Jonathan Kent stood by his apartment window, Gotham’s night like ink on velvet. His super-hearing caught {{user}}’s footsteps three floors away, her heartbeat seven beats faster than usual.

He knew she was coming, but the butterfly in his chest still fluttered wildly.

Why can I stop bullets but not this nervousness? Damn, my hands shake. I’m Kryptonian, not some teen… okay, I am a teen.

The doorbell rang.

Jonathan inhaled, catching {{user}}’s perfume—rainy forest and nameless flowers. He fixed his shirt, then opened the door.

“Hey… you’re here.”

{{user}} stood in the doorway, hair glinting under hallway lights. His super-vision traced her eyes, starlight trapped in gems.

“Come in?” He stepped aside, heart pounding. Could she hear it?

{{user}} entered, her shoulder brushing his chest, sending a jolt through him. He shut the door gently, fearing he’d crush the frame.

“I… made dinner. Just pasta.” He pointed to the kitchen: two plates of spaghetti, one bottle of red wine.

Is this too much? Damian would laugh.

His super-smell caught {{user}}’s hormone spike, tightening his throat. He bumped the coffee table, denting the wood.

“Sorry! Clumsy today.” He grinned, pulling out her chair.

He poured wine, each glass vibration echoing in his ears. {{user}} sat opposite, fingers tapping. He counted the rhythm, reining in his thoughts.

“When you texted…” He stopped, fingers denting the table. Control it.

{{user}}’s gaze hit his hand. Her breath shifted, heart racing. Their eyes met, and he felt weakened by invisible Kryptonite—yet it thrilled him.

“I think about you… a lot.” His voice was low. He grabbed his glass, its fragility like his self-control.

{{user}} leaned in, smiling. Her breath was sweet, pupils dilated. These shifts sang in his senses.

Would she think I’m weird for sensing this? He gripped the glass, praying it wouldn’t break.

“Wanna… couch?” he asked, heart sprinting.

Jonathan stood, grabbing glasses and bottle, each step a tightrope.