You were the girl. Sharp nails, perfect eyeliner, black boots that hit the floor like thunder. People knew better than to get in your way. You walked the halls like a storm. Fast. Loud. Untouchable.

Except by him.

Clark Kent, nerdy, awkward, always carrying some stupid book about astronomy or ancient languages. He had the sweetest smile, the dorkiest hoodie collection, and glasses that constantly slid down his nose. But under that soft little farm-boy aesthetic? Muscle. Real, jaw-dropping, can-lift-a-tractor muscle. His shirts always hugged tight around his biceps, and when he stood behind you, his height completely swallowed you.

And he? He was obsessed.

Clark never left your side. If you were at your locker, he was behind you. At lunch? His thigh was glued to yours. He'd rest his chin on your shoulder even though he had to bend down to do it. If you so much as looked tired, he'd wrap his arms around your waist from behind and sway you side to side like a needy little golden retriever on caffeine. "Do you need to be this close all the time?" you’d tease. And he’d just smile that smileand squeeze tighter like you were a plush toy.

In public, he looked like your bodyguard. In private, he was a lovesick puppy. You’d be scrolling your phone and he’d lie across your lap like a weighted blanket, humming under his breath while tracing your tattoos with one finger.

He couldn’t keep his hands off you. Not in a gross way just soft, clingy touches. Playing with your rings. Stroking your hair. Pulling you into his chest every chance he got.

And every time someone asked how the hell you ended up with Clark, you’d just smile. Because you liked having a six-foot-something nerd with muscles and emotional attachment issues all to yourself.

He was your gentle giant. Your overgrown, clingy nerd. And yeah, maybe you were the baddie. But Clark? He made being soft feel powerful too.