoring you to the moment. Your heart hammered, loud enough that you could feel it against his chest, and every so often your eyes flicked to the edge of the crowd, half-expecting to catch your aunts with smug expressions, but somehow you didn’t care.

The song stretched on, slow and sweet, and for a few moments you let yourself sink entirely into it, into him, into the absurdity of standing on a polished floor, swaying poorly to a song that somehow felt like it was written just for the two of you. Your fingers squeezed his hand reflexively, your grip tight, and when he murmured a quiet, “Relax,” it was enough to make your chest unclench just a little.

Then your eyes met his, and suddenly the rest of the room disappeared entirely. The soft glow of the chandeliers, the distant chatter and laughter, the clinking of glasses, none of it existed.

Just him, just you, and the space between your faces shrinking impossibly fast.

Your gaze flicked involuntarily, catching the curve of his lips, imagining the way they would feel against yours, and heat surged through you in a way that made your palms sweat even as they clung to his.

He held your gaze, steady and calm, but there was something in his eyes now, something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist and your breath hitch in ways you hadn’t expected. You had to fight not to tilt your head closer, not to close the distance that your body was already craving, because the tension was thick, palpable, and dizzying, pressing in from all sides.

Every sway, every tiny step, felt electric. The faint brush of his chest against yours, the way his thumb traced little circles on your hand, it all pulled you closer, made your heart hammer like it was trying to escape your ribs.

You caught yourself staring again at his lips, daring not to breathe too loudly, because God, the thought of what would happen if you just leaned in, if you let it happen even for a heartbeat, made your pulse spike until you could barely think.

You weren’t sure if he noticed, or if he did and was just as tortured, but the way his eyes lingered on yours, the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, it was enough to make the world tilt dangerously, wonderfully, and terribly.

You wanted to step back, to remind yourself of reason and the absurdity of being caught in the middle of a wedding reception, but your body refused, glued to him, and the moment stretched impossibly, deliciously long, suspended between what was allowed and what neither of you could stop wanting.

You both finally eased away from the polished floor, the music fading behind you as you sank into your chairs at the head table with the rest of your sister’s family, your dress still warm from the frantic movement and your pulse stubbornly racing.

Clark’s hands found yours again on the table, folding over them the same way he had when he’d anchored you on the dance floor, and for a moment the noise around you; the laughter, the clinking of cutlery, the faint chatter of other guests blurred into a soft hum that didn’t reach you.

You glanced at him, another tight-lipped smile curling reluctantly at your own lips, the kind that said I’m surviving, barely, and he returned it with that soft, patient expression that made everything else fall away, like he was deliberately slowing the world just so you could breathe.

Your fingers squeezed his in answer, tentative, a silent acknowledgment that somehow, despite the ridiculousness of all this, you weren’t completely alone in it.

The maid of honour wrapped up her speech, applause rippling through the hall, and you watched the bride smile, her eyes gleaming, her cheeks flushed, and you tried not to flinch at the way the happy chaos pressed against your chest, the reminder that this was her day, that you were here only as part of the backdrop, and still, with Clark there, warm and steady and impossibly close, it didn’t feel entirely like a stage you were forced onto.

He tilted his head toward you, soft enough that only you noticed, and murmured, “You okay?”

You blinked at him, trying to play it off, letting a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding slip out. “Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than usual, not entirely believable even to yourself, and gave him a tighter smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Clark just nodded, thumb brushing along your knuckles once, slow and grounding, and you realised you didn’t have to answer because he could read the tension anyway, and somehow that was enough to keep the world from collapsing around you for just a little longer.

The applause from the maid of honour’s speech was still settling when the microphone shifted to your father. He cleared his throat and began, voice steady and deliberate, carrying easily across the hall.

He started with your sister, telling stories that painted her in all the right lights, stories that made the crowd laugh, murmur, lean in, the kind that made your chest tighten because the pride and warmth in his voice was impossible to ignore.

He spoke about her childhood, scraped knees she’d worn like badges, late nights full of whispered secrets, the stubborn streak that had got her into trouble more times than he could count, and the small victories that had shaped her into the person everyone now admired.

He talked about the friends she’d chosen, the way she had grown, the moments she had fought for herself, and you felt each word pressing into your chest like a weight you weren’t ready to carry.

He slowed, careful with his pauses, choosing words that made you notice his glance wander around the room, until it finally rested on you. “And oh, our other daughter there,” he said, and the pause stretched long enough to make your stomach lurch, “she’s getting married too.”

Your heart stopped, panic tightening in your chest. Eyes turned, murmurs ran across the crowd, and your hands immediately found his, gripping, holding like it was the only lifeline in the room. Your pulse jumped, but he didn’t move.

His thumb traced circles across the back of your hand, soft, steady, and the warmth of him there stopped the world from tipping over entirely.

Your father’s voice continued, now directed at him, the stranger to your family until today, the one you’d been keeping at arm’s length but who now occupied the centre of everyone’s gaze. “I haven’t had the chance to meet you properly until today,” your dad said, a little hesitant, “but I can see she’s found someone who respects her, who cares for her in the ways that matter. You’ve already made an impression, and I am grateful for that. I am grateful that she has someone steady by her side, someone she can count on, someone I can trust to stand with her through life’s moments. Welcome to the family, Clark.”

He pressed closer, just a little, leaning down to brush his lips softly against your temple, and your chest both sank and seized. The intimacy of it, the weight of everyone’s attention, the fact that you were standing here pretending through every approving glance, pressed into you like fire.

You clutched his hand tighter, the heat rising behind your eyes, and for the first time all night you let yourself notice how absurd it felt, how real it looked, and how much you hated the lie you were living even as your father’s words kept echoing in your ears.

The reception had settled into its usual rhythm by then, laughter bouncing off the walls, glasses clinking, people shifting in and out of conversation. You had been planted at your seat by your mum, who insisted on filming everything, and you were holding your drink like it was a lifeline, trying to blend into the chaos. She kept nudging the phone in front of your face. “Smile, darling, everyone will want to see this later,” she said brightly, like your life was a highlight reel. You groaned into your hand, muttering that no one would want to see your panicked, frozen expression, but she ignored you entirely, adjusting the camera so you could be seen in full, upright terror.

Clark had positioned himself beside your father, leaning casually against the chair back, one hand resting lightly on the table, his posture loose, amused, like he wasn’t a part of this social storm at all. Every so often, his gaze found you, that faint smile tugging at his lips, and you returned a glare sharp enough to send sparks, which he met with nothing but a calm shrug, and the weight in your chest tightened a little because somehow that look made you feel like the entire room had dissolved down to just the two of you.

Then the energy shifted. Your sister raised her bouquet high, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with nerves and joy, and called out, “Alright ladies, get ready!”

The circle of single women stiffened, bouncing on their toes, hands poised, whispering to one another, eyes flicking between each other and the flower held aloft.

Your mum leaned over, practically poking you in the side. “Go on, love, catch it, don’t be shy,” she said loudly enough for half the room to hear. You groaned, rolling your eyes, muttering that this wasn’t some desperate teenage ritual, but she ignored you completely, already filming every twitch of your expression.

Clark leaned closer, voice low and steady in your ear. “It’s just a flower,” he said, calm as anything, like the world wasn’t spinning a mile a minute around you. You shot him a glare sharp enough to sting, muttering that he clearly didn’t understand the stakes.

He just raised his hands innocently, giving a small shrug, and murmured, “Alright, I’ll stand here and make sure no one throws anything worse at you,” as if that made everything better.

Your sister swung the bouquet back, and the world slowed. You could hear the collective intake of breath from the circle of women, feel the tension stretching across the room like it had weight.

Everyone leaned forward, eyes wide, arms out, the air thick with anticipation. You froze in the middle of it, your mind screaming that you could move, that you should move, but your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot.

And then it happened. The bouquet sailed through the air, not to the side, not to someone else, but straight at you.

Time stretched impossibly as it arced toward your hands. You blinked, frozen, and then instinctively, fingers closing around it. Your chest hammered so violently you could feel it in your throat.

Your mum was behind the camera, shrieking, “She’s got it! She’s got it!” and you could hear the chaos of laughter and cheers, the whooping and the shuffling of feet, but all of it was muffled, distant, because your brain was registering nothing but the bouquet and the weight of it in your hands.

Clark’s eyes found yours immediately. That same calm amusement lingered in them, soft but infuriating, like he knew exactly what was happening inside your head, and you glared at him, willing him to look away, but he just shrugged, tiny smile playing at his lips, as if he was silently saying, “Well, congratulations.”

Your fingers tightened around the stems as if holding it harder would ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.

You forced a smile for your mum’s phone, the edges tight and trembling, because your mind was already spiraling, imagining the whispered comments, the eyes following you, the absurdity of standing there with the bouquet in your hands as if it had been meant for you all along.

And Clark, still leaning slightly against your father, still calm and amused, gave you that look, the one soft, fond look that made your stomach twist, like he actually saw you in the middle of all this chaos, like none of it mattered except for you, and somehow, just for a second, it grounded you, even though your chest was still on fire, and your brain was still screaming that none of this was real.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The room had thinned out considerably by the time you even noticed, the bride and groom long gone in their shiny getaway car, and most of the guests either lingering with plates of leftover cake or helping stack chairs and sweep up confetti. You were still standing near the edge of the dance floor, staring down at the bouquet in your hands like it held all the answers to some impossible puzzle, your fingers curling around the stems, trying not to crush them.

Clark came up behind you quietly, his footsteps soft against the polished floor, and before you could even turn he was there, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

“You look like you’re solving the world’s problems with that thing,” he said gently, his voice low so no one else could hear, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You didn’t look up at first, just muttered, “I’m trying to figure out how this ended up in my hands instead of floating off into the abyss where it belongs.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and knelt slightly so he was level with you, tilting his head. “You’re meant to catch it,” he said, and for a moment the simple statement hung in the air, too quiet to be noticed by anyone else, but heavy enough that your chest tightened.

“I didn’t ask for it,” you whispered, and finally let your eyes meet his. There was that same calm, unshakable look in his gaze, the one that somehow made you feel safe even when your brain was still screaming at you that everything was wrong.

“You didn’t ask for a lot of things,” he said softly, fingers brushing against yours before he took the bouquet gently from your hands, holding it between the two of you. “But you got them anyway.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intimacy of it, the closeness of him, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too long. “Clark…”

He smiled, that faint, fond curl of lips that made you forget to breathe properly. “Hey. It’s just a bunch of flowers,” he said lightly, but there was a weight under it, a meaning he didn’t have to say aloud.

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping, shaky but genuine. “Yeah, just a bunch of flowers. And yet somehow it feels like… like more than that right now.”

He tilted his head, watching you carefully, patient and steady, like he could hold the world in place if he just focused hard enough. “It’s only what you let it be,” he said softly. “Or maybe… it’s only as big as you let it feel.”

You blinked at him, breath catching, because that sounded so simple and yet it made your chest ache all over again. He gave a small, knowing smile, and then, before you could even process it, he took your hand and said, “Come with me.”

“Now?” you asked, voice a little breathless, half from surprise and half from the lingering adrenaline of the wedding.

“Yes, now,” he said, patient, but there was a spark in his eyes, the kind that made it impossible to refuse him.

You let him lead you out of the hall, weaving past stacks of chairs and the last of the confetti-covered tables, until you reached a small path that curved up toward the back of the property. You didn’t even notice how steep the climb was, just followed him because he was right there, and something in the quiet insistence of him made your legs move without protest.

Eventually he stopped, and you realised he had found a bench tucked just off the path, hidden slightly by a row of tall bushes. You hadn’t even noticed it from the reception side. He gestured toward it, and you sank onto it reluctantly, still holding his hand, still trying not to let the tension in your shoulders betray how much your heart was hammering.

The view hit you before you could even speak. The city stretched out below, lights flickering in colours that seemed impossible, reflected in the water of the river that cut through the middle. The night air was cool, but not cold, and the silence around you was so complete it pressed against your eardrums. Somewhere far below, a car horn sounded, faint, distant, reminding you that the world still existed beyond this quiet bubble.

Clark settled beside you, just close enough that your arms brushed. You didn’t move, didn’t need to. You both sat there for a long moment, simply watching the city, letting the weight of it all sink in. Finally, he broke the silence, voice quiet, careful, as though speaking too loud would shatter the calm.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

You nodded, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him yet. “Yeah,” you whispered, letting your gaze drift to the city lights instead.

Another long pause, then he let out a soft chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re overthinking again,” he said.

“I’m not,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into a small, guilty smile.

He laughed again, soft and easy, and it was contagious. You felt the tension in your chest loosen just a little.

“You go first,” he said suddenly, nudging you gently with his shoulder, “say what’s on your mind.”

You took a deep breath, letting your fingers tighten around his. For a long moment you just stared down at your hands, gathering courage, before finally letting your voice spill out, soft, sincere, almost trembling.

“I… I just… I don’t even know where to start,” you said, blinking rapidly as you swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m so grateful for you. For everything. For just… being here, for all of it. Even when it’s ridiculous or hard or completely impossible, you somehow make it… easier. And I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane, but I’m… I’m just really grateful.”

Clark’s hand squeezed yours, a quiet anchor. He didn’t interrupt, just let you talk, and that made it easier to keep going. “I-I don’t say it enough,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “but I notice. All the little things. And I hate that I can’t tell you all the time without it being a mess, but… thank you, Clark.”

He shook his head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fingertip. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, almost dismissively, but the warmth in his eyes told you he meant it differently. “You don’t have to overthink it. You don’t have to do anything but be you.”

There was a pause, heavy in the quiet night. Then his voice cut in again, tentative, careful. “So… what happens now?”

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift. “What do you mean?” you asked, voice tight, unsure.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and there was that faint tilt of his head that always made your chest clench. “I mean, uh, after tonight? After all of this? What happens to us?”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your ears. The city stretched out below, all lights and colour, but somehow it felt smaller, impossibly intimate, like it was just you two up here, suspended. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your hands tightening around his, “I guess… we just keep going. We just… exist, together or apart or somewhere in between. I don’t know how it works.”

Clark’s thumb brushed along the back of your hand, slow and steady. “That doesn’t feel like an answer,” he said, quiet, almost hurt in the gentlest way. “I mean… I know tonight isn’t real. I know it’s all a game, a show. But for me… I don’t want to just stop at tonight.”

He leaned a little closer, still holding your hand, and a suggestion slipped out before you could even stop him. “We could… just keep doing this. Just us. See where it goes.”

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard, and your fingers twitched in his. “Wait. What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Clark’s expression shifted for a fraction of a second, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then he shook his head, as if deciding better of it. “Oh, never mind,” he said lightly, brushing it off too quickly, though you caught the hesitation in his eyes.

You frowned at him, still holding onto his hand. “Never mind?” you echoed, tone sharper than intended, curiosity and frustration mingling. “You can’t just say that and leave it there.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also uncertainty. “It sounded silly, maybe. I just… I don’t know how to explain it right now.”

“Well, try!” you snapped gently, exasperated, but not angry, just flustered, because you didn’t like the way his words had made your heart flip over. “I’m confused enough already, you don’t have to disappear halfway through the explanation.”

Clark blinked at you, that calm, unreadable look still plastered on his face, and for a moment you thought he might actually get flustered, which made your chest tighten even more. “I didn’t disappear,” he said finally, voice soft, careful, but there was a teasing edge there that made you grit your teeth. “I just tried to not make it more awkward than it already is.”

You huffed, glaring at him, though there was no real heat in it, just that mix of exasperation and something tighter, something that always crawled up your spine when he looked at you like that. “Awkward? Clark, you’re the one who throws ideas at me like we’re already a real thing when we’re standing on a hilltop pretending at a wedding. I’m the one who’s supposed to know how to react.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching, eyes scanning yours like he was trying to measure exactly how much of your frustration was real and how much was performative. “And what do you want me to do? Wait until you figure it out?” His voice was calm, but you could hear the faint edge of something impatient under it.

“I don’t know! Yes! I don’t know anything!” you shot back, hands tightening slightly in his. “You just say things like ‘oh, we could try’ and then vanish before I can even figure out if you mean it or if you’re just messing with me.”

He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that made your ears warm and your chest ache in all the wrong ways, and shook his head. “I’m not messing with you,” he said, almost insistently. “I mean it, I just… didn’t know how to put it into words without sounding like a fool.”

“Well, congratulations,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and trying not to let your voice shake, “you sound like a fool anyway.”

Clark’s smile softened, those familiar, gentle eyes locking on yours in a way that made your heart do the thing where it lurches and forgets rhythm. “Yeah, probably,” he admitted quietly, and then leaned just slightly closer, fingers brushing yours again, “but at least it’s honest.”

You blinked, letting out a shaky breath, and muttered, “I can’t believe we’re standing here, pretending I have a boyfriend, pretending I’m engaged. All this… this whole fake thing I made up, it’s ridiculous. I should just tell them the truth, wipe the slate clean and admit it’s all a lie.”

Clark’s fingers brushed lightly against yours again, calm and grounding. “It’s not a lie if it makes things easier for you,” he said softly. “And maybe… maybe it’s not just for them. Maybe it’s for us, in a way, even if it’s messy.”

You let out a laugh that was too choked to be pure, and then it turned into a few tears breaking through. You sniffled, trying to push them back, but the laughter and crying mixed and you could feel your shoulders shaking. Clark immediately froze. “Oh no I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You hiccupped a little laugh through the tears. “You’re ruining my make-up,” you said, half-teasing, half-smiling. Clark’s lips twitched into a grin. “Good,” he said softly. “Tears over make-up seem… fair.” You laughed again, a little louder this time, the tension of the day loosening in your chest.

For a long moment, you both just stopped, his hands still cradling your face, and you looked up at him, finding yourself smiling even through the remnants of tears. He smiled down at you, quiet and gentle, and for a second it was just the two of you.

“How come we never talk like this at work?” you asked softly, tilting your head. “I mean, really talk. Like we’re… I don’t know, human.”

Clark chuckled quietly. “I guess we never made the time,” he said, voice low. “Or maybe we were too focused on all the chaos and deadlines and pretending everything was normal.”

You shook your head, smirking through the lingering tears. “We should have hung out sooner. Like, seriously, months ago, maybe even last year.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, still holding your hands. “We should have. Maybe we’d have avoided some… complications.”

You laughed softly, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Complications? Oh, you mean like fake weddings and ruined make-up?”

Clark laughed, warm and quiet. “Exactly like that. But maybe it’s better this way. Because now… now we actually get to talk. And not just about work, not just about deadlines.”

You smiled, letting the warmth of the night settle around you, watching the city lights glitter below, thinking that maybe, just maybe, some things had a way of working out even if they took their sweet time. “Yeah,” you said, soft. “We should have met earlier.”

“Next time,” Clark said, leaning his forehead lightly against yours, “we won’t wait.”

Clark’s forehead stayed lightly against yours for a few seconds, warm and steady, and you could feel the faint rise and fall of his breath. When he pulled back just enough to look at you, the city lights framed his face like it was its own little stage, his eyes soft, almost glimmering, like he was about to admit something daring but didn’t need words. “You know,” he said, quiet, hesitant, like he was testing the waters, “I like your eyes.”

You blinked, caught off guard, trying to process if he was serious or just teasing. “What? You want to write a poem about it?”

He shrugged, a little awkward, muttering under his breath, “Maybe I did…”

You frowned, squinting at him. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but the corner of his mouth twitched in that infuriating way that told you he was definitely hiding a grin. “Stop teasing me.”

You shook your head, a mix of disbelief and amusement twisting your lips into a crooked smile. “I’m not teasing you. Just saying, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Clark’s hands stayed on your face, warm and steady, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. He nodded, soft and patient, his smile unwavering, and it made your chest tighten in a way that was dangerous and familiar all at once.

You let out a little laugh, the sound soft, like you were trying to ground yourself. “Tonight has been… insane. Fake everything. Fake engagement, fake family impressions, fake dancing…”

Your words barely left your mouth before a voice cut sharply from behind, heavy with disbelief.

“Fake?”

You and Clark immediately turned, your heads snapping toward the sound, and your stomach flipped like someone had punched it. Your eyes locked on the figure standing just a few metres away, and your breath hitched.

Jake.

Your ex.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Well, well, well,” Jake said, smirking as he took a step forward, hands shoved casually into his pockets. “Look at this. Didn’t think I’d actually see you playing house. And with him, of all people.”

His eyes flicked to Clark, lingering far too long, sharp and mocking, and then back to you. “Thought you were smarter than this.”

You froze, gripping Clark’s hands a little tighter, trying to ignore the heat rising in your chest, the way your stomach twisted. He leaned against the doorway, that grin still plastered on like he’d rehearsed this, like he lived for this kind of discomfort.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Jake continued, voice low but cutting, “making everyone think your life was perfect when really…well, we all know how that ends, don’t we?” He laughed, short and cruel, and it made your teeth clench.

“Fuck off, Jake,” you spat, voice sharp and low, but trembling anyway because, of course, he always knew exactly how to get under your skin. Your hands tightened around Clark’s without even thinking, knuckles going white, but he didn’t say a word, just stayed there, letting you handle this.

Jake’s grin widened, sharp and smug, like he was feeding on your reaction. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said, voice mocking, slow, dragging the words out. “You always get so serious. It’s hilarious. Look at you, all fire and fury, still pretending you’ve got it together.” He leaned slightly closer, too close, smirk still in place, eyes glinting like he was daring you to do more than yell.

“You’ve really done well for yourself, haven’t you?” he continued, like he hadn’t just crossed every line. “New boyfriend, fancy clothes, smiling like nothing ever went wrong. It must be exhausting keeping up the act, no?”

Your jaw tightened and your teeth ground together. “You’re a complete asshole, you know that?” you snapped, voice rising now despite yourself, heat crawling up your neck. “Honestly, how do you live with yourself?”

Jake chuckled, low and cruel, eyes flicking to Clark like he was testing boundaries. “Living? Nah, I manage just fine. But you, sweetheart, you’re still as predictable as ever. All fire and fury, exactly how I remember.”

You took a step toward him, chest heaving, ready to launch into a tirade, but Clark’s hand on yours was firm, grounding, stopping you from lunging. His silence was infuriating in its own way, but somehow it made you feel a little safer, like a line was being held even as Jake tried to push everything over it.

Jake’s smirk didn’t waver. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that,” he said, leaning back slightly but still far too smug for anyone’s comfort. “It suits you, makes this little performance of yours even more entertaining.”

Clark finally stepped forward, one hand half-raised, calm but firm. “Jake, I think you should just leave us alone,” he said, voice polite, but carrying a weight that made you hope it would stick.

Jake tilted his head, the smirk never leaving his face, like he was genuinely amused. “Leave?” he echoed, voice slow, teasing. “Why would I leave when I basically own this place? I mean, come on, this is entertaining.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “You’re an absolute nightmare,” you snapped, voice sharp and low, trying not to let anyone else hear the edge. “Just go, now.”

He laughed, short and cruel, before his eyes flicked between you and Clark. “Yeah, I will, eventually,” he said, smiling at you first like you were part of the joke, and then at Clark, sharp and calculating. “But first, let’s set the record straight. I’m the boyfriend, right? Six years.”

You cut him off immediately, voice rising, disbelief cracking through it. “Ex, Jake. I said ex.”

He shrugged, still grinning, like it didn’t matter at all. “Ex, sure, whatever you want to call it. Doesn’t change the fact that I knew, you know, everything you’ve been doing. All these little acts, all this performance. Must be hilarious to see you squirm while everyone believes it. Imagine if your family found out. Imagine the embarrassment, and the sheer horror of it all.”

Clark’s hand tightened on yours slightly, and he spoke, calm but firm, voice low. “It’s not fake. None of this, me, us, it isn’t–”

Jake cut him off with a sharp laugh, leaning just slightly closer, eyes glinting. “No need to deny anything. I can see it all perfectly well. The handholding, the looks, the smile you try to hide. Don’t bother. It’s all screaming ‘performance’. Don’t tell me otherwise.”

Jake’s smirk didn’t falter, almost like he was savoring the moment. “And imagine what would happen if your family actually found out,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “The truth. That everything you’ve been showing them, all those smiles, the ‘perfect’ life, it’s all been made up. Just think about the fallout. The shock. The shame.”

You couldn’t stop it anymore. “You don’t get to do that!” you shouted, voice raw, catching on the edge of tears, and before you could even think, they were sliding down your cheeks, burning and warm.

“You have no idea what you’ve done! How much you’ve messed with everything; my life, this night, everything, and you just stand there smiling like it’s funny!”

Jake’s grin didn’t falter, that infuriating, smug smile, like he was tasting victory.

“You think this is a joke?” you yelled, finger shaking, pointing straight at him, trying to puncture the smugness, trying to make him feel a fraction of what you were feeling. “You think it’s funny to ruin everything for me, for everyone, just to make yourself feel clever?”

He leaned forward, closer, eyes glinting, like he wanted to push whatever line you had left.

Clark didn’t even hesitate. His hands were on your shoulders before you knew it, pressing you slightly behind him like a shield, his height and presence immediately asserting itself over the small, smug figure in front of him.

His eyes didn’t leave Jake’s for a second, and when he spoke, his voice was low, calm, but it carried a weight that made it impossible to ignore. “Enough,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.

“You have no right to come in here and try to tear her apart, not tonight, not ever. She doesn’t need your approval, your judgement, or your interference. You step away, or I will make sure you regret it.”

Jake’s grin faltered, just slightly, the sharp amusement in his eyes dimming under Clark’s quiet intensity. Clark’s fingers tightened slightly on your shoulders, just enough that you felt grounded and safe, and he didn’t let go.

“Do you understand me?” he asked, voice steady but hard, and the cold edge was unmistakable now.

You pressed closer to him, chest still racing, as Jake opened his mouth, but Clark didn’t give him the chance. “Go on,” Clark said, more softly now, not breaking eye contact, “get out. Leave, because she’s not yours, she’s never been yours, and you’re not going to ruin her night or her life.”

Jake let out a sharp huff, the sound more like a sneer than actual exasperation, and his eyes flicked to Clark with a mocking tilt. “Oh, I see,” he said, low and venomous, “this is your little hero routine, isn’t it? Protecting her like some knight in shining armour.”

Your stomach twisted as his gaze shifted back to you, and then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping so only you could hear. “Enjoy tonight,” he said, “because next time, everyone’s going to know. Every little thing, all of it. They’re going to see exactly what you’ve been hiding.”

Your eyes went wide, your pulse spiking, and you could feel your hands clench involuntarily. Clark’s fingers stayed firm on your shoulders, grounding you, and you could feel the tension radiating off him as he held his stare on Jake, unblinking.

Jake straightened back up, smirk curling again, and with one last glance that promised chaos in the future, he turned and walked away, leaving a cold emptiness in his wake, the echo of his threat lingering between you and Clark.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

After everything, after Jake had stormed off and the echoes of his voice were still crawling in your head, you ended up in the hotel room they’d set aside for the wedding chaos, your dress wrinkled and soaked with your own tears, your chest heaving like it might split open.

Clark didn’t even hesitate, he just came close and wrapped his arms around you and you collapsed into him, face pressed to his chest, shoulders shaking, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch at the wet, didn’t even say a word, he just let you cry, let the sobs spill out like they had been piling up for years and years and finally had somewhere safe to go.

You thought about Jake while you cried, about every year he’d spent making your life a calculation, a trap, how he had smoothed himself into every corner of your world like he belonged there and somehow you’d let him, and the way he had whispered that smug little warning tonight, the way he’d claimed he knew, how he had smiled when you got angry and scared, like it was a game he’d already won.

And it wasn’t just tonight, it was everything he’d taken from you, every little piece of confidence, every friend he’d pushed away, every time you second-guessed yourself because of him, and it all hit at once and you let yourself fall apart into Clark’s chest because he was real, and right, and steady, and you could breathe, barely, but you could.

He rubbed your back slowly and patiently, thumb brushing your shoulder like he knew where the knots were without asking, and you whispered, almost strangled, “He ruined everything…”

“Not tonight,” Clark said, low and soft, voice shaking slightly like he was holding it together for both of you, and it was like a lifeline, because suddenly your brain could stop spinning, your chest could stop splintering, because right here, right now, you were safe, and he was keeping it that way.

You let the tears keep coming anyway, because there was still so much to get out, so much poison to wash off, and Clark just stayed there, holding you, steadying you, letting you fall apart and somehow making it okay, somehow making it feel like maybe, for the first time in forever, you could actually breathe without looking over your shoulder.

You then hiccuped into his chest, shaking like you were made of glass, and for a second it felt like the panic might swallow you whole, the tightness in your lungs clawing its way up and you couldn’t even think straight, couldn’t even make the words come out right.

Clark’s arms didn’t tighten more as he just held you, and somehow that made it just a little less sharp, the edges of your panic softening enough that you could breathe.

“Why are you so afraid to tell them the truth?” he asked gently, fingers brushing through your hair like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world to care about you, like he didn’t even know how much it should be shocking, like it was just…obvious.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and it was all panic, all shame and adrenaline, all the weight of your life pressing down on you at once. “Because… because I feel like I’m… I’m always the last one,” you started, voice trembling, “the last one to graduate, the last one to do anything right, like I’m just… I don’t know… a footnote in everyone else’s story. Like I have to prove that I even matter at all, and if I just—if I just live my life, they’ll forget I’m here.”

You choked on the last words, eyes stinging, chest tight, and you didn’t even try to make it sound neat, didn’t even try to hide the spiral of shame and fear and exhaustion.

Clark’s hands stayed over yours, warm and steady, and he didn’t try to talk over you, didn’t try to smooth it out or say some perfect line that would erase it. Instead, his voice was low and patient, careful, like he was leaning into the edges of your panic without trying to sweep them away.

“I get it,” he said softly, eyes locked on yours. “I get how it feels to be last, to feel like you have to scream to be noticed, to prove you exist in the spaces everyone else fills. And I don’t… I don’t want to tell you it’s not true, because I know it feels real, but I need you to hear this. You’re not invisible. You’re not a footnote. You matter, even when it feels like the world is forgetting.”

Clark’s thumb brushed along your cheek, carefully, and then he pulled a clean handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed gently at the streaks of tears. “See,” he said after a moment, voice soft but teasing, “now you’re just a little bit glamorous. Weddings bring out the inner celebrity, apparently. You’ve got the dramatic tears down perfectly.”

You blinked at him, caught between wanting to scowl and laughing, and then the corners of your mouth cracked as a snort escaped. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction, your laugh shaky but genuine.

Clark’s grin widened, soft and warm, eyes twinkling as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I know,” he said lightly, nudging your shoulder gently with his. “I’ve been practicing. Someone’s got to keep you laughing when the world decides to suck, right?”

You shook your head, still smiling despite yourself, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the panic seemed to retreat just a little, leaving you with that weird mixture of relief and warmth that only he could manage.

You wiped at the last remnants of tears, sniffling, and Clark just let you do it, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek now and then, tracing gentle circles like he was memorising you.

“You know,” he said, voice quiet but teasing, “it’s weird, isn’t it? That we’ve been at the same office for three years, and I basically only know you from emails, meetings, and the weather report.”

You blinked at him, smirking through the lingering dampness on your cheeks. “Yeah, hilarious. Three years of water-cooler nods and barely a sentence beyond deadlines and project updates, and now we’re… here. This.” You gestured vaguely at the room, at yourselves, the messy, loud, complicated aftermath of the wedding.

Clark chuckled, eyes softening as he leaned in just slightly, holding your face gently between his hands, fingers against your jawline. “I know. And to think our first real conversation, not as colleagues obviously, started with me awkwardly holding your hand in a fake engagement at your sister’s wedding. Three years in the making, and somehow… that’s how I got to know you.”

You laughed, small and incredulous, shaking your head. “It’s absurd. Absolutely absurd.”

He smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yeah, and also kind of perfect, in a weird way. We basically spent three years in parallel universes at work, and then one day, we get a whole lifetime crammed into a single afternoon.”

The smirk lingered on his face, but his eyes softened, and you could feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air between you had changed temperature. He held your gaze, patient, watching, and it wasn’t teasing anymore.

“You know,” he began, almost hesitant, “I’ve noticed things about you. Little things, the way you frown when you’re concentrating, the way you laugh when you’re trying not to, the way your eyes…they sort of do this thing when you’re trying not to feel something, and I’ve been noticing for years without saying anything, just…keeping it to myself.”

You blinked, heart thudding, because he was looking at you like he’d seen right through all of it, all the masks and the facades, and somehow it felt terrifying and safe at the same time.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make it weird, or mess things up, or… I don’t know. But after today, I think it’s ridiculous to wait. You’re, uh, er, you’re impossible to ignore. And I mean that in the best way, ha.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words refused to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, all background noise and chaos fading until it was just the two of you, and you could feel the weight of everything unspoken pressing against your ribs.

He shifted slightly closer, hands still holding your face, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, and you caught yourself leaning in, just slightly, drawn in by the intensity in his gaze. “I don’t expect anything,” he added quickly, as if reading your mind. “I just… wanted you to know what I’ve been thinking, what I’ve been feeling, because it’s been there a long time, and I can’t not say it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing, and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, trying to process, trying to find words that didn’t exist, feeling like the entire universe had contracted to this one, impossible, heart-stopping truth.

You blinked again, trying to make sense of it, your chest tightening so much it felt like you couldn’t breathe, and then he laughed softly.

“I know,” he said, smirking lightly now, “this is probably a lot. And you’re probably thinking, wow, three years of barely talking about anything besides deadlines and the weather, and now he’s telling me he’s been watching me the whole time. Ridiculous, right?”

You let out a strangled laugh, more from shock than anything else, and your hands instinctively found his, gripping tightly like an anchor. “Ridiculous doesn’t even cover it,” you muttered, voice trembling, but a little laugh escaped anyway, shaky but real.

He tilted his head, that familiar mix of amusement and gentleness in his expression. “Yeah, but also… true. I mean it. You’re remarkable, even when you don’t realise it. And not in some generic, office-comment kind of way. I mean you, exactly as you are, with everything you try to hide or shove down or pretend isn’t there. That’s the part I can’t ignore.”

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck, and for a moment all the panic and the guilt from earlier faded just a little, replaced by this dizzying, nerve-shredding awareness that he’d been noticing, paying attention, and now he wasn’t looking away.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “Clark…”

He shook his head gently, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Don’t say anything yet. Just… let me finish,” he murmured. “I wanted you to know because you deserve to hear it. And because I… I’ve been stupid keeping it to myself.”

You blinked, heart hammering so fast it was almost painful, trying to find words but your throat had gone completely dry. “Clark…” you breathed, voice trembling, barely a whisper.

He gave a tiny, almost shy smile, still holding your face gently. “I know,” he said softly. “I just needed you to hear it. No expectations, no pressure, just… me being honest.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse spiking, and somehow the words tumbled out anyway. “It’s… it’s a lot,” you admitted, voice catching. “After today, after everything… I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Then don’t do anything,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer. “Just… let it sit. Let it feel like it should feel. Nothing else matters right now.”

Your chest tightened as your eyes met, and then his gaze drifted lower for a heartbeat, to your lips, before flicking back up to your eyes. You could feel it too, the pull, the tension stretching between you so thin it hurt, that dangerous, delicious kind of tightness.

You licked your lips without thinking, suddenly aware of how close he was, aware of the heat of him, the warmth in his hands, the way he smelled like everything safe and wrong at the same time. “Clark…” you whispered again, breath shaky.

He didn’t answer, just leaned a little closer, and your lips almost touched, that teasing, electric moment where everything else dropped away, and then, finally, you couldn’t hold back. You closed the gap, pressing into him, hands clutching at his jacket as his lips met yours, soft and tentative at first, testing, tasting, and then urgent, all the frustration, the panic, the years of unspoken thoughts spilling into that desperate, messy, perfect kiss.

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, heart racing, chest pressed against his, and he deepened the kiss, hands sliding from your face down to your waist, holding you close, grounding you, and still the world outside ceased to exist, nothing but the heat, the movement, and the impossible feeling of finally, finally being noticed completely.

Your hands traced the lines of his back, memorising the feel of him through his suit, fingers threading through the fabric, tugging him just slightly closer, trying to absorb him like he could somehow fill all the empty spaces you’d been carrying. He moved with you, matching your grip, one hand cupping your face while the other stayed firm on your waist, and the friction of his palms against your body sent sparks of heat crawling along your skin.

Every small shift of him was enough to make your knees weak, every brush of his thumb across your cheek or along your jaw leaving you dizzy, your chest tight and fluttering all at once. Your lips moved against his, following the rhythm he set, slow and questioning at first, then more insistent, more certain, like he was finally allowing himself to take what he’d been feeling silently for so long.

Even the way he held you; the tilt of his head, the small press of his body into yours made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

Your fingers wandered slightly to the lapel of his jacket, gripping the fabric, while his hands traced small, careful patterns over your sides, over your lower back, keeping you tethered even as everything else in the room fell away, leaving only the heat of him, the soft press of lips, and the impossible, intoxicating certainty that for once, you were being seen fully, completely, undeniably.

The kiss pulled back just slightly, just enough for you to breathe, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in sync, and your hands lingered on his chest, palms splayed, memorising the feel of him, while his thumb brushed gently over your knuckle as if to say, silently, I’ve got you.

You pressed against him, hands tangling in his hair, gripping like you might never let go, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, and he moaned softly into your mouth, sliding his hands lower, fingers tracing the curve of your back, down to the edge of your dress, making your breath hitch in a way that felt like it had been waiting for this forever.

Your lips moved desperately against his, each kiss sharp and needy, and the warmth of him pressed into you made your knees weak, made the air around you feel thick, almost impossible to breathe, and yet you didn’t want to pull away.

His hands didn’t stop, roaming carefully but with intent, teasing the sides of you through fabric, tracing shapes that made your chest ache and your stomach twist.

Every brush of his fingers made your body tighten, made you shiver against him, and when you dared to move your hands down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt, it was like discovering a part of yourself you’d been holding back without even knowing it.

“Gosh,” he murmured against your lips, voice low, rough, and it made your pulse spike, “you’re insane.”

“Maybe,” you gasped, your words barely coherent, “but I need you, Clark.”

He groaned, a sound that went straight through your bones, and shifted slightly so your body pressed fully against his, his lips ghosting down your jaw, your neck, every touch leaving a spark that you couldn’t contain. Your hands roamed with reckless abandon, clutching him, marking him like he was yours in that moment.

And then his voice, low and rough, broke through the haze. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” It wasn’t a demand, it wasn’t a test, it was just Clark, steady even with his mouth still brushing your skin, his breath hot and his body trembling against yours, but waiting.

You shook your head too fast, desperate, your words spilling out almost in a rush. “Don’t stop, please, Clark, I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all he needed. His hands slid lower, palms spanning the back of your thighs, and with a firm, careful grip he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, the fabric of your dress riding higher as he pressed you gently against the wall.

You gasped, fingers tugging at his hair, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound you made, one hand cupping your jaw to steady you while the other held you secure like you weighed nothing.

The heat of him pressed between your legs through layers of fabric, enough to make you whine into his mouth, and he groaned in response, moving his hips just slightly, a tease, a warning, and it sent fire shooting straight through you.

“You feel unreal,” he muttered, his forehead dropping to yours, his voice breaking, like he was losing control but still clinging to it for you.

Your nails scraped down his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, and you managed a broken laugh, shaky and overwhelmed. “You’re overdressed,” you whispered, and he chuckled, soft and breathless, but he didn’t waste time, tugging at his jacket, his tie, letting them fall somewhere you didn’t care about because his mouth was on you again, kissing you like he needed you to breathe.

And then his hand slid between your thighs, gentle first, just a palm pressed over you through the fabric, a test, a question. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, and whispered, “Can I?”

“Yes,” you gasped, already trembling, already arching toward him. “Yes, Clark, please.”

He groaned again, softer this time, as though he was breaking apart, and pushed the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your bare skin, trailing up slowly, deliberately, until his hand found you, and the sound you made was muffled only because his mouth was on yours again.

The world narrowed to that as his hands, his lips, the way he murmured your name like it was holy, like it was everything, grounding you even as your body burned and your mind screamed that this was too much, too fast and real, and yet you wanted more, more, more.

His hands were everywhere now, sliding up and down your sides, brushing over skin that burned under his touch, and you pressed into him harder, your lips parting as you gasped against his mouth. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look down at you, and his voice was low, rough with need. “I-I don’t have protection.”

You froze for a second, chest heaving, and then a laugh tumbled out of you, breathless and shaky. “I don’t care,” you whispered, eyes dark and wild. “I’ll take the risk.”

Clark’s lips twitched, almost a grin, but his eyes stayed soft, searching yours, and he murmured, “Then I’ll take it too.” His hands tightened on your waist, and the way he looked at you made the world outside the hotel room disappear completely.

You leaned up, pressing your forehead to his, panting, and kissed him again, slower this time, tasting him, memorizing him, letting the heat between you stretch and thrum like a live wire. His hands moved carefully, but firm, keeping you grounded, holding you like you might float away otherwise.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him down to your mouth, and he groaned into the kiss, tilting his head so he could press his body fully against yours. Every movement, every brush of his skin over yours, was deliberate, making you shiver and whine softly into him, needing, needing him like it was urgent and necessary.

He pressed his forehead against yours again, voice ragged, whispering, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you breathed, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes wild with lust and something that felt dangerously like trust. “Clark, I’m sure. Fuck, don’t stop.”

He groaned softly, letting his hands travel lower, over your thighs, over every curve, gripping you tight, and you responded, wrapping your legs around him instinctively. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing, sucking just enough to make your knees weaken, and you gripped his shoulders, fingers digging in as if holding him tighter would make it better, make it last longer, make it real.

“You’re insane,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick, shaking with the same fire you felt, and you laughed breathlessly, hitting his chest, “I know, and I don’t care.”

He smiled against you, teeth brushing your jaw, eyes dark and focused. “Good, because neither do I.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

After everything, after the fire of it, after the chaos of skin and breath and whispered names, you finally settled. You laid your head against his bare chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, each pulse a reminder that he was real, that he was here, and that somehow, after all the ridiculousness of the day, you were finally allowed this moment.

His arm circled you, pulling you closer until you could feel every curve of his body, every line, every warmth, and it was blissful in a way that made you think maybe the world outside could wait for a while.

You lifted your gaze to look at him, hair splayed over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, and he smiled down at you, soft, gentle, eyes crinkling the way they always did when he found something worth seeing. “You’re ridiculously cute like this,” he murmured, voice low and husky, and you laughed softly, just a whisper against his skin.

“You know,” you said, fingers tracing idly along the ridges of his chest, still feeling the heat from him and from the memory of everything you’d just done, “I think I could get used to this. Just lying here, doing nothing except…this.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and pressed his lips to the top of your head. “I could too,” he admitted, thumb brushing over your hair, “I could get used to hearing your heartbeat against me, your soft little laughs, the way you look at me like you’re trying to memorize me.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching, and you murmured, “I’ve never felt… I don’t know… like I belong somewhere. But with you, it feels…like maybe I do.”

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face, catching every tiny expression, every flicker of emotion, and whispered, “You belong with me. Always.”

You could feel the weight of it, the sincerity, the quiet kind of gravity in his words, and you let yourself relax further, pressing closer. “You’re insane,” you said softly, laughter still trembling in your voice, “and maybe a little ridiculous, but I like it. I like you, Clark Kent.”

He grinned, brushing his nose against yours, playful now but tender, “And I like you too, endlessly, like this is how it should have always been, if only the universe had let us.”

Silence fell then, but it wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t tense. It was soft and warm, filled with the sound of your breaths mingling, the occasional chuckle, and the quiet thrum of Clark’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

You traced lazy circles on his chest, and he murmured little things back, confessions about silly things he loved about you, the way your hair curled when it fell into your eyes, how your laugh got stuck halfway through your throat sometimes, how your hands always seemed to find his even when you didn’t mean them to.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, you let yourself breathe fully, just be there, tangled in him, the night quiet around you except for the soft rustle of sheets and the warmth that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with him.

“You know,” Clark said finally, voice soft, teasing, “if we’d actually talked like this at work for the past three years, we’d be way ahead of everyone else. We’d be unstoppable.”

You laughed, resting your cheek against him, “Yeah, it’s kind of hilarious, isn’t it? Three years of deadlines and weather small talk, and one day later, we’re here, all finally caught up at once.”

He kissed your temple lightly, hands still around you, and whispered, “Better late than never. Besides, I like how it all happened. The timing is, I don’t know, perfect?”

“Yeah,” you smiled into him, letting your fingers weave into his hair, and whispered, “Perfect in a completely ridiculous way.”

Clark laughed softly, and you both stayed there, tangled, warm, quiet, letting the aftershocks of the night settle around you, knowing that outside, the world could wait, but here, together, was exactly where you belonged.

Everything else could wait. The truth, the explanations, the staring at faces that might not understand, all of it could wait. None of it mattered right now, not with his arms around you, not with your head pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall like it was holding you together when everything else felt like it might fall apart.

What couldn’t wait was this, the warmth and the softness and the way he looked at you like you were everything, the way you laughed even though your chest felt too full and your heart too fast.

Pretending until forever had been a joke, a lie, a trap you built to survive, and now it didn’t have to be anything but real. You let yourself lean in, let yourself breathe it all in, let yourself be messy and chaotic and entirely visible, and he held you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment too.

Everything else could wait, but this feeling, this reckless, quiet, insane kind of perfect, it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t, and you didn’t want it to.

It had been pretend until forever and somehow it was the only truth you needed.

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