Work Text:
So Lois and Clark have been dating for about a month now… sort of, if you can even call it dating.
Hanging out every now and then doesn’t exactly scream romance, and she hadn’t realized that their “official” date to the fair wouldn’t be happening for at least another month. So in the meantime, they've been hovering in that strange in-between space. They’re hanging out—as friends. Mostly. Kind of.
More often than not, they just happen to be around each other for work-related reasons. But it’s also very clearly not just work. It’s not nothing, either.
But it’s been nice.
In fact, it’s been... kind of perfect. Maybe a bit too perfect, which is starting to freak her out. Clark is sweet. He’s polite. He’s adorable. Lately, he’s been walking with her to work, and it’s actually helped him show up on time for once. Well, except on the mornings when she joins him for breakfast.
She’s treated him to donuts three times now, partly out of guilt for the Great Donut Incident, but mostly because of the look on his face every time they walk into Donut Land. Clark stares at the pastry case like a kid in a candy store.
Then he’ll talk himself out of anything too sugary… then back into it… then stand there forever trying to choose between two flavors. It’s honestly kind of ridiculous.
And absolutely adorable.
Not only are they spending time before work, but they’re also seeing each other during work… and after. Thankfully, no one at the office seems to suspect anything more than a growing friendship. As far as anyone knows, they’re just colleagues who get along unusually well. Sure, there was one slip-up…
That morning, they were caught splitting half a dozen donuts. Lois had one and a half. Clark had… the rest.
To be fair, he’s a hungry guy. The speed at which that man can shovel food into his mouth is almost inspiring.
Cat caught the tail end of it. Lois had just finished a sugar-dusted donut and set it aside. Clark, without hesitation, leaned over and asked, “Are you gonna eat that?”
“No, I’m good,” she said casually.
And he shoved it right into his mouth.
Cat, who seems to be perpetually staring at Clark, raised an eyebrow. “Are you two really just sharing food like that? Lois—he ate your half-eaten donut. That’s practically domestic. Sounds kinda intimate, if you ask me...”
Clark’s eyes went wide. He looked like he’d just been caught mid-crime scene. Mouth still full, he scrambled to explain himself.
“Sorry—m'just… pretty hungry. Didn’t want it to go to waste, that’s all.”
“... Alright,” Cat said slowly. “If you say so. I mean, I don’t always finish my food either… maybe next time I can pass you my leftovers, too.”
The flirty tone wasn’t lost on anyone.
Lois wasn’t technically in a relationship with Clark yet, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed watching him get flirted with. Not that she was jealous or anything.
Thankfully, Jimmy chimed in. As much as he denied it, he tended to get annoyed anytime anyone other than himself was receiving flirty attention. “Hey, I thought we weren’t supposed to bother Clark about his donut problem.”
And of course, Steve had to get in on it. “Oh, you mean like when Lois donut-shamed him? Brutal. Way to go after a man’s weakness.”
Lois groaned. “Can you guys please drop it? He's over it. Right, Clark?”
Clark gave a tiny, bashful smile once he'd finished his bite. “Oh yeah. I’m fine. We’re good. But maybe we should all stop focusing on my breakfast habits and get back to work? I'm kind of eating my feelings again, and it would really be cool if everyone could stop publicly exposing me like this. It's a little embarrassing." He really sold it with how he slouched into his chair a little more, trying to make himself seem smaller, just like he always did.
Now it was their turn to feel the burn of committing a social faux pas against the most wholesome man in the office. Lois kept a shit-eating grin as she watched them all awkwardly turn away to give Clark some space.
Once the noise died down, she leaned over toward him with a raised eyebrow and asked quietly, “So… what feeling are you eating today, exactly?”
Clark looked up at her with a soft, sunshiny smile and answered, “I’m happy.”
That made Lois chuckle. He was too cute. It was too much.
While the ‘eating his feelings’ line had been enough to get everyone off their case, apparently, Cat was quite serious about leaving Clark her leftovers. In fact, by late morning, he had half of a blueberry muffin and one granola bar from a two-pack waiting for him alongside a little sticky note that said ‘feel better’ with a tiny smiley face doodle— which he both appreciated and enjoyed. Lois warned him that he had better be careful with that or else every time he shows up in any sort of mood, he’s going to end up as the designated office trash can. But, Clark didn’t seem to mind too much.
From then on, Lois and Clark managed to fly under the radar a little more successfully.
Funny enough, that very night was the first time they ever hung out after work.
Lois was burning the midnight oil on a story about Stagg Industries, digging into environmental violations, shady tech patents, and enough corporate corruption to make a CEO sweat. But the research was dragging. Every time she got close to a breakthrough, it was like someone was watching her, rerouting her search in real time. Classic corporate interference. Annoying, but not enough to stop her.
She had to get the article out soon. Stagg was set to speak to shareholders any day now, and Lois wanted her piece out first.
Clark was working late, too, supposedly on an exclusive interview with Superman.
Bull. Shit.
Clark never lies. She’s not even sure he can lie. If he ever tried, she half expects his nose to grow like Pinocchio. But come on, how is it that he is the first and only reporter that Superman had ever agreed to speak with? So unfair.
Lois finally wraps up her own article. It's only 10:00 p.m. Not bad, considering she usually doesn’t leave until midnight when she's stuck working late.
She stands up, stretches, and walks over to Clark’s desk to see if he’s still “working.” But as she approaches, she realizes two things.
One—his computer is asleep.
Two—so is he.
Clark is hunched over, head resting on his arms, glasses slightly askew. Out cold.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t snore. Lois isn’t sure why she expected him to.
She watches him for a moment. Poor guy. That farmboy is probably used to being in bed by nine-thirty at the latest. Being stuck at the office after hours must've been practically torture.
She considers letting him sleep, but those glasses can’t be comfortable pressed up against his face like that. Gently, she reaches down to try to remove them. She’s never seen him without them before, and she wonders what his face looks like without those chunky frames and thick lenses in the way.
She moves slowly and steadily, fingers on either side of his glasses… But unfortunately, Clark is a light sleeper.
He startles awake the second she makes contact, jerking upright like he was afraid someone would steal them. His hair is flattened on one side, and the lenses are crooked, but the second he sees Lois standing in front of him, he smiles.
“Oh, shoot,” he mumbles, voice low and rough from sleep. “I must've dozed off. What time is it?” The sleepy baritone sends a chill straight down her spine.
Lois clears her throat and smiles back. “Yeah, you were out cold. It’s ten. You should probably head home if you’re that exhausted. Did you at least finish your work?”
Clark nods and rubs his eyes, lifting his glasses just enough to frustrate her, because she still doesn’t get a good look. How handsome is he under those things? She’ll never know.
“I finished about an hour ago,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. “I guess I just fell asleep waiting on you.”
Lois blinks. “Oh, Clark. You didn’t have to wait for me. I know you’ve been walking me to the subway station lately, but it’s fine. I wouldn’t expect you to stay late just for that.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I don’t have anything else going on… no one waiting for me at home, and I like spending that time with you. You know. Without anyone else around to bug us.”
That catches her off guard, just a little. The way he says it... so soft, so open—it makes something flutter in her chest.
Lois can't help smiling. “Thanks. I like it, too. And yeah—it’s late, and pretty dark. Probably a good thing you stayed. It can get dangerous out there for anyone, so it's best to stick together.” She doubts that Clark would have any trouble defending himself, but he's not exactly the scariest guy in the world. Though her cheeks warm as she starts to imagine what those big biceps might be capable of.
Lois shakes the thought and straightens up a little. “So, you ready to go?”
Clark nods with a big yawn.
“Woah…” She stares at him, almost alarmed. “I’ve literally never seen you do that. You must be crazy exhausted. Are you okay?”
She's also never really seen him sneeze or cough, but she always chalks that up to having a strong immune system. His relentless energy, on the other hand, was always a mystery.
Clark seems a bit exposed before waving it off with another shrug. “I’m alright. I just kind of set myself up for failure today. I skipped lunch, which I never do. Usually, I'm pretty strict about getting my three square meals in. And I didn’t even get a chance to go outside during my break. This building usually gets a good amount of sun… but it was cloudy today. I think I just need to get some dinner and, you know, replenish a little. I'll probably have a walk through the park this weekend just so I can properly recharge.” He makes it sound like he runs on sunlight.
Photosynthesis, Lois thinks. But she knows what he means. Office air is soul-draining, and Clark doesn’t seem like the kind of guy built for artificial lighting and four walls.
“How about we get some dinner, then?” she suggests. “Pizza at my place?”
Clark pauses. “... Really?”
He looks like she just offered him something a little too good to be true. Maybe even scandalous. Going to a girl's house after 10 pm... now that's probably a bit risqué by Smallville standards.
“Sure,” Lois says, casually, in an attempt to downplay it a bit more, “Yeah. Why not? Unless you’d rather just head home. If you’re too tired, that’s fine.”
“No—no,” he says quickly. “I’d love to go to your house. For pizza.” He clears his throat. “But it’s on me. You paid for breakfast this morning.”
Lois gives a small shrug and a smile. “Fine by me. Let's get going already, I'm starving.”
Clark doesn't need to be told twice.
They stop for food on the way. One large pizza split between tomato basil on one half and a chaos of bacon, sausage, pepperoni, and, surprisingly, jalapeños on the other. Plus breadsticks. Plus buffalo wings.
She figured jalapeños and buffalo sauce might be a bit much for a guy like Clark, but she was wrong.
Apparently, Clark loves spicy food. On the walk to her place, he told her all about how the most adventurous thing he ever had growing up was good ol' barbecue sauce, but ever since moving to the city, he's been chasing more bold, diverse flavors, and the more heat, the better.
Once they reach her apartment, Clark carries the food up for them. He steps in and looks around, eyes wide with quiet excitement, visibly thrilled to see a piece of her personal life.
The way he dwarfs the space is ridiculous.
Lois had felt like she was moving up in the world with this apartment. It's spacious, especially compared to her old place. But the illusion quickly fades once Clark gets inside. Suddenly, it feels like she lives in The Shire. Clark nearly smacks his head on a light fixture, stumbles over the corner of a rug in an effort to dodge it, and does a dramatic flail to keep the food from hitting the floor.
Lois intercepts, steadying the box. “Easy there, big guy. I get it, the place is a little cramped. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get anything on my new area rug.” She gestures to it pointedly.
Clark grins sheepishly. “Gotcha. Sorry. I’ll be super careful, I promise.”
She tells him to set the food down on the coffee table. Lois pulls the pencil from her hair, letting the bun fall loose. Clark shrugs off his jacket, folding it neatly over the arm of the couch.
Her eyes drift before she can stop them.
The dress shirt he’s wearing fits… alarmingly well. It hugs his shoulders, defines the thickness of his arms, and notably compliments (Cat’s voice echoes in her head) his tummy. God, she needs a new word for that. But it fits.
Apparently, she’s not the only one looking.
Clark’s eyes are definitely on her now, watching the fall of her hair, the way she shakes it out absently. She pretends not to notice.
“Do you want a beer?” she asks, finally meeting his gaze. She would've offered to open a bottle of wine, but she fears making the moment feel a little too formally romantic. Plus, she was saving her only bottle for a special occasion. Of course, with the way Clark is looking on her couch... this may as well count as such.
It takes him a second too long to respond.
“Uh—sure,” he says, blinking out of whatever moment he was stuck in. “Yeah. That’d be swell.”
Lois disappears into the kitchen for a moment, letting Clark get comfortable. When she returns, she finds him scanning the room curiously.
“I really like your place, Lois,” he says, voice soft with sincerity. “It’s cozy in here. Very warm.”
She snorts lightly. “You’re just being polite.”
“No, I mean it,” Clark insists. “Feels like… a home.”
Lois feels that in her chest. It wasn’t meant to be cozy, exactly. She went for really anything other than the current chaotic cluttered mess that it is. But if Clark sees warmth in it, maybe it’s not so bad.
“Thanks,” she says, handing him a nice cold bottle.
He goes to open it, and she’s halfway through warning him, "Oh, it’s not a twist-off—"
But Clark has already popped the cap off with his bare hand, like it’s nothing. He takes her bottle from her next and opens that one just as easily. Lois is left standing there holding a completely useless bottle opener.
Her brow lifts. “Gee. I don’t know if I should be impressed or mildly alarmed.”
Clark chuckles, already a little pink in the face as he hands one of the bottles over. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“You fancy a lot of beer, Mr. Kent?”
He looks sheepish now, absentmindedly fidgeting with the cap. “No, ma’am. Not really. Unless you count root beer.”
Lois flushes slightly as she takes a sip, letting the cool bitterness distract her from the stupid way her heart just flipped over that answer. Did he really just say that?
She pictures it without meaning to, Clark Kent at a corner booth in a Smallville diner, big warm smile, a tall float in front of him, extra whipped cream, two red straws. One for him. One for...
She swallows hard. What the hell is happening to her?
The mental image is so aggressively wholesome that it feels like it rewired her nervous system. Clark Kent is turning her into someone who fantasizes about sharing a root beer float.
She blames the beer.
Or maybe it's shoulders... biceps... that way he just popped the cap off her bottle for her like it was nothing. But she definitely needs to calm down, or she’ll never get through the night.
Eventually, they get to the food. Clark, true to form, starts shoveling food into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days. Lois watches with thinly veiled amusement as he plows through a slice of pizza, grabs a breadstick, downs a hot wing, repeat.
“So I’m assuming you like the food?” Lois finally asks, smiling a bit.
Clark’s mid-bite, chewing through another slice with obvious enthusiasm. He nods, then takes a moment to swallow, dabs at his mouth with a napkin, and says, “These might be the best wings in the city. Even better than Wings-N-Things.”
Lois raises a brow. “You’ve been to Wings-N-Things? The place with the servers in booty shorts and crop tops?” To their credit, they’re pretty inclusive. All servers are stuck in those tiny uniforms regardless of gender. Still, she’d think Clark wouldn’t be the type to go somewhere like that.
“Well, yeah,” Clark nods again, reaching for another breadstick. “But I wasn’t there for the booty shorts or the crop tops. Steve told me they had the best wings in town and that I had to check it out, so we went together a couple of weekends ago. Hey, funny story— did you know they have a picture of Jimmy up on the wall there?”
She’d glossed right over the idea of Jimmy’s likeness perpetually existing in a place like that. It was highly expected. He probably knows all the servers by name.
“You and Steve hang out?” Lois asks, baffled. Now that issue seemed far more pressing.
“Sure, sometimes,” Clark answered with a shrug. “Usually, he’s got an extra ticket and lets me tag along to a Meteors game,” since no one else will go with him, Lois thinks, “or we’ll grab a drink somewhere. He’s… a lot, but not bad company. Honestly, I tend to hang out with everyone a little bit. Last week, Jimmy introduced me to his girlfriend-of-the-day when I ran into him at the mall. They were about to get lunch, so I tagged along. Then, she tried to set me up with her sister for a double date.”
Lois smirks. “And you said no?”
Clark gives her a small, sly smile. “Obviously. For more reasons than one.”
Good to know that Jimmy's friends are off limits... not that they'd decided they were exclusive or anything. But she figured Clark wasn't the type to see multiple girls at a time.
“What about Cat?” she prods. “She’s gotta be dying to get a piece of the Clark Kent experience.”
Clark chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “Not as much. I'm not really her scene, but she’s cool— she introduced me to boba tea not too long ago. That stuff is wild. I think I liked it. Oh, and she also told me about a bunch of neat stuff in the community I should check out. She mentioned something about an elementary school field trip the Daily Planet hosts every year right before the kiddos go on winter break.”
Lois nods. She knows exactly what he’s talking about. The kids come in for a quick tour, learn about journalism for about half an hour until their little brains can't take the boredom anymore, then they write cute little Christmas wishes that get printed in the paper.
Clark’s eyes brighten. “I just thought that sounded so goshdarn cute. And apparently you guys sometimes have a Santa? Steve said I should do it this year.”
Lois instantly catches on. Steve meant it as a hazing tactic. No one wants to be Santa. It’s hot, it’s itchy, and you spend all day being swarmed by sugar-high seven-year-olds. Sounds like absolute hell.
“Oh, don’t listen to Steve,” she says quickly. “He’s just being an asshole. It's a total nightmare. We probably just won't have a Santa at all this year so no one has to go through that."
But Clark just gives her this wide-eyed, sincere look like she just doesn’t get it.
“Oh... I thought it sounded kind of fun,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind doing it.”
Lois sets her beer down and stares at him. “You’re actually considering it?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Sure. Why not? It’s for the kids.”
And all Lois can do is smile at him. It's full, warm, and impossibly fond. Maybe they'll have a Santa that year after all.
They finish off the pizza slowly, conversation coming and going between bites. Lois manages two slices, content to savor. Clark, predictably, has the rest, including the crust from one of her slices. He also knocks back four beers and somehow doesn’t look even remotely buzzed.
She watches him from the floor, where they’ve both migrated, legs crossed at the coffee table. The room is calm, lit by a single floor lamp in the corner. He’s warm beside her, big and steady, and his shirt… oh god, that shirt. It fits him a little too well. She hadn’t noticed how the buttons pull ever so slightly, straining against the swell of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders, and even a little lower at the softer areas. One more breadstick and a wrong move, and that thing’s going to pop open.
She feels a little ashamed thinking it, but still… she finds herself edging closer. Settling right up next to him. Leaning against him. He’s like her own personal furnace with all the heat he's giving off. Her highland cow, she thinks. Big, soft, fluffy. She wants to run her hands through his hair.
She lets her hand fall to his arm. He pauses mid-bite, glancing at her. Generous of him. She smiles, then slowly trails her hand across his chest as she leans closer, as if about to whisper something. But before anything can happen, Clark moves to mirror her.
And that’s when it happens.
His elbow bumps a tiny cup of marinara sauce they were using for the breadsticks, and it topples. First onto his shirt, then onto the new area rug.
Clark gasps. “Oh goshdarnit!” he blurts, picking it up before scrambling upright. “I’m such a bozo, I can’t believe I did that.”
Lois stares in horror—not at the rug, but at his shirt. The one shirt in his entire wardrobe that fits him like a dream. And now it’s streaked with red.
“Clark!” she cries, pointing. “Your shirt!”
“Huh?" He blinks and looks down at himself. "Oh, that’s alright. I have other shirts.” He’s more concerned about the one thing she warned him not to mess up. “Your new rug—Lois, I ruined it.” He moves to get any excess sauce off before it sets.
“To hell with the rug! We can save the shirt!”
He’s still dabbing at the floor like it’s life or death, but she grabs his wrist. “Clark. Give me the damn shirt.”
He pauses, blinking at her. “O-okay. Sure. We’ll do the shirt first.”
He shrugs it off and hands it to her, now standing there in a plain white undershirt. She’s ready to race it to the sink, but stops cold.
The stain bled through.
“Give me that too,” she says, already reaching.
Clark obliges, tugging the second shirt off, leaving him half-nude in the middle of her apartment, awkwardly folding his arms to cover himself.
Oh. Oh hell.
He is built.
Not shredded, but solid, broad, thick with real strength. Like those Instagram posts Cat always sends her, when guys post their bulk before a big cut to lose any excess fat, except Clark is perfectly content to stay bulky and soft like that, and Lois certainly doesn't mind. Chest hair dusts his torso. It's not a lot, but enough to make her short-circuit a little. His arms are folded low, trying to hide his—oh god. She gives up. She's calling it a tummy in her head, but there’s no hiding the way the rest of him looks. He's like a goddamn lumberjack.
She swallows hard, brain rebooting as she looks back down at the shirt.
“Wait, how do I fix this?” she asks faintly. “What do I do? I have to Google it.”
Clark, oblivious to the intensity of the situation, answers calmly. “Rinse with cold water. Then apply some detergent. Scrub it a bit, let it sit for a few minutes, then throw it in the washer. It should work to get it right out and I think I ought to do the same to the rug before it sets.”
“Right. Yeah. Got it— one thing at a time, though. Let's focus our energy together on the shirt.”
“Alright... well, I can rinse it, myself,” he offers. “But in the meantime, could you grab your detergent?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
She hands it to him and bolts. She heads to the supply closet with her pulse pounding in her ears. She needs to cool down before she melts into a puddle on the rug he just ruined.
When she returns, she hands him the floral-scented bottle. He pours a little onto the stain, rubbing it in gently, then does the same to the undershirt. The sight—Clark, shirtless in her kitchen, tending to laundry like it’s the most normal thing—feels disarmingly domestic. It’s the kind of morning view she could get used to.
With both the shirts soaking, they work on the rug, scraping most of the sauce out before Clark adds detergent there too. “I really hope it comes out,” he says. “I swear I’ll buy you a new one if it’s ruined. I can be such a klutz. I’ll be more careful next time—if there is a next time.”
Lois notices his slouch is back, his shoulders caving in. He’s trying to look smaller again. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I got it on sale at an outlet store. A stupid little stain isn’t enough to make me ban you from my apartment, Clark. Relax.”
It takes some coaxing to get him back onto the couch, where he still sits with his arms crossed over himself.
Lois feels concerned. She practically forced him to strip for the sake of saving a shirt. Hopefully, she hadn’t pushed him too much.
“Are you okay?” She asks, “Want something to cover up? I can get you a blanket.”
“I’m fine, just kinda shocked about—”
“Clark, if you say one more thing about the rug, I’m gonna lose it. Let’s just finish the night while we wait for your clothes. Everything’s fine.”
She eventually coaxes him into relaxing again with another beer, easing the tension from his shoulders. To keep him there, she talks him through why the carpet isn’t worth fretting over—thirty bucks from a outlet store’s discount bin, hardly a beloved heirloom—and he finally laughs, promising yet again to pay her back if it’s truly ruined. She makes him strike a deal to drop the subject, and his deep chuckle in response makes her grin. The man is pure eye candy when he loosens up, and that, in turn, sparks an idea she can’t resist pursuing.
“You know what I just thought of?” Lois says, leaning in with a crafty expression. “Kids these days hardly care about Santa anymore. Honestly, it’d be a million times better if, say, instead of that old guy, Superman showed up for the field trip. There's guaranteed to be a ton of cheap costumes available this Halloween, maybe we can get you one to wear for Christmas. You look a lot like him, you know.”
It’s the highest compliment she can think to give, but Clark looks genuinely startled, almost rattled. “Really? Y–you think I look like Superman?”
“Oh, yeah," she nods, "Tall, dark hair, handsome, big muscles—the whole package. You could pull it off. You’d just have to wear contacts for the day or something.”
Clark rubs at the back of his neck. “Oh… gosh…” He laughs, awkward and shy. Lois can’t figure out what’s making him so uncomfortable. He takes another long swig of beer before replying, “I appreciate it, but I couldn’t possibly do that. I’m practically blind without my glasses, and contact lenses irritate my eyes. Not to mention…” His voice dips, almost embarrassed. “… I don’t exactly have the body for it. Superman’s probably in better shape.”
“What?” Lois looks at him like he’s insane. “Clark, you’re in great shape.” She starts to add, “Even if you guys looked a little different, all the Superman sightings are so far away or quick, no one would really know if he’s sporting, um…” She hesitates, unwilling to actually say 'tummy' out loud.
Clark saves her the trouble by placing a hand on his own stomach and cringing self-consciously. “The place where the donuts go.”
Lois wheezes with laughter. “I can’t with you,” she says, shaking her head. “Hey, I happen to like your ‘place where the donuts go.’ I think it’s cute. Nothing wrong with having a little something extra around the waistline. Besides, you’d be the only one to know if Superman’s all steel or a bit of cushion—you’re the one reporter who gets up close enough to interview him.”
For some reason, that earns her a look of guilt on his face. She can’t quite read it before he masks it again. He seems to scramble to come up with a physical description.
“Well… now that you mention it,” he says slowly, “I think Superman’s definitely in a lot better shape than me. Either that, or he’s just really good at sucking it in. And the suit is pretty tight, especially with a bit of extra armor in that area—for safety reasons—so that probably helps.”
It almost sounds like he’s speaking from experience.
Lois narrows her eyes, smiling. “So you’re saying… Superman wears shapewear? Did he tell you that?”
Clark’s jaw drops. He points a finger, ready to correct her. “I did not say that! Oh Lois, please don’t write that. None of this is on record, right? Superman would be awfully upset with me if you did b-because he doesn’t wear shapewear. That’s silly.”
Lois laughs outright. “Relax, I’m not gonna write that. I’m just messing with you. Although…” Her grin turns wicked. “‘Superman in super-shapewear’ would make one hell of a headline.”
Clark starts to pout, lips pressed together like he’s fighting the urge to argue.
Lois sighs. “Alright, I’m sorry. I swear I won’t tell anyone, especially since it’d be a pretty sketchy source ethics-wise. Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists don’t gossip about shapewear. It’s nobody’s business but Superman’s.”
That earns her a small, sheepish smile. The tension drains from his shoulders, and she suddenly remembers... they were treating his shirt. Right. That’s why he’s still sitting here, half-naked and trying to look smaller. She gets up and tosses the clothes in the washer on the longest cycle she can, buying herself more time.
When she comes back, she paces, careful not to stare. “Well, looks like you're stuck here for a bit longer until your clothes are done in the wash. I can’t send you home without a shirt, can I? Guess we’ve got some time to kill. Hope I’m not boring you.”
“You’d never bore me,” he says, warm as sunlight. “I’m having a great time just hanging out with you. This has been nice.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “No pressure. Just… easy.”
“So,” he grins, “what do we do now? Browse pay-per-view? Do you have Scrabble?”
Lois tries to ignore the fact that Clark just said 'pay-per-view' like it’s still 2005. Before she can comment, the thought derails entirely when she blurts, “What about dessert?”
The look Clark gives her next is… assessing, like he’s trying to decide exactly what she means by that. His cheeks tint pink, deliberately this time, and he parts his lips as if to say something before she realizes the implication and backpedals.
“I mean—ice cream,” she says, “I’ve got ice cream in the freezer.”
“Oh. Right.” His smile spreads slowly, warm and easy, like a warm evening sunbeam through a window. “Well, I love ice cream.”
“Yeah,” she chuckles, “I figured. Come on, let’s see what I can find.”
They walk together to the freezer. No Ben & Jerry’s pints. Not even one of those absurdly tiny Häagen-Dazs single-serves. She’s about to give up when she spots an open box tucked in the back. Dark Chocolate-Dipped Strawberry Gelato Godiva bars. Sounds like an aphrodisiac on a stick.
She opens the box and finds a single wrapped bar inside. Holding it up between them, she sighs, giving him a rather convincing frown. “Bad news. Only one left.”
Clark smirks upon hearing the report. “My, Lois. I didn’t know you had such a strong sweet tooth.”
She puts a hand over her chest, feigning offense. “This was over the course of a week,” she counters, grinning. “I don’t exactly make a habit of eating entire boxes of ice cream bars like you might. But we all deserve a treat once in a while, don’t we?” She leans in and gives him a quick peck on the lips, hoping to shut him up for the time being.
He wholly agrees, "Yes, we do," before kissing her back, deeper this time. When they part, she finally tears open the wrapper and offers him the first bite. He leans in, slow and deliberate, taking it in while she holds it, humming at the taste and licking a bit of chocolate from his lip.
She takes her own bite next, but mid-savoring, his hands slide to her waist, large and steady, as if he’s been holding back from touching her for too long. Without warning, he lifts her onto the counter like she weighs nothing at all, kissing her like it’s the end of the world. The taste of the strawberry lingers on her tongue, but he’s even sweeter. She never would've expected this from Smallville Kent, but in fact, he seems to be quite well-versed. He knows exactly what he's doing.
She wraps her arms around him, still holding the bar, entirely distracted and content to stay in their little world until gelato starts to drip down her hand.
“Clark, the ice cream is melting,” she says quietly.
“Let it melt,” he murmurs, pulling her back in. His kiss is heady and passionate. His embrace is unshakably secure. Eventually, he does steal another bite, and soon they’ve made a mess of it. She's got chocolate and strawberry dripping down her fingers and has managed to smudge it across his chest quite a bit.
Which, of course, sparks another thought. Leaning in close, she whispers something about a shower into his ear.
His eyes darken with that yearning look she’s starting to crave. “Miss Lane—” he says, like she’s suggested the most scandalous thing in the world.
That’s what makes it exciting.
They never did make it to the shower, and she never did catch a glimpse of him without those glasses in the way— as if she even cared anymore. Instead, the sight of him wiping himself off with her kitchen rag is enough to send them migrating to the sofa, where they have plenty of fun.
There, the night turns into something far more than either of them had expected. Through raw passion, they exhaust each other, and she can confidently say it was one of the most exciting experiences of her whole life. Again, far more than she'd expected from Farmboy Kent. In fact... far more than she'd expect from anyone, really.
Sadly... all good things must come to an end.
By the time she’s nearly asleep in his arms, the dryer cycle of her 2-in-1 ends, and with it, so does the illusion of her perfect night.
As much as she doesn’t want to send him away, it’s only right. If he slept there, she might wake to some big homemade Middle-American breakfast, and she already knows he’d give her the world... and that thought terrifies her. Don’t get attached too soon, she warns herself.
She gets up, somberly pulling away from his strong grip, and makes herself decent with her throw blanket. Once she's padded across the apartment, he’s already awake, already knowing what’s coming. Still, he doesn’t seem too disappointed.
He dresses, kisses her goodnight, and leaves her with a polite, “Until next time, Miss Lane,” his tone promising more than she’s ready to admit she wants.
When the door closes, she lingers there, her back pressed to the wood, pulse still racing from being in his presence. The apartment feels cold without him.
Maybe this ‘boyfriend’ thing wouldn’t be so bad, she admits to herself. The thought is still just as frightening. But, knowing how rare a man like Clark Kent is, she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t at least give it a try.