The morning sun rose over Smallville, its golden light spilling across the fields, painting the cornstalks in hues of amber and rust. The air was crisp, tinged with the earthy scent of autumn and the faint hum of distant tractors, a quiet reminder of the town's heartbeat. At Smallville High, the buzz of homecoming day was palpable—students milled through the halls, their voices a chaotic symphony of excitement over the game against the Granville Bears, the pep rally still fresh in their minds, and the tailgate party that would cap the night. For Elizabeth "Beth" Harper, though, the day was a deliberate exercise in focus, a determined effort to anchor herself in routine and keep the chaos of her emotions at bay.
Beth had woken early, the faint glow of dawn seeping through her bedroom blinds, the memory of Clark's kiss still a stubborn ember in her mind. But today, she refused to let it consume her. She couldn't afford to spiral again—not with midterms looming and the weight of her own self-doubt pressing down. She'd tossed and turned enough the night before, her thoughts a relentless loop of Clark's lips, his hands, the way her body had betrayed her with a heat she couldn't ignore. Enough was enough. She wasn't going to be the girl pining in the shadows, not today. She had studying to do, a life to live, and a heart to wrangle back into submission.
In her room, Beth sat cross-legged on her bed, her history textbook open in her lap, a highlighter poised over a page about the Progressive Era. Her notebook was a mess of color-coded notes—blue for dates, yellow for key figures, green for concepts—a system that grounded her, gave her control. The soft scratch of her pen against paper was a steady rhythm, drowning out the noise in her head. She'd turned her phone face-down on the nightstand, silencing Clark's inevitable texts, not because she was mad but because she needed space to breathe, to be something other than the girl who'd kissed her best friend and felt her world tilt. The faint scent of coffee drifted up from the kitchen, where she could hear her dad was already up, his work boots thudding against the linoleum as he prepared for another long shift at LuthorCorp. The normalcy of it was a lifeline, and Beth clung to it, forcing her focus onto Teddy Roosevelt and trust-busting instead of the memory of Clark's breath against her lips.
By the time she reached school, her backpack heavy with books and her hair pulled into a neat braid, Beth felt a flicker of resolve. The hallways were a riot of crimson and gold, students decked out in Crows gear, their faces painted with black and red stripes. Banners fluttered from the lockers, proclaiming "Crush the Bears!" in bold, uneven letters. Beth navigated the chaos with purpose, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, her eyes fixed ahead to avoid scanning for Clark. She didn't want to see him—not yet, not when the sight of his easy smile or broad shoulders might unravel her carefully constructed focus.
First period was English, where Ms. Hargrove was dissecting The Great Gatsby, her voice sharp and animated as she paced in front of the whiteboard. Beth sat near the back, her notebook open, scribbling notes about the green light and Gatsby's unattainable dreams. The irony wasn't lost on her, but she pushed it aside, her pen moving faster than her thoughts. She'd always liked English—there was something comforting in the way literature gave shape to messy emotions, even if it couldn't solve them. Her eyes flicked to the clock above the door, counting down the minutes until lunch, when she'd inevitably face her friends. She could do this. She would do this.
Lunch came too soon, the cafeteria a familiar cacophony of clattering trays and overlapping voices. The smell of greasy pizza and overcooked fries hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint tang of industrial cleaner. Beth slid into her usual spot at the table near the back, her tray holding a turkey sandwich and an apple she'd grabbed to stick to her diet. Chloe Sullivan was already there, her blonde bob bouncing as she gestured animatedly, a copy of the Smallville Torch spread out in front of her. Pete Ross sat across from her, his football jersey stretched tight over his shoulders, a grin on his face as he teased Chloe about her latest conspiracy theory.
"—I'm telling you, Pete, there's something weird about that new fertilizer LuthorCorp's pushing," Chloe said, her voice sharp with conviction. "The chemical composition doesn't add up. I got a sample from the Miller farm, and the nitrogen levels are off the charts. It's like they're trying to grow mutant corn or something."
Pete rolled his eyes, popping a tater tot into his mouth. "Chloe, you see conspiracies in your breakfast cereal. It's fertilizer, not a secret government plot. Let the farmers do their thing."
Beth couldn't help but smile, the familiar banter a welcome distraction. She took a bite of her sandwich, the bread dry but grounding, and leaned forward. "Chloe, you're gonna give yourself an ulcer over this stuff," she said, her tone light but with a hint of affection. "Maybe it's just bad bookkeeping at LuthorCorp. My dad says their inventory's been a mess lately."
Chloe's eyes lit up, as if sensing an ally. "Exactly! That's what I'm saying. Sloppy records could be a cover for something bigger. Beth, you gotta get your dad to spill. Any weird shipments coming through the plant?"
Beth shrugged, cutting her apple into neat slices with a plastic knife. "He doesn't talk much about work. Just comes home exhausted and complains about quotas. I'll ask, but don't hold your breath." She kept her voice casual, grateful for the shift in focus. Talking about LuthorCorp's shady dealings was easier than dwelling on Clark, on the way his hands had felt on her waist, or the humiliating moment Jonathan Kent had walked in.
Pete leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face. "Speaking of weird, you guys see Clark this morning? Dude's been extra spacey. Kept zoning out during history, staring at the window like he's waiting for a UFO to land."
Beth's stomach tightened, but she forced her expression to stay neutral, slicing another piece of apple with deliberate care. "He's probably just stressed about the game," she said, her voice steady. "You know how he gets when the Crows are up against Granville."
Chloe raised an eyebrow, her expression sharp, as if her reporter's instincts were kicking in. "Or maybe he's mooning over Lana again. I swear, that boy's got it bad. Did you see him at the pep rally? Practically tripping over himself to hold the door for her."
Beth's fork paused mid-air, a flicker of irritation sparking in her chest. She swallowed it down, taking a sip of water to mask the reaction. "Yeah, well, that's Clark," she said, her tone clipped but not enough to draw attention. "Always the gentleman." She forced a smile, hoping it looked convincing, and shifted the conversation. "Anyway, Chloe, you running that fertilizer story in the Torch? Or is it just another one of your 'Wall of Weird' theories?"
Chloe grinned, undeterred. "Oh, it's going in the Torch. I'm calling it 'LuthorCorp's Dirty Secret.' Catchy, right? I just need a solid source, and I'm golden."
Pete snorted, tossing a tater tot at her. "You're gonna get sued, Sullivan. Lionel Luthor doesn't mess around."
"Trust me, Lionel is far more intimidating in person—you definitely don't want to cross him," Beth said, her voice low and serious.
The banter continued, light and familiar, and Beth let herself sink into it, grateful for the normalcy. She laughed at Pete's terrible puns and nodded along as Chloe outlined her plan to sneak into the LuthorCorp plant's records room—a plan Beth was pretty sure would end in detention or worse. For the first time all day, her thoughts didn't spiral back to Clark, to the kiss that had left her reeling. She could do this. She could be normal, be herself, without the weight of unspoken feelings dragging her down.
The afternoon classes passed in a blur—algebra, where Beth aced a pop quiz on quadratic equations, and biology, where she partnered with Chloe to dissect a frog, the formaldehyde smell clinging to her hands long after the bell. By the time the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, the halls were alive with pre-game energy. Students streamed toward the football field, their voices loud with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and hot dogs from the concession stand. The Crows were facing the Granville Bears, a rival team known for their aggressive defense, and the whole town seemed to pulse with the stakes of the game.
Beth, though, had no intention of going. The last thing she needed was to see Clark on the field, sweaty and flushed, his jersey clinging to his broad chest as he ran, maybe lifting the hem to wipe his face, revealing the taut muscles she'd felt under her hands during that ill-fated massage. The image flashed through her mind, unbidden, and she shoved it away, her cheeks heating. She grabbed her backpack from her locker, the metal door slamming shut with a clang, and slipped out a side exit, avoiding the crowd heading toward the bleachers. She wasn't in the mood for the roar of the stands, the cheerleaders' chants, or the inevitable sight of Lana leading the squad, her smile dazzling under the stadium lights.
Instead, Beth took the long way home, her sneakers scuffing against the gravel path that wound through the edge of town. The fields stretched out beside her, golden and endless, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. She plugged her earbuds in, letting the steady beat of her playlist drown out the distant cheers from the stadium. She focused on the rhythm of her steps, the crunch of gravel, the cool air against her skin—anything to keep her mind from drifting to Clark. She had homework to finish, dinner to plan for her dad, and a life to live that didn't revolve around her best friend's unattainable heart. By the time she reached her house, the porch light glowing faintly in the dusk, she felt a flicker of control, a small victory over the chaos of the past two days.
Inside, the house was quiet, her dad still at work. Beth dropped her backpack by the door and headed to the kitchen, pulling ingredients for a simple pasta dish—penne, canned tomatoes, a clove of garlic she hoped wasn't too old. Cooking was another anchor, a task that demanded focus, and she lost herself in the rhythm of chopping garlic and stirring sauce, the sizzle of the pan a soothing counterpoint to her thoughts. She ate alone at the kitchen table, the pasta warm and comforting, and texted her dad to let him know there was a plate in the fridge. The routine was grounding, a reminder that her world was bigger than one kiss, one boy, one moment that had felt like everything.
But as the evening wore on, Beth's resolve wavered. Her phone buzzed with a group chat notification—Chloe, Pete, and Clark, planning the tailgate party after the game. The Crows had won, apparently, a narrow victory sealed by a last-minute touchdown, and the group was hyped, tossing around plans for burgers, music, and a low-key celebration in the school parking lot. Beth stared at the messages, her thumb hovering over the screen. She could skip it, stay home, bury herself in her history notes or lose herself in a book. It would be easier, safer, to avoid Clark, to avoid the risk of seeing him with Lana, his eyes bright with that hopeless adoration. But another part of her rebelled against the idea of hiding. She was tired of feeling invisible, tired of letting her insecurities dictate her choices. She wasn't Lana Lang, and she never would be, but she was Beth Harper, and maybe, just maybe, she could feel good about herself tonight.
She stood, a sudden surge of determination pushing her toward her room. She wasn't going to the tailgate to impress Clark—that wasn't the point. This was for her, a chance to feel confident, to shake off the weight of rejection and self-doubt. She rummaged through her closet, pushing past faded jeans and oversized sweaters, until her fingers brushed against a black dress she hadn't worn in months. It was simple but elegant, the kind of dress that felt like a statement without trying too hard—above-the-knee length, with a delicate lace-trimmed neckline and a softly pleated skirt. She pulled it out, holding it up to the mirror, and nodded to herself. Yes. This would do.
Beth took her time getting ready, treating the process like a ritual. She plugged in her curling iron, sectioning her brown hair and smoothing it with a flat iron before adding loose waves to the ends with a babyliss, the style casual but polished. She slipped into the dress, the fabric hugging her curves in a way that made her feel bold, not exposed. A cropped denim jacket added a touch of Smallville charm, and she chose low-heeled ankle boots, practical but stylish. Standing in front of the mirror, she applied a thin line of eyeliner, the black accentuating her brown eyes, and swiped on a glossy pink lip balm, the shine catching the light. She stepped back, studying her reflection, and for the first time in days, she didn't feel ordinary. She looked… good. Attractive. Different.
The tailgate party was already in full swing when Beth arrived at the school parking lot, the air thick with the smell of grilled burgers and charcoal smoke. Pick-up trucks were parked in a loose circle, tailgates down, with coolers of soda and bags of chips scattered across makeshift tables. A portable speaker blasted a country-pop mix, the kind of music Smallville kids couldn't resist, and groups of students laughed and danced under the glow of string lights strung between truck beds. The Crows' victory had everyone in high spirits, their voices loud with stories of the game's final play, the touchdown that had sealed the win.
Beth spotted Chloe first, her blonde hair catching the light as she waved from a cluster of friends near a red F-150. "Beth! Oh my God, you look amazing!" Chloe called, her eyes wide as she took in Beth's outfit. "That dress? The boots? You're killing it."
Beth smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. "Thanks, Chloe. Just felt like switching it up tonight." She shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the compliment landed like a balm, soothing the raw edges of her insecurities.
Pete jogged over, a can of Coke in hand, his grin wide. "Whoa, Harper, you clean up nice! What's the occasion? You going for homecoming queen or something?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes looked kind, and Beth laughed, swatting his arm.
"Shut up, Ross. Just felt like not looking like a slob for once," she shot back, her voice light. She scanned the crowd, her heart giving a small lurch as she spotted Clark near the grill, flipping burgers with a focus that was almost comical. He was in his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly damp from the game's exertion. Lana was nearby, of course, her cheerleader uniform swapped for jeans and a fitted sweater, her laughter bright as she talked to a group of friends. Beth's stomach twisted, but she pushed it down, focusing on Chloe and Pete, on the music, on the energy of the night.
The party started light, all burgers and banter, but as the crowd thinned, Chloe leaned in, her voice low. "Okay, so the real party's moving to my place. My dad's out of town, and we've got the basement to ourselves. You in, Beth?"
Beth hesitated, her eyes flicking to Clark, who was now talking to Lana, his head tilted toward her, his smile soft. The sight stung, but she straightened, her resolve hardening. "Yeah, I'm in," she said, her voice firm. She wasn't going to hide. Not tonight.
To Beth, the basement of Chloe Sullivan's house felt like a sanctuary of teenage chaos, a dimly lit haven where the rules of the outside world seemed suspended. The air was warm, thick with the mingled scents of cheap beer, salty chips, and the faint musk of too many bodies in a confined space. String lights draped across the exposed beams cast a soft, golden glow, their warm hue softening the edges of the mismatched furniture—a sagging plaid couch, a couple of beanbags that had seen better days, and a scratched coffee table littered with empty soda cans, half-eaten bags of Doritos, and a bowl of congealing queso dip. The ancient stereo in the corner hummed with an indie rock playlist, the low strum of guitars and wistful vocals weaving through the chatter and laughter of the small group gathered in a loose circle. It was the kind of scene that defined Smallville's youth—raw, unpolished, and brimming with the reckless energy of kids teetering on the edge of adulthood.
Elizabeth "Beth" Harper sat cross-legged on a lumpy beanbag, her black dress smoothing over her knees, the lace-trimmed neckline catching the light as she shifted. Her ankle boots were tucked neatly beside her, and she sipped a Sprite, the cold fizz sharp against her tongue. The tailgate party in the school parking lot had been fun—burgers sizzling on the grill, country-pop blaring from truck speakers, the Crows' victory over the Granville Bears fueling the crowd's high spirits—but this smaller, more intimate gathering felt different. It was just the core group now: Chloe, Pete, Clark, Lana, Sarah from the Smallville Torch, and a couple of football players, Jake and Tyler, who'd tagged along for the promise of free snacks. The basement was their bubble, a place where they could shed the expectations of school, parents, and the small-town gossip mill. But for Beth, the bubble was fragile, threatening to burst every time her eyes drifted to Clark, who sat on the couch across from her, his long legs stretched out, a beer in his hand she noticed he barely touched.
Clark Kent seemed out of place in the basement's cozy chaos; to Beth, his broad shoulders and farm-boy frame looked too big for the sagging couch. He wore a flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of what he claimed was farm work. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the game's exertion, curling at the nape of his neck, and his blue eyes, so impossibly bright, flickered with an expression of amusement and unease as he listened to Pete's latest quip. Beth couldn't help but watch him, her gaze lingering on the way his fingers curled around the beer can, the slight tension in his jaw when Lana laughed nearby. Now, sitting here, surrounded by friends, she felt exposed, like every glance from Clark might unravel the fragile control she'd built since that moment.
"Beth, seriously, you look like you stepped out of a magazine," one of the Torch girls, Sarah, said, her eyes wide with admiration. "Where'd you get that dress?"
Beth smiled, her fingers smoothing the pleated skirt. "Just something I had in my closet. Figured it was time to wear it." The compliments kept coming—small, genuine remarks from Chloe, Sarah, even Pete again—and each one chipped away at the insecurity that had clung to her all week. She felt seen, not invisible, and it was a rush she hadn't expected.
Clark hadn't said much, but she caught him glancing her way, his blue eyes lingering a moment longer than usual before he looked away, his expression unreadable. He was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand he wasn't really drinking (she never saw him drunk anyway), his posture relaxed but with that same undercurrent of tension she'd noticed in the hallway. When their eyes met briefly, he gave her a small smile, the kind that was all best-friend warmth—something that made her heart skip, even as she told herself it didn't mean anything. But he was Clark, her best friend, and his heart was elsewhere. Still, the flicker of his gaze was enough to make her feel… different. Attractive. Not just Beth, the sidekick, but Beth, who could turn heads, even if it wasn't his.
Chloe, perched on an armrest of the couch, her blonde bob swinging as she gestured, seemed to be in her element, her sharp eyes scanning the group like a reporter sniffing out a story. She wore a fitted green sweater and jeans, her ever-present notebook tucked into her back pocket, ready to jot down anything that might fuel her next Smallville Torch exposé. "Okay, I'm calling it," she announced, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "This party's getting too chill. We need to shake things up." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her grin daring.
"Alright, who's up for truth or dare?" Pete called, a mischievous grin on his face as he held up an empty beer bottle. The group groaned, but the mood was light, and soon they were gathered in a loose circle, the bottle spinning on the coffee table. Beth laughed along, her guard lowering with each round, the game pulling her out of her head.
Chloe rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips, betraying her amusement. "Truth or dare, really, Pete? We're not in middle school anymore," she said.
"Oh, come on, Chloe! It's just a game. It'll be fun. Besides, don't act like you don't want to know some secrets," Pete teased, his cheeky grin widening. Chloe sighed but seemed to give in, her reluctance melting under the group's enthusiasm. "Fine, fine. Let's get this over with," she conceded.
Beth rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the nervous flutter in her stomach. "Pete, you're gonna regret this when someone dares you to eat that questionable dip," she teased, nodding toward the bowl of queso, its surface now a suspicious shade of orange. Her voice was light, but inside, her thoughts churned. Truth or dare was dangerous territory—too many chances for secrets to spill, for feelings to surface. She glanced at Clark, who was watching Chloe with an expression of amusement and wariness, his fingers tapping the beer can in a restless rhythm.
Lana leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her smile bright and encouraging. "Come on, Beth, it's just a game. It'll be fun." Her voice was soft, coaxing, the kind of tone that made people want to agree with her, and Beth felt a twinge of irritation she quickly smothered. Lana wasn't doing anything wrong—she was just being Lana, kind and magnetic, the girl who could light up a room without trying. Beth's fingers tightened around her Sprite can, the metal cool and slick with condensation, as she forced a smile trying to focus on the moment.
"Alright, let's do this," Pete said, rubbing his hands together. He gave the bottle a spin, the glass scraping against the table's worn surface, the sound sharp in the sudden hush. The bottle wobbled, slowed, and stopped, its neck pointing directly at Clark. A chorus of "oohs" and laughter erupted, and Clark's eyes widened, his cheeks flushing a faint pink.
"Clark Kent, you're up!" Pete declared, his voice booming with glee. "Truth or dare, big guy?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his grin daring.
Clark shifted on the couch, his broad frame making the cushions creak, and ran a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit Beth had seen a thousand times. His blue eyes darted around the circle, landing briefly on her before settling on Pete. "Uh… dare," he said, his voice steady but with a trace of hesitation, as if he already regretted the choice. The group cheered, their voices loud and teasing, and Beth felt her heart skip, a mix of amusement and dread. Clark wasn't one for reckless abandon—he was too careful, always.
Pete's eyes gleamed with mischief, and he rubbed his chin, pretending to think deeply. "Hmm, let's make this good," he said, drawing out the suspense. His gaze landed on a sparkly pink dress hanging on a coat rack in the corner, left over from some forgotten costume party or Chloe's brief stint in the drama club. "Clark, I dare you to put on Chloe's dress and model it for us. Full catwalk, no half-assing it."
The room exploded with laughter, Chloe nearly choking on her soda as she doubled over, her giggles high and infectious. "Oh my God, Pete, you're evil!" she managed, wiping tears from her eyes. "That's my Midsummer Night's Dream costume from freshman year! It's, like, two sizes too small for him!"
"Exactly!" Pete said, clapping his hands. "That's the point! Come on, Kent, let's see those legs." The group hooted, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony, and Beth couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up despite the tension coiling in her gut. She could picture it—Clark, all six-foot-three of him, trying to squeeze into a glittery pink dress, his farm-boy awkwardness on full display. It was ridiculous, perfect, and exactly the kind of thing Pete would dream up to mess with his best friend.
Clark's face turned beet red, his jaw tight as he glared at Pete, but she saw a spark of amusement in his eyes, a reluctant acceptance of the challenge. "You're a jerk, Ross," he muttered, standing up and brushing his hands on his jeans. He crossed the room to the coat rack, the group's laughter following him like a spotlight, and grabbed the dress, holding it up with a grimace. The fabric sparkled under the fairy lights, its short hem and fitted bodice absurdly out of place in his large hands. "This is ridiculous," he said, shaking his head, but he was already heading toward the bathroom, his shoulders hunched as if he could shrink from the attention.
"Go get 'em, supermodel!" Chloe called after him, her voice dripping with mock encouragement. She turned to Beth, her eyes sparkling. "Okay, this is already the best night ever. You think he'll actually do it?"
Beth grinned, the knot in her chest loosening a fraction. "It's Clark. He'll do it to prove a point, then never let Pete live it down." She leaned back on the beanbag, her fingers tracing the rim of her Sprite can, trying to focus on the humor instead of the way her pulse quickened at the thought of Clark stepping out of his comfort zone. She could still feel the ghost of his lips from yesterday, the memory stubborn and vivid, and she hated how it colored every interaction with him now, turning even this silly moment into something charged.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open, and Clark emerged, the pink dress stretched comically tight across his broad chest, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh. His legs, muscular from years of farm work and football, looked absurdly out of place under the glittery fabric, and his face was a mix of mortification and defiance, his cheeks flushed a deep red. The room erupted in hysterics, Pete doubling over with laughter, clutching his stomach as he gasped for air. "Oh my God, Clark, you look like a disco ball exploded!" he managed, tears streaming down his face.
Chloe was practically wheezing, one hand over her mouth as she tried to compose herself. "I need a picture of this for the Torch," she said, fumbling for her phone. "Headline: 'Smallville's Finest in Fashion Fiasco.'"
"No pictures!" Clark protested, his voice a mix of panic and amusement as he held up a hand, trying to shield himself. He took a tentative step forward, the dress riding up slightly, and struck an exaggerated pose, one hand on his hip, the other waving dramatically like a runway model. The group roared, their laughter bouncing off the walls, and Beth felt a surge of warmth, the kind that came from these rare, unguarded moments with her friends. Clark caught her eye, his lips twitching into a sheepish grin, and for a second, it was just them, sharing a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity. Her heart flipped, and she looked away, her fingers tightening around her can.
Lana, perched on her chair, clapped her hands, her laugh bright and melodic. "Okay, Clark, you're killing it," she said, her tone teasing but warm. "But you've gotta give us a spin. Full commitment to the dare." Lana's green eyes sparkled, and she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, a movement that seemed to draw Clark's attention. Beth's smile faltered, her chest tightening as she watched him respond to Lana, his blush deepening as his grin widened, a look on his face that Beth interpreted as an eagerness to please.
"Fine," Clark said, rolling his eyes but obliging. He spun slowly, the dress straining against his shoulders, and the group cheered, Pete whistling loudly. "Happy now?" Clark asked, his voice laced with mock exasperation as he faced Lana, his hands spread wide.
"Very," Lana replied, her smile dazzling, and Beth felt that familiar pang again, sharp and unwelcome. She took another sip of her Sprite, the bubbles doing little to ease the knot in her throat. Clark was still Clark—awkward, kind, trying so hard to fit in—but with Lana, he seemed different, lighter, like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. Beth hated how much it hurt to watch.
Clark tugged at the dress's hem, his face still red as he shifted uncomfortably. "Alright, can I take this thing off now?" he asked, his voice pleading but with a hint of humor.
Pete leaned back, his grin devilish. "Oh, no way, Kent. You're keeping that dress on until the game's over. House rules." He crossed his arms, his tone final, and the group erupted in laughter again, Chloe clapping her hands with glee.
"Are you serious?" Clark groaned, running a hand through his hair, the movement making the dress ride up even more. "This thing's cutting off my circulation!"
Lana, ever bold, took a sip of her orange juice, the plastic cup crinkling in her hand as she leaned forward, her smile radiant and teasing. "Only if you get without any else," she said, her voice low and flirty, the words dripping with playful challenge. The room exploded with laughter, the sound bouncing off the brick walls, and Clark's face turned an even deeper shade of red, if that was possible. His eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing as he stammered, "Uh… I… I mean…" The words dissolved into a flustered mumble, drowned out by Pete's loud guffaws and Chloe's delighted cackle.
Beth felt her stomach twist, her fingers tightening around her Sprite can until the metal creaked. Jeez, are they going to flirt the whole damn time? she thought, her jaw clenching as she fought the urge to roll her eyes. Lana's boldness was effortless, her charm unbothered and cute, and it made Beth feel small. She forced a laugh, the sound brittle, and pointed at the bottle, her voice sharper than she intended. "Oh, just keep the fucking dress, Clark," she said, rolling her eyes as the group laughed again, oblivious to the edge in her tone. "Come on, spin it already. Let's keep this moving."
Clark, still flushed and clearly embarrassed in Chloe's dress, caught Beth's eye and gave her a grateful nod, as if thanking her for pulling the attention away from Lana's comment. He sank back onto the couch, the dress stretching comically across his chest, and leaned forward to spin the bottle, his movements careful. Pete, still chuckling, wiped a tear from his eye. "Alright, alright, let's keep the game going," he said, his voice thick with amusement as he tried to compose himself.
The bottle spun, scraping against the table, and slowed to a stop, pointing at Pete. The group cheered, and a mischievous grin appeared on Clark's face. "Payback time, Ross," he said, his voice low and playful. "Truth or dare?"
Pete leaned back, his arms crossed, his confidence unshaken. "Dare, obviously," he said. "Hit me with your best shot, Kent."
Clark rubbed his chin, mimicking Pete's earlier theatrics, his eyes narrowing as he thought. The room quieted, everyone leaning in, eager for the next move. "Alright," Clark said, his voice steady now, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I dare you to strip down to your boxers and run around the block again—this time, you've gotta sing the Smallville High fight song at the top of your lungs."
The room erupted in laughter, Chloe clapping her hands with glee. "Oh, this is brutal," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Pete, you're gonna wake up the whole neighborhood! Mrs. Jenkins is definitely calling the sheriff this time."
Pete's jaw dropped, his confidence faltering for a split second before he recovered, his grin returning with a defiant edge. "You're evil, Kent," he said, standing and pulling off his jersey with a dramatic flourish. "But I'm not backing down. Watch and learn, people." He kicked off his sneakers, the thud loud against the rug, and stripped down to his navy-blue boxers. The group catcalled and whistled, Chloe snapping a quick photo before Pete could protest.
"Delete that, Sullivan!" Pete shouted, pointing at her as he headed for the basement stairs, his voice echoing with mock indignation. "I'm serious! If that ends up in the Torch, you're dead!" He disappeared up the stairs, the back door slamming shut behind him, and the group crowded around the basement window, peering out into the dark. Pete's voice rang out, loud and off-key, belting the Smallville High fight song: "Crows fly high, we'll never fall, Smallville spirit conquers all!" His figure was a blur under the streetlights, his arms pumping as he sprinted, his boxers flashing in the moonlight.
Beth laughed, the sound genuine, the tension in her chest easing as she watched Pete's ridiculous performance. She glanced at Clark, who was grinning, his eyes bright with boyish glee, the pink dress still clinging absurdly to his frame. For a moment, she let herself enjoy it, let herself be part of this chaotic, perfect night, surrounded by friends who felt like family. But Lana's flirty comment lingered, a quiet sting beneath the laughter, and she wondered if Clark had noticed the edge in her voice, the way her eyes had rolled at his flustered response to Lana.
Pete burst back into the basement, his chest heaving, his skin flushed from the cold. "Done!" he declared, collapsing onto the rug, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "You're a monster, Kent. I'm gonna get you back for that." He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on with exaggerated effort, the group still chuckling as he shivered dramatically.
"Your turn, Ross," Clark said, his voice teasing as he nodded at the bottle, still in Chloe's dress, his discomfort tempered by the thrill of the game. "Make it good."
Pete spun the bottle, his eyes scanning the circle with predatory glee. It slowed, wobbling, and landed on Beth. Her heart lurched, the sudden attention like a spotlight she wasn't ready for. "Beth Harper," Pete said, his grin wide. "Truth or dare?"
Beth's stomach twisted, her fingers tightening around her Sprite can. She could feel Clark's eyes on her, his gaze soft but curious, and Lana's too, her expression kind but unreadable. Truth was too risky—Pete had a knack for asking questions that cut too close to the bone, and she wasn't ready to spill her feelings in front of everyone, especially not after Lana's flirtation and Clark's flustered reaction. Dare, though… that could be dangerous too, especially with Pete's penchant for chaos. She took a deep breath, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "Dare," she said, lifting her chin, determined to hold her own.
Fairy lights cast a soft, golden glow along the brick walls, illuminating the faded shag rug where the group—Clark Kent, Beth Harper, Lana Lang, Pete Ross, Chloe, and a handful of Smallville Torch staff and football players—sat in a lively, haphazard huddle. The stereo pulsed with Britney Spears' "Oops!... I Did It Again," its beat amplifying the reckless, youthful energy of a Smallville High night poised for mischief.
Pete leaned forward, his Crows football jersey still damp from the game, his grin sharp and mischievous. "Alright, Harper, let's see if you got game," he said, his voice brimming with challenge, his dark eyes glinting with anticipation. "I dare you to write the cheesiest love letter you can muster—on the spot, no prep—and deliver it like you're in a Notebook-style romance scene. Make it sappy enough and it's gotta be to someone in this room." His eyebrows shot up, his smile daring her to match his energy.
The room burst into laughter, Chloe nearly spilling her Diet Coke as she clapped her hands, her blonde bob swaying with enthusiasm. "Beth, this better be legendary," she said, her eyes sparkling with what Beth recognized as her reporter's hunger for drama. "I want it so mushy it could make Allie and Noah bawl." Her smirk was pure Chloe Sullivan, poised to roast any half-hearted effort.
Beth's cheeks flushed, her heart pounding like a drumroll as she stood, smoothing her black dress with unsteady hands. The lace trim caught the fairy lights, and she felt every gaze—especially Clark's, his blue eyes watching from the couch, where he sat in that absurd pink dress, looking like a quarterback stuffed into a prom gown. Declaring a love letter in front of him, after their kiss yesterday—a hesitant, electric moment that still burned on her lips—was daunting. But she wasn't about to let Pete's smug grin win. She straightened, channeling Elizabeth Bennet's fiery poise and Mr. Darcy's tortured passion from Pride and Prejudice, ready to deliver a performance that would tease Pete mercilessly while slipping in genuine admiration, all wrapped in Regency grandeur.
You want sappy, Ross? I'll give you a Darcy-level confession.
"Very well," she said, her voice steady but rich with a dramatic, Regency-era cadence, as she stepped into the center of the circle, the rug soft under her ankle boots. She clasped her hands over her heart, adopting the stance of a Jane Austen heroine confessing her soul, her eyes locking onto Pete with a blend of playful mockery and exaggerated devotion. "In vain have I struggled, my dearest Peter Ross," she began, her tone heavy with mock torment, echoing Darcy's fervent declaration. "It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I… tolerate your boundless enthusiasm. From the moment I beheld you on the football field, hurling those spirals with the reckless abandon of a man who believes every throw a touchdown, my heart was both vexed and charmed. Your ceaseless bravado—those theatrical boasts that echo louder than a LuthorCorp press conference—grate upon my nerves, yet I find them inexplicably endearing. Your loyalty, fierce as a Smallville dawn, and your smile, bold as a banner unfurled, compel my reluctant admiration. I would brave the shadowed halls of LuthorCorp, outwit Lionel's cunning schemes, and endure a thousand of your 'yo mama' jests to stand by your side, for you, Peter Ross, are a vexation I cannot help but esteem."
She punctuated the speech with a deep, theatrical curtsy, one hand sweeping out as if at a Regency ball, her eyelashes fluttering with exaggerated charm as she shot Pete a teasing smirk. The room erupted. Pete flopped backward onto the rug, clutching his chest like he'd been struck by a meteor, his laughter booming over the music. "Reckless spirals?! Vexation?!" he gasped, rolling dramatically, his jersey bunching up. "Harper, you just burned my football dreams and called it poetry! I'm flattered, but my ego's calling for a timeout!" He mimed waving a white flag, his grin wide and infectious.
Chloe was doubled over, wiping tears from her eyes as she clutched her phone, filming the chaos. "Beth, that was a masterpiece," she said, her voice shaky with laughter.
Clark's laugh was warm and deep, his shoulders shaking, the pink dress creaking under his broad frame. "Beth, you nailed it," he said, his voice teasing but kind, his blue eyes meeting hers with a sincerity that made her heart skip.
Lana, perched elegantly on her chair, clapped with a radiant smile, her green eyes twinkling. "Beth, that was so passionate," she said, her voice light and flirty, nudging Pete's leg with her foot. "You've got Pete's number—those spirals are reckless." She winked, her glossy hair catching the light, and Pete groaned, throwing an arm over his face in mock defeat.
"Y'all are savage!" Pete said, sitting up, his grin undimmed as he pointed at Lana, then Beth. "Harper, that was brutal, but I'm kinda into it. If you're braving LuthorCorp for me, I want a full-on action scene—explosions, slow-mo, me looking heroic." His tone turned playful, almost flirty, as he leaned closer. "Admit it, you're charmed by my banner-unfurled smile."
Beth rolled her eyes, her grin unwavering, the group's laughter pulling her into the moment. "Dream on, Darcy," she shot back, her tone teasing but sharp, matching his flirty energy. She sank back onto the beanbag, her heart lighter, the thrill of nailing the dare. She caught Clark's eye again, his lopsided smile sparking a flutter she quickly suppressed, focusing on the game and the tight-knit banter that made this group her home.
"Alright, my turn," Beth said, leaning forward, her dress swishing as she reached for the bottle, ready to keep the night's vibrant energy alive.
The bottle spun, scraping the table's edge, then wobbled to a stop, its neck aimed at Lana. Of all the people, it had to be her—the one Beth barely knew. The group fell silent, their gazes shifting to Beth, waiting for her move. A spark of nerves hit her; Lana, the golden girl, seemed to radiate an effortless charm, and daring her felt like stepping off a ledge.
Beth's heart gave a quick, sharp thud as the bottle pointed at Lana Lang, its neck glinting under the fairy lights like it was mocking her. The basement's warm, chaotic energy seemed to pause, the group's eyes flicking between Beth and Lana, waiting for the next move. Beth's fingers tightened around her Sprite can, the cold metal grounding her as she met Lana's gaze. Lana's green eyes sparkled with what looked like a mix of curiosity and playful challenge, her glossy black hair catching the light as she tilted her head, that perfect smile curving her lips. It was the kind of smile that could disarm anyone, and Beth felt a familiar pang—part jealousy, part admiration, and a whole lot of self-doubt. But she wasn't about to let it show. Not here, not now, not in front of Clark, who was watching from the couch, still stuffed into that ridiculous pink dress, his blue eyes soft but unreadable.
"Alright, Lana," Beth said, her voice steady but laced with a teasing edge, forcing herself to match the group's playful vibe. "Truth or dare?" She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her black dress shifting slightly, the lace trim brushing her collarbone. She could feel the weight of everyone's attention, especially Clark's, and it made her skin prickle, a mix of nerves and determination pushing her to keep the game moving.
Lana's smile widened, her posture relaxed but confident, as if she was born for moments like this. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion effortlessly graceful, and leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Dare," she said, her voice smooth and daring. The word hung in the air, and the group let out a collective "oooh," Pete's grin widening as he seemed to sense the potential for chaos.
Beth's mind raced. A dare for Lana had to be good—something bold enough to keep the game's energy high but not so cruel it'd make her look like an asshole. Lana was untouchable, the girl who seemed to glide through Smallville High without a misstep, and Beth knew she couldn't just throw out something lame. Her eyes flicked to Clark, who was watching Lana with that familiar mix of awe and nervousness, his fingers tapping the beer can he still hadn't sipped. She pushed the memory down, hard, and focused on the dare. This wasn't about Clark. This was about proving she could hold her own, even next to Lana Fucking Lang.
"Okay, Lana," Beth said, her voice carrying a playful edge that masked the nervous flutter in her stomach. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, her brown eyes narrowing as she crafted the dare on the fly. "I dare you to… grab someone's phone—anyone's in this room—and send a flirty text to a random contact. No peeking at who it's going to, just type it and hit send." She smirked, the idea feeling just risky enough to keep things spicy without being too vicious. "Make it good, though. No wimping out with 'hey, you're cute.' Give us something spicy."
The room erupted in a mix of gasps and laughter, Pete slamming his hand on the coffee table so hard a few empty cans rattled. "Oh, shit, Harper, you're playing dirty!" he crowed, his eyes wide with delight. "Lana, you're about to make someone's night or ruin their life. This is gonna be epic."
Chloe leaned forward, her reporter's instincts practically vibrating as she clutched her Diet Coke. "I'm so here for this," she said, her voice gleeful. "Lana, you better make it juicy. I want details—give us a play-by-play when you're done." She shot Beth a quick, approving nod, as if she was impressed by the dare's audacity.
Lana's laugh was bright, unfazed, her green eyes sparkling with a confidence that made Beth's stomach twist with a mix of envy and begrudging admiration. "Alright, Harper, you want spicy? I'll give you spicy," Lana said, standing with a graceful ease that seemed to pull every eye in the room. Her fitted sweater hugged her curves, and her jeans were just tight enough to remind everyone why she was the head cheerleader and Smallville's golden girl. She scanned the circle, her gaze playful but calculating, and Beth's heart sank as Lana's eyes lingered on Clark for a split second longer than necessary. Please don't pick him, Beth thought—she cannot take them flirting with each other again.
Lana stepped toward Pete, who was sprawled on the rug, still catching his breath from his half-naked sprint around the block. "Let's see what you've got, Ross," she said, her tone teasing as she held out her hand. "Hand over your phone."
Pete's grin faltered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Oh, hell no, Lang. You're not sending some freaky text to my mom or Coach Teague," he said, clutching his phone to his chest. The group laughed, and Pete relented, tossing his phone to Lana with a dramatic sigh. "Fine, but if this backfires, I'm blaming you, Harper."
Lana caught the phone with a deft flick of her wrist, her smile widening as she unlocked it—Pete's password was apparently "Crows4Life," which Chloe immediately roasted him for. "Real creative, Pete," she said, rolling her eyes. "Might as well be 'Password123.'"
"Shut up, Sullivan," Pete shot back, but he was grinning, leaning forward to watch Lana's every move like a kid waiting for a firework to go off.
Lana's fingers danced over the screen, her expression a mix of amusement and mischief as she scrolled through Pete's contacts without looking at the names, per the dare's rules. The group leaned in, the air buzzing with anticipation, the stereo now playing Avril Lavigne's "Complicated," its angsty chords underscoring the moment. Beth's eyes flicked to Clark, who was watching Lana with that familiar mix of awe and nervousness, his fingers tapping the beer can in a restless rhythm.
"Alright," Lana purred, her voice a sultry whisper, savoring the suspense as her fingers danced over the keyboard. "Let's spice this up…" She leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief, and cleared her throat with theatrical flair before reading her message aloud, each word laced with a seductive edge. "Hey, you. Can't stop thinking about you… that wicked smile of yours is playing dirty tricks on me. Meet me at the Talon tomorrow night—I've got a few secrets I'm dying to share, and trust me, it'll be a night you won't forget." She paused, her lips curling into a sly, knowing smirk as she glanced around the circle. "Too hot to handle?"
The group exploded with laughter, Pete groaning and flopping back onto the rug. "Oh my God, Lana, who the hell are you sending that to?" he demanded, half-laughing, half-panicked. "If that's my cousin Reggie, I'm moving to Metropolis."
Chloe was practically cackling, her phone out to capture the chaos. "Lana, you're a menace," she said, her voice thick with glee. "Whoever gets that text is either gonna faint or show up at the Talon with roses."
Beth forced a laugh, her heart pounding as she watched Lana's fingers hover over the send button. She'd thought the dare was safe—funny, bold, but not too personal. But Lana had a way of turning everything into a performance, and the way she was playing it up, her eyes flicking to Clark as she spoke, made Beth's stomach churn. It was subtle, but Beth saw it—the way Lana's gaze lingered on him, the way her smile softened when she caught his eye, like the flirty text was a rehearsal for something meant for him.
Lana hit send, the soft whoosh of the message cutting through the room's noise, and the group cheered, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony. "Done!" Lana declared, tossing Pete's phone back to him with a flourish. She sank back into her chair, her legs crossing elegantly, and shot Clark a quick, playful look that felt like a knife to Beth's chest. "Hope I didn't just start a scandal," she said, her tone light but with a flirty edge that made Clark blush, his eyes dropping to the beer can as he mumbled something incoherent.
Pete snatched his phone, scrolling frantically to see who the unlucky recipient was. His eyes widened, and he burst out laughing, relief flooding his face. "Oh, thank God, it's just Tyler," he said, holding up the phone to show the group the name of one of the football players who'd left the party early. "Dude's gonna think I'm hitting on him now. Thanks, Lana. Practice tomorrow's gonna be real fun."
The group roared, the tension breaking as they teased Pete mercilessly, Chloe already plotting how to spin this into a Torch headline. Beth laughed along, her voice blending with the others, but inside, her mind was spinning.
"Alright, Lana, your turn," Pete said, still chuckling as he gestured at the bottle. "Spin it, Lang. Let's keep this train wreck going."
Lana leaned forward, her movements smooth and deliberate, and gave the bottle a spin. It twirled, scraping against the table, and Beth's heart sank as it slowed, wobbling, before stopping squarely on Clark. The room let out another round of "oohs," and Beth's fingers tightened around her can, her knuckles whitening. Of course it's Clark, she thought, her jaw clenching as she braced herself for whatever came next.
Lana's smile was radiant, her eyes locking onto Clark's with a warmth that made Beth want to sink into the beanbag and disappear. "Well, Clark," Lana said, her voice soft but teasing, "truth or dare?" The words were innocent enough, but the way she leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her glossy hair falling over one shoulder, made it feel like a private conversation, like the rest of the room had faded away.
Clark shifted uncomfortably, the pink dress creaking as he adjusted his position on the couch. His face was still flushed from his earlier dare, and he ran a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit Beth knew too well. "Uh… truth," he said, his voice low, almost reluctant.
The group groaned, Pete throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "Truth? Come on, Kent, you're killing the vibe!" he said, but his grin showed he was loving every second of the drama.
Lana tilted her head, her smile turning thoughtful, a little too knowing for Beth's liking. "Okay, truth it is," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Clark, tell us… who's the last person you thought about kissing, and what made you think of them?" Her eyes sparkled, and she leaned closer, her gaze locked on his, the question hanging in the air like a loaded gun.
Beth's breath caught, her heart slamming against her ribs. The room seemed to shrink, the laughter and music fading into a dull hum as she stared at Clark, waiting for his answer. She knew it would be Lana—how could it not be? He'd been mooning over her for months, his every thought consumed by her perfect smile, her perfect everything. But the memory of their kiss yesterday—his lips hesitant but warm, his hands gripping her waist, the soft moan that had sent heat pooling between her thighs—flashed through her mind, unbidden and cruel. It had meant nothing to him, just practice, but for her, it was a wound that wouldn't close, and now she was about to hear him confirm what she already knew.
Clark's eyes widened, his blush deepening as he glanced around the circle, his gaze landing on Lana and Beth for a fleeting moment before darting away. "Uh…" he started, his voice cracking slightly, his fingers tapping the beer can faster now. "I mean… it's, uh…" He cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he struggled to find words. "Lana, come on, that's a tough one," he said, trying to laugh it off, but the nervousness in his voice was unmistakable.
"Oh, no dodging, Kent," Lana said, her tone playful but insistent, her smile coaxing him to spill. "You picked truth. Give us the juicy details." She leaned closer, her hand brushing his knee for a split second, a casual touch that made Beth's stomach lurch. The group leaned in, their laughter quieting as they waited, sensing the weight of the moment.
Beth's heart pounded so loud she was sure everyone could hear it. She wanted to look away, to focus on the fairy lights or the crumpled Cheetos bag on the table, but her eyes were glued to Clark, to the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers stilled on the can. She braced herself for the inevitable—Lana, because she's perfect, because she's everything I want—and tried to school her expression into something neutral, something that wouldn't betray the ache in her chest.
Clark's fingers tightened around the beer can, the aluminum creaking faintly under his grip as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his broad frame still comically constrained by the sparkly pink dress. The basement's warm glow seemed to spotlight him, the fairy lights casting soft shadows across his flushed face. His blue eyes darted around the circle, avoiding Lana's expectant gaze, Pete's teasing smirk, and Beth's tense silence, her knuckles white around her Sprite can. The question hung heavy—who's the last person you thought about kissing, and what made you think of them?—and the room's playful chaos stilled, every ear straining for his answer.
"Uh…" Clark started again, his voice rough, like he was trying to push the words past a lump in his throat. He ran a hand through his dark hair, messing it up further, a nervous tic that made him look younger, more vulnerable. "It's… I mean, it's not like I'm thinking about it all the time or anything," he mumbled, his blush deepening, spreading down his neck. "But, yeah, I thought about… kissing someone. Recently." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and his eyes flicked to the floor, like he could find an escape in the shag rug's faded threads.
The group leaned in, their laughter replaced by a charged curiosity. Lana's smile widened, her cheeks tinged with a soft pink as she tilted her head, her glossy hair catching the light. She looked radiant, confident, like she already knew the answer and was basking in it. Beth's chest tightened, her breath shallow as she fought to keep her face neutral, her eyes burning with the effort to hold back tears. She gripped her can harder, the metal cold against her palm, and forced herself to stay still, to not bolt from the room like she had from Kent's house.
"Come on, Kent, spill it," Pete urged, his grin wide but his eyes sharp, sensing the tension. "Who's got you all flustered? And what's the deal? You can't just say 'someone' and leave us hanging." He leaned back on the rug, arms crossed, his tone half-teasing, half-demanding.
Clark shifted, the couch creaking under him, and let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like a cough. "It doesn't matter who," he said, his voice low but firm, though the waver in it betrayed his unease. "Just… someone I've been around a lot lately. Someone who's… I don't know, easy to talk to, but also kinda makes me nervous, you know?" He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there as if to ground himself. "I was thinking about how it'd feel to… kiss them. Like, really kiss them. Not just a quick thing, but… something more. Feeling their hands on me, maybe pulling them close, their body against mine, all that… heat." His voice dropped, almost a whisper, rough with a mix of shyness and something rawer, and he cleared his throat, his face burning red as he seemed to realize how much he'd said.
The room erupted in a mix of whistles and gasps, Pete slamming his hand on the table again, making the empty cans jump. "Damn, Kent, didn't know you had it in you!" he crowed, his laugh booming. "That's some steamy shit, man! 'All that heat'? You're killing us! Who's the lucky one?"
Lana's blush deepened, her smile turning almost shy, but her eyes sparkled with what looked like a quiet triumph, like she was certain Clark's words were meant for her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her movements deliberate, and leaned forward slightly, her voice soft but teasing. "Sounds like someone's got you all worked up, Clark," she said, her tone flirty, inviting him to confirm what everyone seemed to assume. The group's eyes flicked between them, the assumption clear in their smirks and raised eyebrows—it's gotta be Lana.
Beth's heart sank, a cold weight settling in her stomach as she watched Lana's easy confidence, the way Clark's eyes flicked to her for a split second before darting away. Her throat burned, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, forcing a tight smile. He's talking about her, she thought, the words slicing through her like a blade. It's always her. She took a sip of her Sprite, the bubbles sharp and stinging, and stared at the coffee table, the crumpled Cheetos bag blurring as she fought to keep her composure. She wouldn't cry, not here, not in front of everyone. Not in front of Clark.
Chloe, ever the reporter, pounced on the vagueness, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward, her notebook forgotten but her instincts sharp. "Oh, come on, Clark, you can't drop that and not give us a name," she said, her voice playful but insistent. "Who's got you thinking about 'heat' and 'pulling them close'? Spill, or I'm putting this in the Torch as 'Mystery Crush Melts Smallville Star.'"
Clark's blush spread to his ears, and he shook his head, his jaw tight. "No way, Chloe. Doesn't matter who," he said, his voice firmer now, though still laced with that shy edge that was so quintessentially Clark. "It's just… someone who's been on my mind. That's all you're getting." He leaned back, crossing his arms over the pink dress, the fabric straining comically across his chest, and shot Chloe a look that was half-pleading, half-defiant.
Pete groaned, throwing his hands up. "Man, you're no fun," he said, but his grin showed he was loving the drama. "Fine, keep your secrets, Kent. But we all know who it is." He shot a pointed look at Lana, his eyebrows waggling, and the group laughed, the sound light but loaded with what Beth could only assume was a shared conclusion.
Lana's smile softened, her green eyes meeting Clark's for a moment, and she gave a small, almost coy shrug, as if she was basking in the group's certainty. "Well, whoever she is, she is lucky to have you thinking about them like that," she said, her voice warm, teasing, but with a hint of something more.
Beth bit her lip, hard, the pain grounding her as she fought the urge to bolt. She wanted to scream, to tell them to stop assuming, to stop acting like it was so fucking obvious. But she couldn't. Not without revealing too much, not without exposing the raw, aching thing in her chest that she wasn't ready to name. Instead, she forced a laugh, the sound brittle and too loud, and leaned forward to grab the bottle. "Alright, enough of this soap opera," she said, her voice sharper than she meant, cutting through the lingering tension. "Clark's done his truth. Let's keep it moving." She gave the bottle a quick spin, her movements jerky, desperate to shift the focus away from Clark, from Lana, from the ache threatening to spill over.
The bottle spun, scraping the table, and landed on Chloe. The group's attention shifted, their laughter rising again as Chloe groaned dramatically, tossing her blonde hair back. "Oh, great, now I'm in the hot seat," she said, her tone mock-exasperated but her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Alright, Harper, hit me. Truth or dare?"
Beth's mind was still reeling, Clark's words—their body against mine, all that heat—echoing in her head like a taunt. She forced herself to focus, to push past the image of Lana's smug smile and Clark's flustered avoidance. "Dare," she said quickly, her voice steady now, determined to reclaim the night, to prove she could handle this, handle him, handle the mess of feelings she was drowning in.
Chloe's grin turned wicked as she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Okay, Beth, let's keep this spicy," she said. "I dare you to… tell us who was your first kiss?"
Beth's heart slammed against her ribs, Chloe's dare slicing through the basement's warm, chaotic air like a well-aimed dart. The fairy lights flickered, casting golden flecks across the circle of friends, their faces alight with anticipation, their eyes locked on her. She felt the weight of Clark's gaze most of all—his blue eyes, intense and unreadable, boring into her from the couch where he sat, still stuffed into that absurd pink dress. The question hung heavy: Who was your first kiss? Beth's mind raced, her fingers crushing the Sprite can until the metal groaned, her cheeks burning as she silently thanked God it wasn't Clark. The kiss they'd shared —electric, searing, a moment she couldn't shake—wasn't her first, and the relief of that truth was a lifeline. But now, under the spotlight of Chloe's dare, she had to spill a secret she'd buried deep, one that could unravel her carefully crafted image as the dependable, straight-laced Beth Harper.
She shifted on the beanbag, her black dress catching the light, the lace trim brushing her collarbone as she tried to school her expression into something casual. Her throat was dry, the Sprite doing nothing to ease the knot tightening there. "Oh, come on, Chloe," she said, her voice aiming for playful but landing shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "That's… that's ancient history. Do we really need to dig that up?" Her eyes flicked to Clark, catching the way his jaw tightened, his fingers stilling on the beer can he hadn't touched. He was watching her, his expression a mix of curiosity and something unreadable, a crease forming between his brows.
"No dodging, Harper!" Chloe said, her reporter's grin sharp and unrelenting, her blonde bob swinging as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You picked dare. Spill the beans—who was it?" Her eyes gleamed with that journalistic hunger, like she could already sense a story brewing. The group leaned in, the basement's energy shifting from playful to electric, the indie rock fading into a background hum as all focus zeroed in on Beth.
Pete, still sprawled on the rug, his navy boxers barely hidden under his hastily pulled-on jeans, let out a low whistle. "Yeah, Beth, don't leave us hanging," he said, his tone teasing but with a curious edge. "Who's the lucky guy who got to lock lips with Harper first? Some nerd from the debate team? Band geek? Come on, give us something." His grin was wide, but she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he couldn't quite picture Beth—practical, studious Beth—having a romantic past worth gossiping about.
Lana, perched elegantly on her chair, her green eyes soft but curious, tilted her head, her glossy hair catching the fairy lights. "Beth, you've gotta tell us," she said, her voice gentle but coaxing, the kind of tone that made people want to spill their secrets. "First kisses are, like, sacred. Who was it?" Her smile was encouraging.
Beth's face burned, the heat creeping down her neck as she set her Sprite can on the coffee table, the clink loud in the sudden hush. She could feel Clark's eyes still on her, heavy and searching, and it made her stomach twist. He was probably thinking she'd lied yesterday, when she'd said she'd only kissed one guy before their "practice" kiss. The truth was, she hadn't lied—her first kiss had been a year ago, a fleeting moment she'd tucked away like a forgotten keepsake, too mortifying to revisit. But now, with the group's eyes on her, Chloe's dare pinning her like a butterfly to a board, she had no choice but to let it out.
"Okay, fine," she said, her voice wavering as she forced herself to meet Chloe's gaze, avoiding Clark's entirely. "It was… Alexander." The name slipped out, soft and hesitant, and she braced herself for the fallout, her fingers twisting in the pleats of her dress.
The room went quiet for a split second, the name hanging in the air like a puzzle piece that didn't fit. Pete's brow furrowed, his grin faltering as he leaned forward. "Alexander? Who the hell is Alexander? Is he from school? Band kid? Chess club?" His tone was half-teasing, half-baffled.
Chloe's eyes narrowed, her head tilting as she studied Beth like she was a front-page scoop. "Wait, hold up. Alexander who? I know every kid in this town, and I'm drawing a blank here. Spill, Harper. Details." Her voice was sharp, demanding.
Beth swallowed hard, her heart hammering as she realized there was no escaping this. She'd hoped the name would be enough, vague enough to dodge further questions, but Chloe was like a bloodhound, and the group's curiosity was relentless. "He… he wasn't from school," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes fixed on the crumpled Cheetos bag on the table to avoid Clark's stare. "He was… older. Like, maybe college age."
The basement exploded with gasps and shouts, the sudden noise shattering the tension like a glass bottle hitting linoleum. Pete's jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief as he sat up straight, his hands slapping his thighs. "No way! Harper, you kissed a college dude?!" he crowed, his voice loud enough to drown out the stereo. "Miss Straight-A, color-coded-notes Beth? You're out here smooching older guys? What the hell, girl!"
Chloe's mouth hung open, her Diet Coke forgotten as she leaned forward, her eyes practically glowing with shock and glee. "Beth Harper, you dark horse!" she said, her voice a mix of admiration and incredulity. "An older guy? Holy crap, I did not see that coming. You're always so… you know, good. Who is this mystery man? And how did you even meet him?"
Lana's green eyes widened, her perfect lips parting in surprise as she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Beth, that's… wow," she said, her voice soft but tinged with genuine awe. "I mean, an older guy? That's bold. You've gotta tell us more." Her smile was kind.
Sarah from the Torch, perched on a beanbag, let out a high-pitched squeal, clapping her hands. "Oh my God, Beth, you're living a secret life! Was he hot? Please tell me he was hot!" Her enthusiasm seemed infectious, and the football players, Jake and Tyler, chuckled, nudging each other as they leaned in.
Beth's face was on fire, her cheeks burning as she shrank into the beanbag, wishing she could disappear into the lumpy fabric. She'd always been the "boring" one—at least, that's what she knew some of them thought, even if they'd never say it out loud. And now, here she was, dropping a bombshell that had the whole room buzzing. She risked a glance at Clark, and her stomach lurched. He was silent, his jaw tight, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He wasn't laughing, wasn't teasing like the others—just watching, his expression a mix of curiosity and something darker, something that looked almost like… jealousy? No, that couldn't be right. Clark was hung up on Lana, not her. But the way he was staring, his fingers gripping the beer can like it was an anchor, made her heart skip in a way she didn't want to analyze.
"Guys, it's not a big deal," Beth said, her voice shaky as she tried to deflect, her hands twisting in her lap. "It was just one kiss, okay? A year ago. I don't even think about it anymore." That was a lie—the memory was vivid, a reckless moment that had left her reeling, but she wasn't about to admit that in front of everyone. Sometimes alone in her room at night, when the house was quiet, her thoughts often drifted back to that kiss, her hand slipping beneath the covers, chasing the warmth of that fleeting moment in a way that left her breathless and guilty "Can we move on? Like, spin the bottle or something?"
"No way, Harper!" Pete said, his grin relentless as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You don't get to drop 'older guy' and then clam up. What did he look like? Was he, like, some tattooed frat bro? Or a preppy college kid with a trust fund? Give us something!"
Chloe nodded, her eyes gleaming with that reporter's hunger. "Yeah, Beth, you're not wiggling out of this. Physical description, now. Was he tall? Short? Ripped? Give us the visuals." She pulled her notebook from her back pocket, flipping it open like she was about to take notes for a Torch exposé, her pen poised dramatically.
Beth groaned, covering her face with her hands for a moment, the heat in her cheeks unbearable. "Fine, fine," she said, her voice muffled before she lowered her hands, her eyes darting around the circle, avoiding Clark's stare. "He was… tall, I guess. Kinda lean, but, like, strong. And he had… no hair. Like, his head was shaved. Or maybe he was bald? I couldn't tell, okay? I wasn't exactly studying his scalp." She tried to keep her tone light, but the words came out rushed, embarrassed, and the room erupted again.
"Bald?!" Pete practically shouted, his laughter booming as he clutched his stomach. "Beth, you kissed a bald dude?! Like, Oh my God, I can't breathe!" He flopped back onto the rug, his shoulders shaking as he gasped for air.
Chloe's eyes widened even further, her mouth forming a perfect O. "Bald? Or shaved? Beth, was this guy, like, old old? Or just, like, prematurely bald? I need context before I call the police!" Her voice was a mix of shock and delight.
"No, he wasn't old!" Beth snapped, her voice sharper than she intended, her embarrassment bubbling over. "He was, like, twenty, twenty-one, max. It wasn't like he was some creepy old man, okay? Just… a good looking guy with no hair. It happens!" She crossed her arms, her face burning as she tried to glare at Pete, but his laughter was infectious, and she felt her lips twitch despite herself.
Lana tilted her head, her expression softening, but her eyes still sparkled with curiosity. "Okay, but, Beth, where did you even meet a guy like that?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing. "I mean, a college guy with a shaved head? That's not exactly Smallville's usual crowd." Her tone was kind, but Beth sensed a hint of disbelief.
Beth's stomach twisted, her reluctance growing as the group pressed for more. She could feel Clark's silence like a physical weight, his eyes still on her, his expression unreadable but tense. The others were loud, chaotic, their voices overlapping with questions and laughter, but Clark's quiet was louder, heavier, and it made her want to crawl out of her skin. "It was… at a party," she said finally, her voice low, hesitant. "Just some event I went to. Not a big deal."
Chloe's head snapped up "A party? What kind of party? Beth, you're killing me with these half-answers. Was it, like, a rave? A frat thing? Spill!" Her voice was relentless.
Beth sighed, her shoulders slumping as she realized there was no escaping Chloe's interrogation. "It was a gala, okay?" she said, her voice tight with resignation. "My dad's company had this fancy event last summer. Black tie, all that. I got dragged along because he wanted me to 'network' or whatever. And… yeah, that's where it happened." She kept her eyes on the table, anything to avoid the group's stares—and Clark's most of all.
Clark's voice sliced through the basement's raucous hum, low and edged with a weight that made the air feel heavier. "Wait," he said, his tone taut, deliberate. His blue eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing, as he leaned forward, the sparkly pink dress creaking absurdly around his broad shoulders. "Your dad works at LuthorCorp." The words hung there, slow and heavy, his gaze locked on Beth's, unyielding. "So… you're saying this was a LuthorCorp gala?" His voice dipped, the question carrying an undercurrent of something raw that Beth interpreted as disbelief, or something darker.
Beth's breath caught in her throat, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her eyes snapped to his, and she saw it—the exact moment the pieces seemed to click into place for him. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching faintly under his tanned skin, his expression shifting from curiosity to something harder, more jagged. The fairy lights cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting what looked like a storm in his eyes, and for a split second, Beth felt like she was drowning in his gaze, pinned by a mix of hurt and something she couldn't name—Anger? Betrayal? The possibility sent a shiver down her spine, her pulse racing.
She opened her mouth to deflect, to toss out a quick laugh or a vague excuse to steer the conversation away, but the words died on her lips, her voice trapped by the weight of Clark's stare. Her hands twisted in the pleats of her black dress, the lace trim catching the light as her fingers betrayed her nerves, trembling slightly. She felt exposed, raw, like the basement's warm glow had turned into a spotlight, illuminating every secret she'd tried to bury. The memory of their kiss —his lips hesitant but warm, his hands gripping her waist with a strength that left faint bruises—flashed through her mind, unbidden, and she wondered if he was thinking of it too, if he was questioning her claim that he wasn't her first.
Before she could find her voice, Chloe's gasp cut through the tension like a lightning bolt. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as her mouth dropped open, a mix of shock and glee spreading across her face. "Oh my God," she breathed, her voice rising to a near-shriek that shattered the room's fragile silence. She slammed her hand on the coffee table, the impact sending empty cans and a crumpled Cheetos bag skittering across the surface, the clatter echoing in the charged air. "Beth… you… you kissed Alexander? As in Lex Luthor?!" The name exploded from her lips like a grenade, and the basement erupted into chaos, gasps and shouts overlapping in a cacophony that stopped the indie rock pulsing from the stereo.
The room seemed to tilt, the fairy lights blurring as Beth's heart pounded so loud she was sure everyone could hear it. Pete's jaw dropped, his eyes bugging out as he lurched forward from his sprawl on the rug, his navy boxers peeking out from his half-zipped jeans. "Lex Luthor?!" he bellowed, his voice a mix of disbelief and wild amusement, his hands gesturing wildly. "The bald billionaire dude? Harper, you're telling me you locked lips with Lex Luthor at a freaking gala?!" His laughter boomed, but there was a hint of awe in it, like he was seeing Beth—practical, studious Beth—in a whole new light.
Lana's hands flew to her mouth, her green eyes wide with a mix of shock and giddy excitement, her glossy hair catching the light as she leaned forward, her chair creaking. "Beth, no way!" she gasped, her voice high and breathless, her hands clapping together in a burst of enthusiasm. "Lex Luthor? That's… oh my God, that's insane!" Her smile was radiant, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or a hint of envy, as if Beth's secret had momentarily upstaged her untouchable charm. "He's, like, famous. And… kind of intense, right? In a hot, dangerous way?" Her giggle was light, but it carried a teasing edge, and the group's laughter swelled, feeding off her energy.
Sarah from the Torch let out a high-pitched squeal, practically bouncing on her beanbag, her cheeks flushed as she fanned herself dramatically. "Beth, you're living a movie! Lex Luthor? The guy with the mansion and the sports cars? Was he a good kisser? Please tell me he was a good kisser!" Her voice was a rapid-fire barrage, and the football players, Jake and Tyler, joined in, their chuckles low and conspiratorial as they nudged each other.
Beth wanted to melt into the beanbag, her face burning as she hugged her knees to her chest, the black dress suddenly feeling too tight, too revealing under the group's relentless scrutiny. She'd always been the "boring" one, the girl with the color-coded notes and the predictable routine, the one nobody expected to have a wild side. And now, here she was, the center of a gossip storm that could fuel Smallville High for weeks.
Her eyes flicked to Clark, desperate for an anchor, but his silence was a physical weight, heavier than the group's chaos. He hadn't moved, hadn't laughed, hadn't joined in the teasing. His blue eyes were locked on her, dark and stormy, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle twitch.
"Guys, it's not what you think!" Beth said, her voice cracking as she tried to wrest control back from the chaos, her hands raised in a futile attempt to quiet the room. "It was one kiss, okay? One stupid, impulsive kiss a year ago. It didn't mean anything!" Her words were desperate, but the group was too far gone, their excitement a wildfire she couldn't contain.
Chloe was practically vibrating, her notebook abandoned as she leaned forward, her eyes blazing with journalistic fervor. "Beth, this is huge! Lex Luthor? The guy who's basically can buy Smallville's or literally the fucking world? He's, like, in his twenties, filthy rich, and—let's be real—kinda notorious. How did this even happen? Were you dancing? Was it, like, a romantic moment under the chandeliers? I need the full story for the Torch!" Her voice was relentless.
Pete was still laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. "Man, Harper, I thought you were all about textbooks and curfews. And you're out here locking lips with Lex freaking Luthor? Respect, girl, but also—what?!" He clapped his hands, his grin wide enough to split his face. "Did he pull up in a Porsche? Was there, like, champagne and caviar involved?"
Lana's smile softened, but her eyes still gleamed with curiosity, a playful edge in her expression. "Okay, guys, enough," she said, waving off the others with a laugh before leaning closer to Beth, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But seriously, Beth, how was it? I mean… Lex Luthor? He's got that whole intense, mysterious vibe. Was it, like, wild?" Her tone was teasing, laced with genuine intrigue, but there was something else in her gaze—a flicker of doubt that hit Beth like a cold splash of water.
In that moment, Beth realized Lana didn't believe her. She thought Beth was spinning some elaborate tale, and the disbelief stung. Beth wasn't lying, but the assumption made her blood simmer, a quiet anger flaring in her chest. Lana wasn't being cruel, just… skeptical, as if the idea of Beth catching Lex Luthor's attention was so far-fetched it bordered on absurd.
Lana tilted her head, her smile turning almost apologetic, but her curiosity won out. "I just… I can't wrap my head around how this happened," she said, her voice light but probing, as if she was waiting for Beth to trip over her own story. "I mean, you and Lex Luthor? It's kind of hard to picture, you know?" Her words weren't meant to cut, but they did, and Beth felt the weight of Lana's doubt like a challenge, daring her to prove she wasn't making it all up.
Beth's eyes flicked to Clark, desperate for an anchor, but he was still silent, his expression a storm of emotions she couldn't untangle. His jaw was clenched, his blue eyes dark and intense, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time. The pink dress made him look ridiculous, but the tension in his posture was anything but funny. He hadn't said a word since his interruption, and the weight of his silence was suffocating. Beth's heart twisted, her mind racing with questions she couldn't ask. Was he upset because she'd kissed Lex? Or because she hadn't told him?
Beth sat rigid on the beanbag, her black dress catching the light. Their questions—Chloe's relentless probing, Pete's booming laughter, Lana's gentle but disbelieving curiosity—swirled around her like a storm, each one landing like a pinprick to her pride. They weren't just curious; they were doubting her. Not just Lana, but all of them, except Clark, whose stormy silence was its own kind of weight. Their excitement seemed to stem from the fact that Beth never lied, so there was a chance it was true—but the barrage of questions, the wide-eyed disbelief, it all betrayed their real thoughts. Did they really think she wasn't interesting enough for Lex Luthor? For any guy who was handsome, popular, powerful?
The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, a sharp twist of anger and hurt that made her breath hitch. She wasn't the girl who got noticed by someone like Lex—practical, studious Beth Harper, with her color-coded notes and predictable routines. To them, she was the dependable friend, the one who blended into the background, not the kind of girl who'd turn heads at a gala, who'd catch the eye of a billionaire with a shaved head and a dangerous smile. Their doubt stung, not because they were cruel, but because it echoed her own insecurities, the voice in her head that whispered she'd never be enough. But something shifted inside her, a spark of defiance flaring to life, fueled by the memory of that night a year ago.
Oh hell no.
She wasn't going to let them reduce her to a footnote in their small-town narrative. Not tonight. Not when she'd felt so alive, so powerful, that night at the gala—a night when she'd been someone else, someone bold and unafraid, someone who'd flirted shamelessly and felt the thrill of being seen.
Beth straightened, her shoulders squaring as a surge of defiance coursed through her, the same courage that had flared in her a year ago at that LuthorCorp gala. Back then, she'd stepped into that glittering ballroom feeling beautiful, charming, sensual—not just Beth Harper, the good girl, but a version of herself she'd never dared to unleash before. Lex had noticed her, his sharp eyes catching hers across the room, and for once, she hadn't shrunk from the attention. She'd flirted, brazen and unapologetic, her words sharp and teasing, her smile daring him to keep up. It had been a moment of power, a glimpse of a Beth who could command a room, who could make a man like Lex Luthor stop and stare. That Beth had vanished after that night, buried under routine and self-doubt, but tonight, surrounded by her friends' skepticism, she felt that spark flicker back to life. She wasn't just going to play their game—she was going to deal the cards, lay it all bare, and show them exactly who she'd been that night, even if just for a moment.
She took a deep breath, her fingers loosening their death grip on the Sprite can, and set it on the coffee table with a deliberate clink. The room quieted, sensing the shift in her, their laughter fading as they leaned forward, eyes locked on her. "Alright," she said, her voice steady now, laced with a quiet fire that made even Chloe pause, her pen hovering over her notebook. "You want the story? I'll give you the damn story." Her brown eyes flicked around the circle, lingering on Lana's curious, slightly disbelieving smile, on Pete's wide grin, on Clark's tense, unreadable stare. She leaned forward, her black dress catching the fairy lights, the lace trim shimmering as she owned the moment. "Alright, buckle up, because this story's not what you're expecting… I didn't even know who he was at first, and trust me, that only made it crazier."
Her words hung in the air, a promise and a challenge, and the basement seemed to hold its breath. Beth's heart pounded, but it wasn't just nerves now—it was anticipation, a thrill that felt like stepping onto a stage. She could feel that night a year ago rushing back, vivid and electric, the memory of chandeliers and champagne flutes, of her heels clicking on marble, of Lex's voice low and smooth in her ear. She closed her eyes for a split second, letting the flashback pull her under, ready to spill every detail and prove them wrong.