From that day on, Makena didn't see Clark again. In fact, it was safe to say that she avoided him.

Every time she thought she caught sight of his tall figure in the halls or near the station they once frequented, she turned the other way.

Her heart would race, her breath would quicken, and something inside her would twist painfully.

A month passed like that.

Makena sighed in frustration one evening, her fingers gripping the edge of her desk.

The more she avoided Clark, the worse it became.

Her body felt like it was rebelling against her—restless, heated, and begging for something she couldn't admit aloud.

There was a gnawing ache deep within her, a need that grew stronger by the day until it clouded even her thoughts.

"Hi, honey. When are you coming back? I miss you," Makena said into her phone, forcing a smile as she spoke to her fiancé over a video call.

She laughed at his stories, nodded when he spoke about work, and said all the right words.

But when the call ended, her smile faded almost instantly.

It all felt so empty.

So boring.

Their conversations lacked warmth. Their connection—once full of excitement—had grown dull and distant.

It wasn't his fault, she told herself. He was away for work. He was trying.

But still, she felt like she was dying a little more each day waiting for him.

He'd be back in a year. They'd get married. That was the plan.

But Makena knew she didn't have a year. Not like this.

She closed her eyes, trying to breathe away the heat and frustration that burned under her skin.

After another sleepless night, she made her decision.

Her hands trembled slightly as she typed the message, but she didn't stop.

"Clark, come to this address at 7 o'clock. We have something to talk about."

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a long moment. Then, with a deep breath, she pressed it.

The message was sent.

Makena stared at the screen, heart pounding, the weight of her choice sinking in.

She pressed her hands to her temples and whispered to herself, almost in disbelief.

"I can't believe I'm doing this…"

But she knew there was no turning back now.

***

Makena spent the entire afternoon restless. She couldn't focus on anything for more than a few minutes.

Every time she checked the clock, time seemed to crawl slower, taunting her.

She moved between the kitchen and the living room, fussing over the smallest details—polishing the silverware, adjusting the candles, checking the oven temperature even when she knew everything was perfect.

Anything to distract herself from the storm building inside.

When the clock finally struck seven, her pulse quickened.

A sharp knock echoed through the apartment.

She froze. For a moment, she almost considered not answering.

But she forced herself to move, smoothing her black dress as she went to the door.

Clark stood there, composed and steady, his presence immediately grounding the room.

His dark uniform contrasted sharply with the warm candlelight behind her, and the briefcase in his hand told her that, at least in his mind, this was still supposed to be business.

"Good evening, Makena," he said with that same polite calm she'd always admired—and sometimes resented.

"Good evening, Clark." Her voice was softer than she expected.

He stepped inside, setting the briefcase neatly on the table. "I brought the files we discussed. We can begin whenever you're ready."

Makena hesitated, then shook her head. "Let's not start just yet. I made dinner. You can't work on an empty stomach."

Clark studied her for a second before nodding. "Of course."

The two of them sat at the table.

The air between them was filled with the faint aroma of roasted turkey and wine.

They ate in near silence, the sound of utensils and glasses the only noise breaking the tension.

Every so often, their eyes met across the table—briefly, awkwardly, as if they were both afraid of what the other might see.

After a few sips of wine, Makena felt her nerves easing. Her laughter returned, fragile at first but real.

She talked about work, about how strange the world had felt lately, how difficult it was to keep up appearances.

Clark listened quietly, his expression softening.

Then she leaned back, looking at him differently this time.

"Tell me something, Clark," she said, swirling the wine in her glass. "Why aren't you like most men?"

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" She hesitated. "You don't look at me the way other men do. You never have. It's like nothing about me even tempts you."

Her tone wasn't teasing—it was searching, almost vulnerable.

Clark set his glass down. "You have a fiancé, Makena," he said gently. "That's reason enough."

Her lips curved into a faint, almost bitter smile. "You always know the right thing to say, don't you?"

"I just try to do the right thing," he replied.

Makena stood, pacing a little. Her voice grew quieter. "Do you know how long it's been since I felt wanted, Clark? Since I felt seen?"

He didn't answer immediately. His gaze followed her as she walked to the window, her silhouette framed by the city lights outside.

"You're engaged to a good man," he said finally. "He's lucky. And he'll be home soon."

Makena laughed softly, though her eyes glistened. "A year isn't soon. It feels like forever."

She turned back to face him. There was no anger in her expression now—only exhaustion, longing, and something dangerously close to surrender.

"Clark," she whispered.

He stood too, his every instinct telling him to keep his distance—but his feet moved anyway, carrying him a step closer.

He needed to do this to complete the quest anyways.

The air between them seemed to hum.

For a long moment, they simply stood there—two people caught between what they wanted and what they shouldn't.

Neither spoke, yet everything was understood.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the candlelight flickering, the night holding its breath.

And in that suspended silence, both of them knew that whatever happened next would change everything.

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