you and clark have been best friends since 8th grade, since the day you showed up to smallville with city shoes and an attitude too big for a town with one stoplight. he was the first person who talked to you and somehow that turned into years of friendship that neither of you could quite untangle. it’s a running joke now, how you’ve been in love with him forever. pete teases, chloe raises her eyebrows, and you laugh it off like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. but it’s not a secret, not really. everyone knows. everyone except clark, or maybe he just pretends not to. because clark has lana blinders. pete’s words, not yours. he’s been in love with his neighbor since forever, and no one’s managed to break through that spell.

still, there are moments. the kind that linger too long, that make your heart trip over itself. like the spring formal at the end of freshman year. you almost kissed. almost. until the tornado sirens screamed and clark vanished into the storm, chasing after lana while you stood there watching him go.

he apologized the next day. you told him you should just be friends, said it with a shrug and a smile like it didn’t hurt. he agreed. you smiled harder despite the pain and that was that. things shifted, despite neither of you wanting to admit it.

until now. you’re both in the park, on the old seesaw that creaks every time it tilts. the sky is bruising gray, wind picking up through the trees. smallville feels suspended in that weird quiet before a storm, and you and clark are talking about nothing and everything at once. right back in your old rhythm without missing a step, like your heart didn’t still ache for him.

you’re laughing about something when it starts to hail. tiny ice pellets bouncing off the metal, off clark’s jacket, off your hair. you squeal and duck your head, trying to shield your face, but he’s already shrugging off his flannel to hold it above you like a makeshift umbrella.

“we should probably go,” he says, smiling, but neither of you move.

your phone buzzes in your pocket. tornado warning. you glance at it, swipe it away. you’re not ready to go home yet. not when it feels like old times. not when you’re this close to him.

the world is sharp and electric around you, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at you. something that’s been building for years, something you’ve tried not to name.

“what?” you ask, voice soft.

he shakes his head. “nothing.” but it’s a lie. he looks down, kicks at the dirt, exhales. “i just… i was thinking about that night. the spring formal.” your chest tightens. what about it?

“you told me we should be friends,” he says, still looking at the ground. “and i said okay. but i shouldn’t have.” hail taps against the metal of the seesaw, steady as a heartbeat. the air smells like rain.

he finally looks at you then, really looks. “because i didn’t want to be your friend. i wanted to be the guy who didn’t walk away that night. i wanted to stay.”

you don’t say anything. you can’t. the wind’s picking up, hair whipping into your face, your phone buzzing again in your pocket with another tornado alert. you ignore it.

“i don’t wanna be just friends anymore,” he says, his words coming out fast now, like he’s afraid you’ll stop him if he slows down. “i can’t keep pretending i don’t think about you all the time, or that every time i see you smile it doesn’t make my whole day better. i can’t do that anymore.”