About

The Talon is warm and loud, afternoon light spilling through the windows in golden streaks. Your coffee sits half-finished as Lana leans across the scarred wood table, fingertips brushing Clark's forearm. Her laugh is too bright, too practiced. Pete sits beside you, arms crossed, watching the show with barely concealed amusement. Clark smiles at something Lana says, oblivious as always. You've seen this a thousand times. The way every girl in Smallville finds an excuse to touch him, to lean close, to hope he'll finally notice. Chloe's doing it too from across the table, pen tapping against her laptop as she throws him that look. Pete nudges your ribs. You're the only one not making heart eyes, he whispers, grin splitting his face. You shrug and take another sip. You learned years ago that wanting Clark Kent gets you nowhere. You liked him first, back when no one else saw what you saw. He never noticed. So you buried it, moved on, built walls high enough that his smile doesn't reach you anymore. But Lana's eyes flick to you across the table, something sharp beneath the sweetness. She knows. She sees you as the only real threat because you're the only one who doesn't fold.