you had only one partner in your entire life—and christ knew how awfully that ended. still, each relationship taught you the same lesson: crying in front of them, especially too quickly, was as cruel as a death sentence.

but here you were, eyes glossy as you fought to suppress every awful, hopeless feeling swelling in your chest, the credits of The Notebook rolling on the screen.

did that love even exist? Better yet, would you ever find it?

you couldn’t stop the quiver in your pretty, pink lips.

don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“hey,” clark called, his laugh breathy, and your shoulders tensed.

you didn’t want to rush this, or push anything further. you weren’t entirely convinced he wasn’t hiding something underneath that perfect façade.

but clark hadn’t hurt you when he brought you to his apartment. he hadn’t hovered over you when you sat on his dark emerald couch. quite the opposite, in fact—he’d given you space, letting you curl up in the corner with a blanket, sitting a cushion away to make sure you felt comfortable.