#height difference though just...wonderful

“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”

He’s startled by your voice, which puzzles you, because he’s been watching you all this time, and he watched you as you tore your cookie in half. Color rises in the tip of his ears, and the sight is slightly endearing for a man his height and his stature.

“Thanks, um, thank you.” His voice isn’t very deep but it’s still deeply masculine, and it sounds like you would expect melted milk chocolate to sound like.

His hand is big and his arm is long as it stretches towards you, meeting your own hand halfway. He’s careful not to accidentally touch you, and you appreciate it. 

“It’s vanilla chocolate chip cookie,” you tell him. “But I may have had a heavy hand with the vanilla extract, because it’s all I can smell and taste, but I don’t mind. I love vanilla.”

Intellectually, rationally, you know you’re rambling, the same way you always do when you’re talking about your baking, and you know not everyone likes it when you do that, and you know you should stop and apologize but Clark’s watching you again, and listening patiently, half cookie still uneaten in his fingers, as if he’s focusing all of his attention on you, like what you say matters that much to him, and he has a gentle smile on his face that reminds you of your cinnamon roll dough. 

“It’s also very sweet, but not overly so,” you continue. “The chocolate is a little bitter though, so I find that it works well to balance the flavor, even if I personally don’t really like bitter chocolate, but that chocolate was the only one I could find in the store that was in my price range and wasn’t purely sugar masquerading as chocolate, so I got it. I also didn’t think it would be quite bitter, because fifty five percent cacao chocolate didn’t seem that dark to me. But maybe I just have a really bad sweet tooth.”

His eyes are smiling. You’d never understood when people said that eyes can smile but looking at him now, you suddenly get it. If you hid his mouth, his eyes still tell you that he’s smiling. 

“I could smell the vanilla from my desk,” he admitted. 

“Oh was it bothering you? I didn’t think it would be so potent.”

“No, no. It smelled really good, actually.” He finally takes a bite. “And it tastes just as good. You made them, then? They look store-bought. And uh, that’s a compliment. I don’t mean to say they look fake just… really nice.”

You nodded, pride blooming in my chest until it felt like there is no space left for my breathing. “Yes, I like to bake. I wanted to be a baker, but I like writing more.”

“Lucky for me,” he says, and you tilt your head to the side, trying to figure out what he meant by it. But you didn’t really care all that much, because you were more interested in the fact that you found someone who seemed receptive to your cookie rambling. 

“This is actually my sixth recipe. I’m trying to recreate the taste of bakery style cookies without using as much butter. Butter’s one of those ingredients that seem cheap enough until you have to buy it in bulk for your recipes, and then using two sticks of butter for one batch of cookies starts to feel like waste.”

“How much butter is in this cookie?”

“I used one stick of butter for the whole recipe, which yielded about ten cookies, so that’s one-hundred and thirteen grams of butter divided by ten, which is eleven point three grams per cookie, and half of a cookie is around five point… five grams?”

“Five point sixty-five,” he corrects, and you nod.

“Numbers have never been my strongest suite. Unfortunately, baking is a lot of numbers.”

“You’re doing great so far,” he says. “Better than great, I would say.”

“I can bring you cookies tomorrow. I didn’t think I would be sharing today so I only brought one with me, but I still have leftovers.”

And you do. It’s still early enough that the office hasn’t filled yet. It’s only him and you and a couple other reporters by the coffee machine. You bring him five cookies in a white box, the same you get in bakeries, and you tied a pink bow on top. you give him the cookies and he surprises you by handing you a tall cup of coffee in return. It doesn’t look like it’s from the breakroom. It’s an actual travel mug, the kind that costs a lot. 

“I don’t like coffee,” you tell him, not wanting to mislead him. It’s only a second later that you realize that you were probably being rude, because he’s obviously gone through a lot of trouble for you. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it. Really.”

“It’s not coffee,” he replies, like he was expecting you to say that, and he winks at you. “It’s hot chocolate, and not the bitter kind of chocolate, but not the sugar masquerading as chocolate either.”

You blink, a little taken aback at having your own words thrown at me. “You listened.”

“I did. I also added marshmallows, but that part was a gamble. I didn’t know if you liked them.”

“I’ve never had marshmallow in hot chocolate. I don’t usually drink hot chocolate, actually. I find it too bitter. I know, I have the palate of a kid but I like sweet things.”

“Take a sip,” he says. You do. You gingerly tip your head back, worried you’ll burn your tongue — you hate when it happens – but the drink is the perfect temperature. 

“It’s really good,” you say. You blink again. Like really good. It’s sweet and warm and it tastes like a soft hug from within. “Where did you get it? I’ve never bought a hot chocolate that tasted like this.”

He smiles sheepishly, and you’re struck by how it changes his face wonderfully, like his face was born in a sheepish smile, the kind that smooths out his edges and makes him look like a dream. “I made it. It’s my Ma’s recipe.”

“Thank you. This is the best drink I’ve ever had.”

“Really?”

You nod. “I don’t say things unless I really mean them.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”

He picks up the box and with a wave, he thanks you for them again. You raise your mug in reply. His eyes crinkle. 

When you first started out your internship at the Daily Planet, you didn’t know anyone there. 

Then, Lois Lane took one look at you and she complimented your pink headphones – the noise-cancelling one that everyone assumes is just for listening to music during work. Lois Lane was one of those people you couldn’t help but admire. Not only was she smart and talented and a wickedly good journalist. Sometimes you openly stare at her, forgetting you didn’t like staringt too much at people, but you couldn’t help it. Her hair was long and soft and curled over her shoulders and fell all the way to her chest in a gentle swoop.

So you baked her a cake the next day as a thank you. You were eager and hopeful and you tripped over your own feet trying to give it to her because you really wanted her to like you and you wanted her to feel the same way she made you feel when she complimented your headphones.

She bought you lunch as a thank you. So you baked her cookies the next day as a thank you. So she bought you lunch again, and you baked her muffins the next day, thinking that maybe this is what you guys did. It became — routine. Lunch with her, and you bring sweets for dessert. 

“This has to stop,” she said one day. 

“You don’t like my baking?”

“I do, but you need to stop baking me things every time I try to thank you for baking me something. The cycle will never end otherwise.”

“Is that what it was? I thought you bought lunch and I brought dessert. Forgive me if I misunderstood. I’ll stop bringing treats.”

You guys didn’t do it long enough to feel like it was a routine set in your schedule, so why did it feel so painful? You liked your routine, and you liked her company. You thought she was your friend, but she was only buying you lunch because she felt obligated to. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she says. “I like this too, a lot, actually.”

So you kept having lunch together every Tuesday and Thursday, in that cute little bakery down the street.

You stay behind again. You didn’t mean to lose track of time like this. You didn’t see time fly by, the way you never do because you’d been in the zone, writing your first draft for your article about [topic]. You like writing because, aside from baking, it’s the only thing that can completely shut your mind off. And when you get in the zone like that, the rest of the world disappears. You disappear. Your desires, your hunger, your exhaustion, your feelings, they all disappear. Only words mattered. 

You don’t even notice when a bottle of water is put in front of you. You don’t even notice when Lois tells you good bye and wishes you good luck, but that’s also because you had your noise-cancelling headphones on. (You hope she doesn’t think you’re rude, because you really didn’t mean to ignore her.)

It’s only when your head starts pounding right behind your eyes that you finally come to. Your eyes had been burning and you didn’t notice until the ache turned into a migraine and suddenly you couldn’t look into the screen anymore. You saved your work and instantly shut it off, finally looking at something other than your screen when you look around. 

Clark Kent was still there, in the desk right in front of yours. Removing your headphones feels like waking up from a slumber — underwater. You realize now how painful they were starting to feel, like they were pressing against your skull. 

There are still some whispers around, other people staying behind, hunched over screens and talking about something or another. The whispers are soft and distant but they make your ears feel like they’re vibrating and it’s kind of painful. 

You pinch the space between your eyes with your index and your thumb, eyes closed.

“You okay?” 

Clark’s voice feels like a wave washing off the unwanted sounds in my head. You don’t feel like speaking though, so you just nod. Sometimes, when you lost yourself in something, you forgot basic things like taking breaks or drinking water or even going to the bathroom, and you always think you can handle it until suddenly you’re overstimulated and overwhelmed and everything hurts. 

“You should drink some water,” he offers gently, head nodding towards the water bottle you hadn’t noticed until now. 

He must have put it there. 

Ever since you guys had traded hot chocolate and cookies, there’d been a tentative beginning of friendship. You weren’t an expert in friendships and such, but you could probably wager that you and Clark were becoming friends. You wouldn’t bet your entire life on it, but probably ten bucks. That seemed realistic. 

“Thank you, Clark.”

He smiles the way he always does when you say his name. You were good at recognizing patterns, and you’d noticed that one the third time he smiled right after you said Clark. It brightens up his entire face.

“No problem. You ready to get out of here?”

It’s like he knew how eager you were to leave this place. You just want to go home with your favorite show on your laptop and ordering three large portions of fries, maybe five, with your homemade mayonnaise. You’re starting to feel the hunger after not eating anything for the entire day. 

“Yes.”

You always tell yourself you’re going to start forcing yourself to take breaks every hour or so, but you never do. Or if you do, and you never respect the rules. You always just turn off your alarm and go right back to work, grumpier because you hate being interrupted. 

You hate that you can’t wear your headphones right now, because Metropolis is always louder at night, but your head is still hurting, and you’re almost sure it’s because of the headphone. It’s super old and it feels like your head’s gotten bigger over the years and you’re not talking about the metaphorical kind of big heads, although some people would definitely agree that you have a big head.

Clark is quiet at your side. The elevator ride is uneventful. The moment you step foot outside, your shoulders are up to your ears. 

He asks to make a stop at the pharmacy and when he comes out, he has earplugs in his hand. You stare at him like he’d grown two heads when he hands them to you.

“It’s for you.”

“Me?” 

“I thought they might help.”

They do. You relax instantly the instant the second earplug is in your ear. 

“Thank you,” you say. Your voice is muffled to your ears. 

“Of course,” he replies, but you barely hear him. The earplugs are that good. Clark is that good. 

Next Monday, a marbled chocolate and vanilla cake is waiting for Clark at his desk.

Two months into your internship at the Daily Planet, you are invited to Lois’ birthday. It’s nothing big, nothing fancy. It feels like a birthday party when you were younger. 

You bring her a birthday cake, with three levels, complete with funfetti and whipped cream and frosting. You didn’t really know what to get her as a gift so you figured you couldn’t go wrong with a birthday cake. 

You only know Lois, Jimmy and Clark. You know the rest of the people only by sight, and some you don’t know at all. 

Lois’ apartment is nice. It’s old but quaint and well-lived in. You sit in the three seat couch on the left side, hands on your knees. Clark’s earplugs were in your pocket. You didn’t need to use them but you liked knowing where they were. You also had your headphones in your bag that Lois took from you once you came in. 

Lois had looked overjoyed when she saw you come in with a huge cake box. You had to buy a special one because you’d never had to deliver a cake this big. 

She takes it from your arms, safely putting in the kitchen before turning towards you again. “Can I give you a hug?”

“Okay,” you reply, because this is Lois Lane who was already part of your routine. Lois who smells really nice and is always smiling towards you even though you’re just an intern and she’s already a senior. 

She gives you the hug and it feels like her. Safe, happy, kind. 

“Happy birthday,” you tell her. “I hope you enjoy the cake. I’m not very used to making cakes this big, or decorating.”

“Definitely the best gift ever. Thank you so much, love.”

She stayed behind to greet others and talk to her friends and that’s how you found yourself on her couch. You saw Clark and Jimmy when you came in but you didn’t know whether you should go say hi. You weren’t used to social settings, let alone birthday parties. 

So you just wait. You don’t know necessarily what you’re waiting for, but you wait. 

There is no loud music but there’s an ambient music playing all across Lois’ apartment. And it smells nice, like her, but bigger. There are snacks and drinks on the table and it reminds you of birthday parties when you were a kid. You always thought grown-ups celebrated their birthday parties during the night in clubs, but you’re glad it wasn’t the case for Lois. 

“Hey.”

“Hi Jimmy,” you greet back. You like Jimmy Olsen. He has freckles and when he smiles his entire face lights up and his eyes disappear, and it’s adorable. He looks soft. 

“It’s nice you could join us.”

You nod. “I wasn’t expecting to be invited at all.”

“Why not?”

You look everywhere but his eyes. “I am not exactly the kind of person you want to invite anywhere. I am an excruciatingly picky eater, I don’t like bright lights or loud sounds. I don’t talk a lot and I don’t know how to do small talk. I hate small talk. See? You were trying to make small talk but I took it too seriously, and now you must think I’m a buzz killer.”

“Honest to a fault, yes, but not a buzz killer.”

“People don’t like too much honesty.”

“Lucky for you, we’re not like most people.”

“I am starting to see that,” you reply, trying for a smile. “It’s — nice. Thank you.”

“Of course.” His eyes flicker up to something behind you and then back to you. “Hey, what do you think of Clark Kent?” 

You frown. “Do you want the honest answer or the socially accepted answer?”

“Honest.”

“I think he’s kind. And he has nice blue eyes.” You grab your earplugs from your pocket and gather them in the palm of your hand before showing it to Jimmy. “He bought me earplugs one time, because my headphones hurt and the streets were too nosy. I don’t really wear them all the time, but I like them.”

“Sounds like something he would do.”

“He does that to everyone?”

“Well — yeah. That’s just how he is with everyone. But with you, it’s—” he interrupts himself, and doesn’t continue. 

“Oh.” For some reason you had hoped that it meant something – that you were special. “Yeah. I think he’s really kind and I’m glad to know him. You too, of course. And Lois Lane. And everyone at the office.”

Jimmy smiles at you again. 

He said he wanted honesty, so I tell him: “I really like your smile. You look really cute. Sometimes it makes me want to pinch your cheeks.”

His face goes bright red, and you can’t help but smile. “You look even cuter like this. No wonder all the girls like you.”

That was true. It’s one of the few things you had noticed, even if you were usually too in your head to notice anything happening. But you always saw girls at the office staring at him and whispering to each other how hot he was. 

He coughs and takes a long sip of whatever it is he’s drinking. It’s bubbly. He doesn’t say anything, but he stays red a long time. 

A little while later, Lois Lane says she’s feeling generous and decides to share the cake you made with everyone. “Is that okay with you?” She asked you before she did. 

“It’s your cake. I don’t care what you do with it,” you replied honestly. If sharing it made her happy, then so be it. 

Half the cake’s gone by the time everyone gets a slice. Lois lets you pick the spoon you want from her kitchen drawer, away from everyone else. 

“What did you do to Jimmy earlier?” She asks, leaning against her fridge while you rummage through her utensil drawers looking for the perfect spoon – or fork. You’re not very picky.  

“I didn’t do anything to him.” It’s true. You didn’t even touch him. You just spoke with him. “Lois, your drawer is painfully untidy. You should let me organize it for you one day.”

“Oh hush, my drawers are perfectly fine. Anyway, I saw the two of you and he left you looking like a tomato. Spill.” Her eyes are glinting with excitement and something else you can’t name. Her cheeks are rosy, and she looks lighter than ever. She is truly one of the prettiest people you’ve ever seen. You find a spoon that’s perfect. Small and symmetrical and shiny. You grab it and close the drawer. 

You tell her she’s the prettiest person you’ve ever seen, and she goes red in the face. 

“Is that what you said to Jimmy too?”

“No, I didn’t talk about you. I told him he was really cute.”

She chuckles. “If you keep this up, you’re going to end up with half the office in love with you. Have you complimented anyone else today?”

“No. Just you and Jimmy. And I guess I told Jimmy about Clark, but I didnt really compliment Clark, since I just said what I thought of him.”

“And what do you think of Clark?”

“That he has the kindest and prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

you’re sitting in the living room again, except you’re on the armchair this time because the couch was taken by a couple making out. You thought that kind of thing only happened in college parties, not that you’ve ever gone to one. 

“Your cake is as good as your cookies, but nothing can top them in my opinion.”

You look up to find Clark already smiling at you. His eyes are smiling behind his glasses. He has a plate in his hand but the cake is untouched. 

“You didn’t even taste it,” you tell him trying not to sound annoyed at the blatant lie. 

“This is my third slice actually,” he says with a huff, as if he’s saying, do you really think I can lie? “I just got it before Lois could catch me.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem. Can I sit on the arm rest?”

“Sure.” 

There were no longer free seats. Someone had braved the making out couple and sat next to them and looked like he was trying not to be dragged into it. 

Clark sits and the armchair creaks a little under his weight. 

For some reason, you feel better whenever he’s around you. You always look forward to your discussions even if you never really talk about anything serious or consequential. You talk about baking — well, you talk and he listens. 

“How’d you make the cake?” he asks, as if he could hear my thoughts. “It’s so… juicy.”

His adjective of choice makes you snort, but you explain to him exactly how you made it anyway. The secret’s all in the syrup, you say. And how much vanilla extract you put in. 

“Had a heavy hand with the vanilla again?”

“I had a reason this time. The recipe called for it, this time.”

Your head is buzzing pleasantly by the time you leave the birthday party. You feel mellowed out, like caramel that’s been left in the sun. Not melted completely, just… boneless, if that made sense. 

You take the train because Lois’ apartment is far away from yours and you’re feeling too lazy to walk there, even if you prefer to walk everywhere. Subways are dirty and loud and, quite frankly, a little scary. Especially after sunset. You checked on your phone and saw that Superman has been spotted in the vicinity, so you weren’t as scared as you would be. 

Before moving to Metropolis for college, you didn’t have any particular opinion about Superman. You weren’t into him nor against him. Tall, big and strong men weren’t high on your list of people you liked. Too much masculinity, too much testosterone – that never bode well for anyone, but you could appreciate the fact that he’d saved the world too many times to count.

Until you meet him. You don’t exactly meet him, but you see him, mid-fight, swooping to protect a kitten from being crushed by a falling tree, even the monster was charging at him. You were so stunned you forgot to rush to shelter, until he was suddenly in front of you, kitten in hand, gently guiding you towards safety. 

When you came back home that night, you searched for his name on the Internet. You found yourself on Twitter, clicking on his hashtag. You wanted to see if he’s done it before, if he was known for saving the little guy.

He was. There were countless of videos and pictures and testimonies, all showing how Superman saved their fish or their cat or dog or even their car, or a squirrel.

You wouldn’t exactly say that you were a fan now, but… close. There was something about a 6’4 man who could lift up buildings with one hand saving a tiny kitten that just did things to you. You were too used to heroes sacrificing the little lives for the bigger picture, and while you knew it was impossible to save every single person, it was nice to see that someone tried anyway, rather than just giving up. 

Somehow, even Superman had haters. You frowned as you read the seemingly endless hate tweets. 

You tweeted I saw #Superman save this tiny kitten mid-fight. NOT #Supershit. And you attached a picture of the kitten in your arms. (Kitten that you’d named Supercat and kept.)

It was the only way you found to show your gratitude, even if Superman was too busy to read fan tweets. He was probably busy saving kittens from trees and helping fish find their way back in the water. He probably didn’t even care for the hate, but still, seeing it was upsetting, especially when you knew for a fact he did nothing that warranted it. 

It was stupid, but you’d gone to bed that night with a purring Supercat on your chest and a heart that felt like it grew three sizes inside your chest.

“Hot chocolate coming right up for the lady.”

You look up just in time to see a smiling Clark Kent bending slightly to place a large mug on your desk. He’s not wearing a tie – or a jacket – and it’s unbuttoned at the couple first buttons. He looks – nice. You’re not used to thinking these things about men.

“Me?” you ask, dumbly. “But I didn’t bring you anything.”

“Can’t I be nice without expecting anything in return?”

You frown at that, like the idea had never even graced your mind. “Oh. What’s the occasion, then?”

Today was, as far as you knew, a normal day. You weren’t good at remembering birthdays or special days but you were ninety nine percent sure there was nothing going on today. 

“Nothing. Just wanted to be nice.”

You smiled gratefully, sheepishly, and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug. “Thank you.”

He must think you’re weird, for thinking that kindness had to be transactional, but that’s just how you learnt to see the world. People rarely were nice without a reason. You take a small tentative sip, and you find out the drink is the perfect temperature once again.

He smiles, happy that you’re pleased, and he finally goes to his desk. 

“Are you not cold?” you ask him. It’s the middle of the winter and it’s not the first time you see him come into work with just a shirt, while everyone else was wearing layers upon layers, including yourself. 

His smile turns sheepish. “I forgot to bring my jacket.”

“You must forget it a lot,” you hum. “It’s strange because you never seem to forget other things. Like my hot chocolate or Jimmy and Lois’ coffee.”

He laughs, but it sounds a little strained. “I guess I’m always thinking of others first.”

You hum again. “Maybe I should start bringing you something warm then. Someone has to think of you first too.” 

His smile is – heartbreaking.

You bring him a thick and warm comforter, and Clark seems to love it and he wears it like a cape.

The sight is a little silly and weirdly familiar. 

He keeps it in his desk all the time.

The break room falls silent when you come in. Lois, Jimmy and Clark look up, and only Clark’s looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, and weirdly apologetic. Lois and Jimmy look like cats who each got the canary.

You greet them with a wave of your hand and start filling up your water bottle. 

“We were just thinking, maybe we should go to the movies tonight,” Jimmy says, and it sounds like he’s been rehearsing. Lois is trying to hide a laughing fit and Clark looks absolutely distraught.

“Okay?” you say, a little confused but not wanting to be rude. “Have fun.”

“The four of us,” Jimmy clarifies.

“Oh.” That made sense now. “Sure,” you reply. “What movie?”

They each say a different movie. Maybe they hadn’t decided on that part yet. Honestly, you don’t mind any movie, as long as it’s with your friends. 

Goddamit, you’re actually excited about it. You don’t like feeling excited, you hate it, because it always ends up in disappointment and you know that and still, you can barely stay still on your chair while you’re doing research.

But you keep thinking about – well, Clark, and maybe sitting next to him, if you find a way to discreetly take the seat next to his, and just being with him for a few hours. Of course, you were happy Lois and Jimmy would be there but you weren’t as close to Clark the way you were close with them. 

And you certainly don’t have a crush on them the way you crush on Clark. 

“Ready to go?” Clark asks you when the clock strikes 5pm and everyone else is already starting to get ready to go home. There weren’t any looming deadlines so people felt free to go home on time. 

“Yes,” you reply, almost too excitedly. You’re looking at the space between his eyes and he looks almost excited too, and a little bit flushed. His eyes are fleeing yours, which is weird, because usually it’s only you who does that. “Should we wait for Lois and Jimmy?”

You peek behind him and notice Jimmy still at his desk, and Lois was nowhere to be found.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Clark says. “Jimmy, you ready?”

Then, like he’s been getting ready to say this, Jimmy turns around. “Oh no, I’m sorry. Lois and I have to stay behind, I’m sorry. It’s all last minute. We’re going to try to finish quick and try to catch up, but yeah, just go on without us.”

You blink, feeling a little disappointed. “Oh,” you say. “We can wait, right Clark? I mean we can stay and help them finish quicker.”

They share a look you don’t get. “Oh no, uh, it’s just that it’s something only Lois and I can work on, I’m sorry. But we’ll be quick, we promise.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, trying to smile but feeling a little hurt at the blatant rejection. They were the one who offered to go watch a movie anyway. “Should we just reschedule?”

“I already got us tickets,” Clark says. “I’m not sure they’re refundable.”

“We’ll be quick, I promise,” Jimmy says. 

Maybe it’s the fact that your plan has been thrown off that you’re feeling so upset. 

“Sorry about them,” Clark says as he lets you inside the elevator first, hand on the edge of it so it doesn’t try closing. “But you know how Perry gets with his deadlines…”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” you reply. “I just don’t understand why we have to go first if they’re going to catch up to us anyway.”

“Maybe they just don’t want us to be stuck at work.”

You’re not really convinced. “They said we would all go out to the movies. All of us.”

“Am I really that bad of a company?” Clark says, a self-deprecating smile on his face.

“What?” You ask with a frown. “No, that has nothing to do with that. It’s just that they said we would all go. I was expecting us to go together.”

“You like it when things go as planned,” he says with a soft murmur. 

Your fingers tighten around your bag straps. “Yes. But I feel bad for feeling this way because they obviously can’t help it if they’re held back at work. I’ll deal with it. They’re going to catch up with us soon anyway. And you’re not bad company, sorry for making you think that. I’m just– my brain is weird,” you say the last part lamely, not knowing how to explain it any better.”

He lets you get out of the elevator first again. You don’t notice anything but his warmth next to you and his voice.

“Your brain’s not weird. I think it works perfectly well. You like honesty, you like your routine, and you like things to go as planned. Doesn’t make you weird. Just… a good person to be around.”

You don’t reply, but your fingers are playing with your straps. You don’t dare look at him, because you know he’s looking for your eyes. But that’s too scary. 

“We can reschedule, if you want. I don’t mind, and I’m sure neither will they.”

“But your tickets.”

“They’re just tickets. We can always get more of them.”

“I would like to wait a bit first. How long until our movie starts?”

“About twenty-five minutes.”

“We’ve got time.” 

“Yeah?” 

He’s smiling. 

“Yeah. Maybe they’ll finish quickly and we can still go. The movie theater’s not that far.”

“You’re right. Let’s get something to eat,” he says, pocketing his phone after texting something in it. “My treat.” 

“Okay.” 

Clark Kent is really nice. In all senses of the word. He’s nice to look at, he’s nice to listen to, and he’s plain nice. Although you suppose he’s kinder than he is nice. His goodness seems intrinsic, woven into the lines of his very being. 

“You have a cat?” he asks. “Why is that not surprising?”

“Maybe because I am an introvert and all introverts are known to have cats?”

He chuckles softly, bringing a spoonful of ice cream to his mouth. “Something like that. What’s his name?”

“You’re going to make fun of me,” you say, the tip of your ears red. 

“I would never.”

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Try me. Can’t be as bad as me calling my childhood cat Cat when I was a kid.”

You snort. “That’s not embarrassing, that’s practical, and really cute. But what if you’d had more than one cat?” 

“I probably would have named them Cat 2 or something.”

“My cat’s name is Supercat,” you confess shyly, hiding your face behind your giant brookie. You don’t know why you feel so embarrassed about it. It’s just a cat name, and it’s not like Clark would suddenly know all about your Superman obsession.

Clark has a moment of pause before he reacts. “Because he’s a caped hero?”

You snort. “Oh no, actually. He’s afraid of mice and insects, and of his own shadow.”

“Why Supercat, then?”

“Because Superman gave him to me.”

“You know him?”

“Oh no, I just happened to be at the right time right place. Superman was fighting this huge alien creature and then he saved a kitten, even though he clearly had other bigger things to worry about, and then he saw me, and I was too dumbstruck to move so he guided me to safety and asked me to take care of the kitten while he took care of the monster.”

“You like him,” Clark says, and he sounds a little smug.

“What? No! What makes you say that?” 

You’re red. You know it because your face is burning and you’re trying to look at anything but Clark’s knowning smile. How’d he know?!

“Oh nothing, it’s just the way you completely light up while talking about him, and how I’ve never heard you talk as much in one go.”

“That’s so untrue. You’ve heard me talk longer about baking.”

“Which further proves my point. You only talk a lot when it’s about something – or someone – you really love.”

“Shut up,” you say. “I just… well, he saved my cat, even if I didn’t know he was my cat yet. So of course I like him.”

“Sounds to me like he saved you as well.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you say, even though there’s no maybe about it. He did save you, but it’s him saving the cat that marked you the most. 

“I, uh, I actually know Superman. Kind of. I do interviews with him from time to time.” You knew that because you’ve read every interview there was on Superman, and you’d quickly noticed that it was the same journalist every time. Clark Kent. “I could talk to him about maybe meeting you? I’m sure he’ll want to know that the kitten he saved is safe. And that you’re safe too, of course.”

He looks earnest and shy, and a little awkward, and it’s painfully endearing. 

“I don’t know…” you say, even though your heart is beating faster at the idea of meeting Superman and properly talking to him. “Isn’t it a bad idea to meet your heroes? I’m worried I’ll mess up the memory I have of him.”

And honestly, you couldn’t really think of anyone else when Clark was talking to you, even if it was Superman. 

“No rush,” he says gently. “If you change your mind, the offer’s still standing.” 

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Come on, Lois and Jimmy said they’re already there. Seems like they managed to get away with work.”

You’re sitting next to Clark Kent. 

Lois and Jimmy were bickering and before they knew it the seats around you and Clark were taken, so they had to go to the front.

“This is all your fault, idiot,” you hear Lois tell Jimmy as they shamefully walk to the front of the room.

“Should we join them?” you whisper.

“You’re kidding? I don’t want to lose the best spots for them.”

You giggle. “Okay.” 

“Beside it’s their fault for not quickly deciding on who got to sit next to you.”

“That’s stupid, when there was literally a free seat next to you.”

You look at each other and dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

“Can I walk you home?”

“I live in the opposite direction of your place,” you remind him patiently, even though there are butterflies inside your stomach that are doing a lot of damage to your nerves. 

“I quite frankly don’t care about that. I just want to walk you home. Can I?”

“But why?” 

Why is he acting like romantic leads did in shows? Surely he doesn’t like you. He’s probably just being really kind and thoughtful. But he didn’t offer Lois to walk her home, even though he knew her longer. Maybe it’s because you’re younger and he thinks it’s his responsibility that you get home safe?

“Because… I am not ready to leave you just yet,” he confesses – because that’s what it sounds like. A confession. His voice is lower, softer, yet sure. He’d never sounded this sure. 

“Why?” you ask, dumbly. Or maybe you just wanted him to keep talking about you this way.

“Let me take you home and I’ll tell you,” he replies. “Maybe.” 

It’s only because you’re so curious that you say yes. No other reason. 

And maybe because his face lights up like you’d just given him the Pulitzer prize. 

The walk home is quiet, a little awkward, but it feels – nice, good, safe. Just like Clark Kent. 

He instinctively takes the road side of the street, and he gently guides you away from a puddle when you don’t look where you’re going. He’s patient when you check fourt times before crossing the streets. 

In the subway, he uses his entire body like a shield between you and the rest of the commute. He grasps the handle with one and he lets you use his bicep as your handle, since you’re too short to reach the bar. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, and it still baffles you how you don’t need to look at him anymore to know when he’s smiling.

You blush, realising he must be looking into your phone.

“Whenever I take the subway I check if Superman’s in the area. It, uh, makes me feel safe.”

His bicept flexes underneath your fingers. It’s easy to forget it, because he rarely reminds you of it, but Clark’s really strong and muscular. His biceps are so big you would need your two hands to wrap around the muscle. 

“What do you need Superman for when I’m right here?”

“Are you… jealous?”

He scoffs, like the idea itself is ludicrous. “Of course not. Why would I be jealous of him?”

“Because you’re right here with me and I’m still searching for him.”

You don’t know where that came from. You’re not usually this bold or even this teasing. You’re about to retract back what you said but then you see his reaction.

“You’re right, I would be jealous. If it wasn’t my arm you’re holding right now, if it wasn’t me you’re looking with that delicious blush.”

Then, he blushes too, as if just now realizing what he’d just said. You stare at each other, both blushing. At the same time, you both look away, but you don’t remove your hand, and he doesn’t stop protecting you from the people pushing in.

The rest of the subway ride is quieter. Nicer. 

He walks you right up to your front door. He obviously wants to see inside, so you invite him in. You tell yourself you’re just being polite.

“I want to see Supercat,” he says, like it explains why he really wants to come in. 

You open the door. 

“Please come in. Make yourself at home. I think I have some scones, if you want? I made them last weekend.”

Your apartment is humble, which is an euphemism for small. You’re still a student, and despite interning at the Daily Planet, you’re not rolling in dough. So your apartment is more of a glorified room that has a small kitchen area and a tiny oven you bought specifically for your baking (you rarely use it for your meals, since your safe meals usually only need pans). It’s a definite far cry from Lois’ really nice apartment, and what you guessed Clark’s to be. But, this was home, and has been for the past four years. You don’t feel as ashamed as you would usually be, because you know Clark isn’t the type of person to judge.

Supercat is, unsurprisingly, sleeping on top of your dirty laundry. He opens a lazy eye to see whether I brought him any treat, before closing it back, clearly uninterested in the new stranger.

“See? He’s no hero, if you were an intruder right now, he barely would have batted an eye,” you say, though you just sound fond, not annoyed at all. 

“Maybe he just instinctively knows I don’t want to cause you any harm.”

“I doubt it – not that I don’t believe you when you say you’re harmless. It’s just… well, I wouldn’t trust him with my life. Come on, come on in. Don’t just stand there. I know my place is small, but not so small it couldn’t fit you.”

He flushes sweetly. “Oh God, no, it’s not–”

You nudge him with your elbow. “I’m teasing you. You can sit on my bed, since I don’t have a couch.”

He obeys, and the sight of him, big limbs and large presence, trying to navigate my tiny apartment is endearing. He looks out of place, like a giant in a dollhouse, and still, completely at home. 

“It’s really – cute, here,” he says while you take out cookies (turns out you’d ran out of scones without realizing). 

“Thank you. I like it too. My only issue is that it gets too small for baking sometimes.”

“Ah yes, this is where the magic happens.” 

The way he says it makes it sound like you’re conducting scientific experiments and creating miracles. 

“It’s just cookies.”

“Not just any cookies. Only the best ones I’ve ever had.”

“You’re just saying that because –” Because what, because he likes you? You quickly look down to your hands, embarrassed at the thought. 

“Because?” he presses. When you look up, he’s right there, just in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed him moving. 

He moved like a big cat. Silent, agile, and deadly. 

“Because you’re you,” you say instead. “Because you’re kind. That’s what you do.”

“You think I’m only nice to you because I’m kind?”

“Yeah. Because I’m the new kid and the youngest, and you have strong protective instincts that makes you want to take care of everyone, like it’s your job to do so.” He doesn’t sound convinced and you get desperate trying to convince him, so you add: “Jimmy said you’re like this with everyone.”

“Did he? Did he say that I walk anyone home? That I spend thirty minutes every day making my Ma’s special hot chocolate drink for anyone? That I stay up late at work just to make sure they’re not overworking themselves again?”

“I…”

Clark smiles, and it’s like the sun peeking between two dark clouds. 

“You..?” 

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Do you… like me?”

“Yes. I have ever since you tore your cookie in half just so I could taste it, and you spent twenty minutes talking to me about how butter content can either make or break the recipe, and how you go through vanilla extracts like people go through coffee.”

Your brain short-circuits. He wasn’t supposed to just… agree, like it was that easy.

“Why?” you ask.

“Do I really need a reason? It’s just you.”

“I guess… I’m just a little confused. No one’s ever liked me before. Or they do, until I start rambling about recipes and ingredients and how many times I have to make a recipe before I’m finally satisfied with it. Or until I go nonverbal because everything is too loud and everything hurts and I refuse to be touched. But you knew all this, and you still… like me?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I still like you.”

“Why?” you ask, and you realize you’d already asked why before.

“Because it’s you. Because baking is your love language and there’s not a single person in the office that you didn’t bake anything for, and because you’re adorable with your pink headphones everyone thinks you use to listen to music but you use it as a noise-cancelling device. And because you smile like an angel, and write like a devil, and you bake like nostalgia. And because from the first day I saw you, I knew I was a goner.”

You chuckle nervously, looking around, as if waiting for Jimmy or Lois or both to pop up from somewhere with a camera. 

“You like me,” you repeat, as if tasting it on your own tongue helped you understand it. 

“I do. And I should have told you before, but I was a coward, and Jimmy and Lois were tired of me whining about how much I liked you and not doing anything about it.”

“The movies,” you say, like an euraka moment. 

His eyes go soft. “Yes, the movies. They were trying to set us up. I told them I didn’t like the plan, it felt too deceptive, too manipulative, but…”

“I’m glad they did it,” you interrupt. “But you’re right. It was kind of manipulative, and I was really sad when I thought they weren’t coming. It’s just — I like it— no, I need people to do as they say. Otherwise it messes with my head and I don’t like it, but still, I guess they were just trying to help. You texted them, didn’t you? You told them to come.”

“Yes. As soon as I saw how much it upset you, I told them to come back.”

“And you still like me.” It isn’t a question. You just like to repeat facts, as if repeating them a hundred times would make them truer than if you’d only said them once. “Despite all of this.”

“I still like you. All of you. Your quirks and your habits and your preferences.”

“Thank you,” you reply. Are you supposed to kiss him now? You weren’t sure. No one ever told you how love confessions are supposed to go. 

He looks a little scared, a little vulnerable, and it’s not right. It doesn’t look right. 

Oh. You are supposed to reply to his confession. 

“I like Superman,” you say. Your brain’s not right. “But I like you better. I liked him because he saved animals and because he made the city safer, it’s why I follow blogs about him and search for his whereabouts. But ever since I met you, I didn’t do that as much anymore. So you really don’t need to be jealous of Superman.”

You’re not really sure where you’re going with this, but for some reason you thought mentioning Superman was a good idea. 

“You like me better than Superman,” he repeats. Maybe he needed to taste the words himself to believe them better too. The look of fear melts from his face. It leaves only pure, unadulterated, boyish joy behind. He looks — pure. Like the sun. 

“Yes. I feel safe around you the same way I feel safe when I know Superman’s near.”

“I’m glad. You deserve to feel safe all the time.”

“Thank you. So do you. Do you still want cookies? They must have thawed a bit since then, but I can still put them in the microwave for a bit.”

He chuckles. “Yes please, I would like some of your cookies.”

You turn around, your cheeks still burning hot. You just confessed to Clark Kent, after he confessed to you first. He likes you. He likes you and you like him. 

You both sit down on the edge of your bed, thighs close but not touching. He’s so big he could easily take up the whole space, but he’s making himself smaller so he doesn’t intrude on your personal space. 

“Listen, I, I’ve never done this before so excuse me if I’m making a fool of myself but…”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me? A proper one, this time, and not a subterfuge.”

He looks earnest and hopeful, and once again scared. 

“Okay. I would love to go on a date with you, Clark.”

────୨ৎ────

Clark didn’t know whether he should thank his friends or ignore them for the rest of his life after the little stunt they’d pulled around you. 

He knew that they were just trying to be helpful in that meddling yet endearing way of theirs, but he truly thought his heart was going to stop beating the second he saw you get upset at the unexpected change of plans. 

If he didn’t already have no chance with you before this, he definitely didn’t anymore. 

You were always physically impassible, eyes shining only when you’re talking about something you liked — baking, cats, Superman. He was used to having to dig deeper to truly understand how you felt, but at that moment in the elevator, he could see your emotions clear as day. 

And it broke him. 

He was only glad that the night ended the way it did, otherwise he probably would have flown him, Jimmy and Lois into the sun if they’d accidentally hurt you. 

A little after finishing your cookie, Superkitten, the cat Clark still remembered saving a couple of years ago, finally moved his spot and graced him with his attention. He sniffed him at first, looked at him suspiciously before continuing his thorough sniffing. 

“He is trying to figure out where you’ve been and what you smell like,” you explained to him. Clark felt his heart settle the way it always did when he heard your voice. 

“He’s a nosy little thing,” he replied. 

“It’s strange, because he’s usually not. There must be something about you that intrigues him enough to get him moving.”

Clark lifted an eyebrow at that, giving his attention back to the slightly obese orange cat who was sniffing his socks now. He was a slip of a thing, really, when he saved him. Too weak, too small to move, to even notice the piece of concrete that was about to kill him. And now, happy and fat and serene and lazy because he knew he had the best owner in the world. No, Clark was not jealous of a stupid cat. 

Maybe Superkitten remembered him too. It wouldn’t surprise him. After all, cats often saw things human couldn’t. 

“Maybe he just knows I’m special.”

You snorted. Even your snort was endearing, a work of art. “Don’t flatter yourself, Clark. He must smell food on you, that’s all.”

He bent down slightly, telegraphing his movements so that the cat had time to move if he didn’t want to be touched, and he started scratching him softly under his chin. Superkitten started purring almost instantly. 

He definitely remembered. 

When he looked back at you, you were watching them with a strange look on your face. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” you replied. You were being honest, he could tell. “It’s just… I think I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this. I need time to process change. Everything feels a bit surreal. I always have a difficult time with reality, especially after dark. Everything feels like a dream.”

“A good dream, I hope.”

“Yes. But a dream nonetheless. Something that ends the moment you open your eyes.”

“I’ll still be here, tomorrow morning, when you wake up, when you open your eyes.”

“I hope so,” you replied. “I’m already getting used to the fact that you’re here. I would be upset if you disappeared.”

Clark Kent would rather die a thousand deaths than hurt you. 

He wanted to kiss you, hold you. Anything to ease the worry off your eyebrows, to show you that he was here, there and now and for as long as you wanted him. 

“Does this mean we’re boyfriend and girlfriend?” you ask, and the changement of subject is so jarring it leaves Clark a bit dazed, before he felt his entire body flush at your words. His entire being was attuned to you. 

“I, uh, yes, I mean, definitely yes, if you wanted. I was waiting to ask you officially once we’ve had our first date but… this definitely works too.”

You smiled. “Okay. I know labels aren’t for everyone but they help me.”

He nodded. “Anything you need.”

“Should we kiss now?”

God, yes, he wanted to say. “Do you want us to kiss?”

“Yes. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to kiss you.”

He was lucky he didn’t need his heart to live because it always skipped beats around you. You wondered what it would feel like to kiss him? He wanted to know when and where and why, and what he can do again to make you wonder that again. 

“You did?” he asked, voice hoarse. Tell me more, tell me everything. Tell me every single thought you’ve ever had about me.

“Yeah. Mostly when you eat something I’ve baked. I keep wondering how it would taste on your lips, if it would make it better, sweeter.”

He smiled. “I just had one of your cookies. Want a taste?”

“Can I?” you asked. 

Of course. Anything. You could do anything to me. 

He nodded. 

And then your lips were on his. Tentative at first, always soft. He can feel your hands on your bed, fingers grasping your bed sheets, your shoulders angling towards him, your head tipping slightly back so you could reach him. 

And Clark felt like he was reborn. You were the sun and he was the sunflower, chasing the sun rays on your lips and the warmth of your body. 

He didn’t know how; he certainly didn’t think it, but somehow you were closer, knees close to his thigh, and his hands were on yours and he’s lifting you gently until you’re straddling his thighs and through it all, the kiss hasn’t been broken once. 

He could keep going like this forever, but he knew you needed oxygen. 

You were focused like you did on an article when everything else in the world disappeared, and you forgot how to even blink or take a breath. 

He broke the kiss reluctantly. 

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

You took a huge breath. Your pupils were so wide and dark they ate up your irises. Your eyes looked like black holes Clark would willingly get swept into. 

“Wow,” you said. 

Clark felt the same way he did whenever he helped someone and they looked at him with gratitude. Pride bloomed in his chest. He did that. You liked his kiss so much you forgot how to breathe. 

“How was it?” he asked even if he already knew, because he was selfish and greedy and full of himself. 

“I got distracted,” you replied. “By your kiss. I forgot to taste my cookie and compare.”

Clark couldn’t keep the smugness out of his face even if he could. “Let’s kiss again,” he offered, like he was doing you a favor. “You can try again.”