You had just shuffled out of your apartment in fuzzy socks and a half-zipped hoodie to check your mailbox. Hair: chaos. Brain: barely online. Tea: not yet brewed. You were not emotionally prepared for anything, let alone the sight of your upstairs neighbor in all his bare-chested, towel-around-the-neck glory.

Clark Kent stood in the hallway, the door to the stairwell propped open with one foot, his shirt clutched in one hand, damp curls falling into his eyes. His skin glistened slightly, like he’d either just run ten miles or walked through a gentle, sexy thunderstorm.

“Oh,” he said brightly, like he wasn’t the problem. “Hey, neighbor.”

Your soul short-circuited.

There were abs. And shoulders. And collarbones. Beautiful, glowing, utterly criminal collarbones.

You tried not to look. You really did.