darn it, i can be such a jerk sometimes

You at his stove. Him passing the salt before you asked. Flour on his shirt from when you’d accused him of hovering and flicked it at him. Tomato sauce smudged across your cheek after you leaned in to taste from the spoon he held to your lips. 

Clark knew his gaze lingered lately.

Maybe because his apartment started keeping you even after reluctant good-bye's and good-nights: your mug beside his coffee maker, his blanket you stole when you were cold, your stack of books claiming his nightstand with a bossy little, “Trust me, Kent. These are good.”

Somewhere along the way, his favorite part of every day had become waiting for your knock at his door. 

And now, his neighbor's record player crackled through the paper-thin walls. A familiar opening harmonica kicked in as a bright and bold croon followed.

Hey, hey, baby!

You perked up, turning to him with hands clasped to your chest. “Oh, I love this song, Clark!”

He grinned. Of course he knew that! He knew everything you loved with your whole heart.

Before he could answer, you traded the wooden spoon in his grasp for yours and tugged him closer.

“C'mon! Dance with me! I need the practice!”

Clark didn't hesitate. One broad palm settled low on your waist, fingers splayed as he drew you in. The other laced tighter through yours. Your bodies pressed flush from the start, and he couldn't help but tease you.

"'Kay, but careful," he spun you toward the dining table. "Can’t risk burning Metropolis’s star actress before her big audition tomorrow."

Your laugh warmed him clear through as you slid over the hardwood in imperfect sync, singing under your breath while the kitchen gathered around you in all its mess: flour streaked across his shirt, sauce bubbling too hot on the stove, a dusting of parmesan on the counter, your script abandoned dangerously close to a smear of olive oil.

I said, "That’s the kind of gal I’d like to meet."

Your hip brushed against his thigh on the turn, then again, cheekily. Clark’s hand hand dared to slid lower. Flour dusted from his shirt onto yours as your breasts pressed against him after each twirl and twist.

"She’s so pretty," Clark sang again, eyes holding yours as the words no longer felt borrowed. "Lord, she’s fine."

Your lips pressed together, and you ducked your face into his chest bashfully before he could see too much of what all of this did to you.

But Clark felt it.

Your fingers curled tighter around his bicep.

Your breath caught against the cotton of his shirt.

Clark’s thumb traced a slow circle over your spine as he dipped his head close enough to catch the scent of your shampoo beneath garlic and basil.

"I’m gonna make her mine, all mine," he sang against your hair.

He heard your heartbeat jump instantly, and so did his.

Finally, you looked up at him, face illuminated in the golden kitchen light.

"All mine," you mouthed back, squeezing his hand.

Traces of city noise, music, the sauce, your script all faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears.

All he saw was his best friend. His favorite person.

The one who had been with him through every bad day, every small victory, every lonely stretch of life he'd never quite knew how to fill.

The woman he wanted beside him for every tomorrow he could imagine.

One flour-dusted hand rose to your cheek, thumb swiping gently at the tomato sauce there, but neither pulled away after it was gone.

Gosh, you were so close.

Close enough to notice the way your head tipped just so with a half-lidded gaze fixed on his lips.

Close enough that if he ducked his head just a tad lower—

I wanna know if you’ll be my—

A violent hiss erupted behind him, and you both startled apart gaspin.

“Shit, Clark! Our dinner!” you yelped, slipping from his embrace to point.

Clark groaned, lunging to cut off the stove while you scrambled for a dish towel, wiping at the spill with shaky hands and laughing like you hadn’t just almost kissed him in the middle of his ruined kitchen.

The pasta was spared, the kitchen still stood, the actress unscathed. And whatever almost happened between you was merely...delayed.

Because when Clark looked back at you, still smiling at him like he hung the moon and eyes lingering on his lips.

—my girl. Hey, hey, baby!

Only one thought remained.

Soon.

He was going to ask you to choose him differently.

I'm gonna make her mine, all mine.

.

.