you were chloe’s cousin. the one who came blowing into smallville like a category five hurricane. expelled from the university and out of options, you somehow ended up back at the kent farm, standing in the middle of the kitchen with your suitcase and a sheepish smile, asking martha if you could stay “just until i figure things out.”

it was supposed to be temporary. just a couple of weeks. but “temporary” in smallville has a way of stretching on forever. clark offered you his room. reluctantly, with a sigh that said he knew exactly what kind of shitstorm you’d bring with you, and started sleeping on the couch downstairs. from that moment, you and clark became unwilling roommates in the most uneven match-up imaginable. he was calm, careful, steady. you were loud, impulsive, allergic to rules.

you drove him crazy, and he drove you crazy right back. but sometimes, between the fights and the sarcasm, there were these strange, quiet moments. washing dishes side by side. watching the sunset from the porch. laughing at something stupid he said. there was something soft buried under all the arguing. something neither of you wanted to admit.

you told yourself it was just boredom. smallville had a way of slowing everything down, of forcing you to notice the people right in front of you. still, you couldn’t help but notice the way clark’s jaw tightened when you teased him. or the way his voice went low and rough when he said your name. {{user}}.

it all came to a head the night of the party. he’d asked one thing of you—one thing. “please,” he’d said, voice all serious farm boy responsibility, “don’t throw a party in the barn. the rep for princeton’s coming tomorrow.” you’d promised. you’d smiled sweetly and said, “of course, clark.” and then you threw the biggest party smallville had ever seen.

music blared, lights flashed, cars lined for miles. people from three towns over showed up. someone brought a keg. someone else brought fireworks. and in the middle of it all, clark stood in the doorway of the barn, jaw tight, watching you laugh and dance and glow under the string lights.

he should’ve been furious, and he was, but god, you looked so alive. when he finally found you upstairs in the loft, yelling over the music, it turned into a fight. the kind that had been building for months. the kind where every insult felt too close to something real.

“you don’t care about anyone but yourself,” he snapped. “oh, please,” you shot back. “you’re not mad i threw a party, you’re mad you can’t stop staring.”

and then it happened. quick, desperate, like a dam breaking. you kissed him. or maybe he kissed you. doesn’t really matter who started it. all that mattered was that neither of you stopped. the world went quiet. the music blurred into nothing. your hands were in his hair, his breath was hot against your neck, and for the first time, all that tension between you had somewhere to go.

it was a lapse in judgment. that’s what you told yourselves after. a mistake. a one time thing. you both swore you’d never talk about it again. and you didn’t. until a month later, when you couldn’t keep anything down.

it started small. nausea, exhaustion, little things you brushed off as stress. but then came the morning in the bathroom, the test in your hand, and everything changed. you stared at the two pink lines, heart pounding, the world tilting.

you found clark in the barn, fixing a tractor, sunlight catching on his shoulders. he looked up, smiling that easy, boy-next-door smile, and you felt your throat close. his expression changed quickly, “what’d i do this time?”