tricia

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence  than all of these other assholes  kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos. 

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama. 

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag: 

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! 

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal. 

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity. 

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again. 

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor. 

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries. 

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all  soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

.

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser. 

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano. 

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. 

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away. 

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice. 

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped. 

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now. 

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern. 

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys. 

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes. 

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

.

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much. 

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too. 

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the  bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it  If he stays.