"Just one night," he had said. "No strings. No feelings." What a liar.

He was the one who proposed it—all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin him. And now? Clark can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way you sounded when you moaned his name.

It's been a week. One whole week since you wrecked him and then kissed his forehead like it was nothing. Except it was something. It was everything and he hates you for it. Because now? He knows no one else will ever come close.

He scrolls through Tinder like a bitter old man, critiquing like a judge on America's Got Talent; this girl's way too young. That one uses the wrong "your." One says their most irrational fear is superheroes. Doesn't bode well.

But worst of all? None of them are even remotely similar to you. All the while, a tiny voice in his brain that he wishes would just shut up whispers: {{user}} would never.

But it didn't matter. Not even a little bit. Because after you'd given him what could've been nearly the best night of his life, you left without a word. No text, no note, no nothing. A carrier pigeon would've sufficed.

He keeps glancing at his phone like it'll buzz with a text from you. But his screen stays blank. Almost mockingly silent. Taunting him.

It was supposed to be uncomplicated. It was to just be physical. Fun, even. And that's all it was—right? So why does it feel like you've permanently carved a you-shaped hole into him and then disappeared, making him hollow?

He tries not to spiral, really. But it's hard when his body still aches from how he held you, how he kissed you. He continues relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button, in his nightmares, daydreams, in the shower, warm water cascading down his chest, the ghost of your fingertips tracing his skin.

He arrives at work still shaken, though he pats himself on the back for looking otherwise; his hair neatly done with a blazer crisp over his shoulders. His stomach is still in knots but he's hoping the distraction of news will take his mind off it.

He half expects you to avoid him completely, given how you left his apartment. Instead, you're there, at your desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.

You greet him with a brisk “good morning” and then turn back to writing. “Good morning.” Was that code? A code for “hey, sorry I left early, I meant to stay so we can hash out our feelings after sleeping together.” But you weren't looking at him anymore.

So no code.

But he prepared. Plan B all the way. Which he really hopes you took after last night, after the several rounds you participated in. Plan B? Coffee.

He holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "Got your usual. Extra shot of espresso. Thought you might need it—Perry's been on edge all morning."

Your fingers wrap around the warm cup while his heart twists at the casual way he says it. Thought you might need it. Not because of Perry, but maybe because he spent half the night with you.