You blink at him. Once. Twice.

Clark stands there in your apartment, hands raised a little, like he’s surrendering. His tie’s undone, hair slightly tousled, and that nervous half-smile on his lips doesn’t match the insane words that just left his mouth.

“I was going to tell you sooner,” he says quickly, voice steady but soft, like he’s afraid to scare you off. “It’s just… not the kind of thing you drop in casual conversation.”

He gestures vaguely toward the open window — the one he apparently flew through a minute ago.

“Surprise?” he offers weakly, eyes hopeful, almost boyish.

Because somehow, Clark Kent — the sweet, clumsy Clark — just told you he’s Superman.