#petty

1. The Flower Stand Guy Who Looked Too Long

Saturdays in Smallville are slow, sun-drenched, and full of the kind of sweetness that seems stolen from a postcard. There’s a market in town every weekend, local produce, baked pies, soaps that smell like lavender and fresh linen. It’s the kind of thing Clark loves more than he admits. You think it reminds him of his mom. He always walks a little slower through the stalls, more grounded, a little soft at the edges.

You were walking beside him, fingers interlaced lazily, sipping your second iced coffee of the morning. His free hand carried a bag of apples you picked out together after a ten-minute debate about which farm grew the “crispier kind.” The sun glinted off his hair, and he looked especially stupidly handsome in that button-up and jeans combo, just simple enough to hurt.

You stopped at a flower stall, bright bundles of color bursting from buckets of water. You leaned in to smell something pale yellow and sweet.

That’s when it happened.

The guy running the stand, probably no older than 22, college-kid energy with a flirtatious smirk he probably practiced in mirrors, leaned over and plucked a daisy from the bunch.

“This one’s perfect for you,” he said, holding it up like an offering. “Bright and pretty. Like you.”

You blinked. Smiled a little, awkwardly. “Oh. That’s sweet—”

And just like that, Clark was beside you, silent and looming. Not aggressively. Not even impolitely. Just… there. His hand found your waist without asking. His thumb skimmed across your side, not possessive exactly, just territorial.

“She doesn’t like daisies,” Clark said, his voice so smooth it almost masked the glacier under it. “They make her sneeze.”

“I do?” you asked, tilting your head, amused.

“You do,” he confirmed. “Violently.”

The flower guy looked vaguely confused but handed the daisy to someone else and backed off like Clark had somehow made the temperature drop five degrees.

The second you were a few steps away, you elbowed Clark in the ribs, trying not to laugh. “Violently?”

“I was protecting your sinuses,” he said flatly, sipping his iced coffee like a martyr.

“Oh, so you weren’t being jealous and weird?”

“I wasn’t weird,” he mumbled.

“You get so obvious when you’re jealous. You just go full dad-mode.”

Clark stopped in the middle of the path. “Excuse me?”

“Next time just pee on me like a wolf.”

“I’m never buying you coffee again.”

“You love me.”

He sighed, kissed your forehead, and muttered into your hair, “I love you. Even when you’re a brat.”

2. The Gym Bro Who Wouldn’t Shut Up

Clark always claimed he hated gyms.

Too many mirrors. Too many people grunting unnecessarily. Too many guys named Chad who thought protein shakes were a personality.

But you’d dragged him to yours after weeks of nagging, convinced he needed some “normal” stress relief after one too many nights saving the world. He agreed on one condition: that you let him be your gym partner.

You should’ve seen the trap.

You were halfway through your workout when it started. You were doing squats, nothing too heavy, just reps for tone, when he appeared. A guy with way too much cologne and biceps that had their own zip code. He hovered nearby. Watched you for a little too long.

“You’re doing those wrong,” he said, smirking like a guy who hadn’t been asked.

“Oh?” you replied politely. “I’ve been doing them this way for years.”

He smiled. “If you ever want real results, I could show you a better technique.”

You glanced over your shoulder, Clark was across the gym, stretching, pretending not to hear. But you could see the tightness in his shoulders, the faint glow in his eyes that meant he was definitely listening.

“I’ve got a spotter,” you said.

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

And that’s when Clark strolled over.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just massive and silent and glowering.

“She’s with me,” he said simply, planting himself between you and the gym bro like a whole wall of Kansas corn-fed protectiveness.

The guy blinked. “Cool, man. Just helping.”

“No need. I know every one of her sets. And her PRs. And her recovery window.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you know that?”

Clark didn’t break eye contact with the guy. “Since always.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hiding a grin.

The guy left.

Clark handed you your water bottle like he hadn’t just mentally crushed another man’s will to live. “Hydrate,” he said softly. “You’re getting that glowy sweat thing.”

3. The Waiter Who Thought He Was Charming

It was your anniversary dinner, one Clark had meticulously planned. Candlelit rooftop, fancy dress, real wine glasses, the works. He wore a tie, for God’s sake.

Everything was going perfectly… until the waiter decided to make himself a third party to the relationship.

It wasn’t anything egregious. Just… little things.

He complimented your earrings. Your perfume. Your smile. Then he topped it off with, “If I may say, you’re far too stunning to be out with just one man tonight.”

Clark’s jaw didn’t twitch. His smile didn’t falter. But his hand under the table slid to your thigh like he was anchoring himself before he said something inappropriate.

You squeezed it, silently warning him: Don’t.

But Clark never needed words to be petty.

He waited until dessert, then excused himself quietly. Five minutes later, the manager came over, personally, carrying a full tray of desserts.

“These are on the house,” he said. “Mr. Kent mentioned it was your special night.”

The tray had everything. Chocolate lava cake. Berries soaked in champagne. Miniature soufflés. A heart-shaped crème brûlée with your initials carved into the sugar.

You looked at Clark, eyebrows up.

He just leaned back in his chair, draped his arm behind you, and smirked like a man who had just eliminated a threat with whipped cream.

4. You, The One Person He Couldn’t Be Petty With

It happened on a Wednesday. You’d promised to be home for dinner. Clark had made lasagna. Actual lasagna. With layers.

But you were late. Very late.

Not because of anything scandalous. Just work. A deadline gone sideways. A missed train. A phone battery that died at exactly the wrong moment.

By the time you walked in, flustered and apologetic, Clark was seated on the couch, arms folded, blanket around his shoulders like a dramatic grandmother.

You paused. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Oh no.

You dropped your keys. “Clark…”

“You said seven. It’s nine-thirty.”

“I texted—”

“Phone died.”

You sighed and walked over, flopping beside him. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look at you.

“Clark.”

“I reheated the lasagna three times.”

“You hate reheating things.”

“I do.”

You turned, climbed into his lap like you always did when he was being dramatic. “Are you giving me the lasagna cold shoulder right now?”

He exhaled through his nose.

“Did you light candles?”

“Two.”

“Did you wear the apron?”

He scowled. “Yes.”

You kissed his jaw. “You’re so dramatic.”

He finally looked at you. “You said we’d eat together.”

You softened. “I know. And I hate that I missed it. But you know I love you, right?”

He blinked, defenses crumbling fast. “…even when I pout?”

“Especially when you pout.”

And just like that, Clark Kent, petty, pouty, perfect Clark Kent, melted into your arms like warm sugar.