Clark allows the distinct ringtone he had designated to your Caller ID to ring all of two seconds before he fishes it from the top drawer at his desk. His chest warms your name at the top of the screen, a dopey smile already smearing across his lips as he accepts the call without any further hesitation. 

His smile drops instantaneously.

Aside from the obvious indicator of your breath being laboured, Clark was at a keen advantage with the ability to hear your tachy heart rate and from this, he is thrown into ice cold waters of dread at the sound of it. 

He stands immediately, his desk taking the hit with the items jittering with the force in which he took to get into a standing position. A few sets of eyes land on him over the brim of their own computers, newspapers or, even glasses as they observe the commotion of Clark sandwich his cellphone between his shoulder and his ear and just…walk out of work. 

The smaller circle, that of Jimmy Olsen, Lois Lane and Cat Grant—sometimes Steve Lombard on a good day—didn’t even bat an eyelid when Clark Kent leaves the Daily Planet bullpen in a state of urgency. They all share a similar look, you know, the ‘Clark’s wife’ one with zero negative connotations behind it.

Lois Lane, of all people, was two steps ahead of the game and had been well aware that Clark abandoning his station at his journalistic post was not in vain. There was a lot at stake with his secret identity, and with his wife being the most central part of his nervous system; she never went against the grain to question his unwavering devotion to his significant other.

Clark makes the split decision to take the elevator. The skies above Metropolis are clearer, and therefore he’d risk being spotted if he took flight. “Honey, talk to me.” he pleads, thinking the worst.

“I’m sorry—shit, I’m sorry, Clark.” you waffle which doesn’t ease any anxieties that Clark was experiencing. Your heart rate increases as you pause, “I just I need you to save me.”

(Your choice of wording would be questioned much later.)

Clark almost begins to jump within the elevator to make it reach the ground floor faster at that statement. His mind plucks the worst case scenario in which you are calling to be—quote, unquote—saved. He imagines a dark, dingy room with cable ties and duct tape. He imagines your wrists chafing against the ties as you struggle out of them, the room dark so you’re unable to find your bearings. 

Your husband concludes in that moment that you’ve been discovered by an enemy of Superman; and you’re now bait to coax him out from his place of hiding. 

What you say next blows all those harrowing theories out of the water. 

“I need you to parallel park for me.” The elevator doors ping open and Clark almost misses the opportunity to step out. “…Clark? I swear, parallel parking was part of my test—which I’ve obviously passed—but, everyone is staring at me trying to get into this stupid spot. It’s so obvious the car in front can move up a bit and then I wouldn’t—oh my god. People are congregating around my car.” 

OK. Not what he had envisioned the outcome of your desperate plea; but he’d take it over the other any day.

“Just…Just stay where you are.” Clark mumbles, avoiding any use of chastising for the minor heart attack you gave him. He rounds the Daily Planet building and steps into the alleyway. 

(He decides he’s flying. Clear skies or not.) 

You narrow your eyes, “Where do you think I’m going to go?” 

“Honey.” Clark warns you over your tone. “I’ll be there in a moment, which street are you on?”  “Cornelius Street.” 

Clark flies to Cornelius Street in record-breaking time. Wishful thinking that his flight in the lovely shade of blue in the skies had gone unnoticed, he lands in an alleyway where he can already hear the commotion coming from disgruntled drivers on the road. Additional to this, he can hear your thumping heart, and comes to the understanding that you’ve completely frozen behind the wheel without any further efforts to park your car and end the frenzy happening on the street. 

He steps out into the growing crowd on the sidewalk, a head taller than most and spots your car jutting awkwardly out into the middle of the road. Clark’s strides are long, weaving through the onlookers until he reaches the driver’s side of the vehicle. 

He gives a wave to the driver hanging out of the window of his car, “Please calm down, sir.” he insists loudly over the beeping of horns. Clark then takes the opportunity to bend at the waist and peek into the car window, where his eyes soften at your frazzled expression, “Hi, sweetheart. Can you get out so I can handle this?” 

“Yup.” you respond. Clark opens the door for you and you step out onto the road with your head hanging from shame. 

“Don’t worry about it, honey.” Clark coos, wasting little time to give your hip a reassuring squeeze before he dips his body into your car, legs almost up to his chin before he adjusts the seat to match his height. He leaves the door open, “Parallel parking is the most difficult one.” 

You scoff, “I can do it.” 

Clark smirks and steers the wheel with one hand—the other planted around the headrest of the passenger seat. “I don’t doubt it.” (He did. You’ve failed every parallel parking attempt with him in the car.) 

In one swift action, Clark manages to swerve your car into the tight spot and the build up of traffic behind you eases past once more. There had been a handful of mortifying experiences in your life, but this had to be up there in the top five—at least. 

Your husband turns off the engine and it gives a little cough—something that you choose to ignore—when it cuts out. He exits the vehicle with a proud look on his face, which tells you he’s got a mouthful of smart comments that he’s withholding to save you the pain of further embarrassment. 

Instead, he dips his head and presses his smiling lips against yours in a sweet kiss. 

“My hero.” you drawl, tone laced with sarcasm. 

Clark hums, “I’m happy to have saved you.” he presses a fleeting kiss to your cheek and then decides to leave you on a playful note. He was meant to be at work after all. “We’ll look online for some driving lessons for you tonight.” he informs with chaste kiss to avoid your fiery temper flaring.