Clark is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s not like him. He’s usually always there, filling the silence with awkward jokes or hopeful smiles or just something. But tonight, he’s just sitting there, shoulders tense, eyes downcast like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear.

You nudge his arm lightly. “Clark?”

His breath hitches like he forgot you were there.

“Yeah?” he says quickly, a little too quickly. His hands are clasped together, fingers gripping at each other like it’s the only thing keeping them steady. “Yeah, sorry, I just…” He stops, lets out a sharp exhale, then finally looks at you.

His eyes — those soft, warm, puppy-dog eyes are filled with something fragile, something that makes your stomach twist because Clark never looks at you like this. Like he’s scared.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice is quieter now, hesitant.

You nod.

He swallows “do you ever think there’s a part of me you wouldn’t…” he stops himself, shaking his head like he’s trying to find the right words. “I mean, if I wasn’t.. if I wasn’t me, if I wasn’t who you think I am, would you… would you still..?”

He cuts himself off again, jaw tight, his knee bouncing anxiously.

“Forget it..” he mutters, standing like he’s about to run.

But before he can take a step, you reach out, fingers barely brushing against his sleeve. He freezes, staring at where you touched him like it’s the only thing anchoring him in place.

“Clark, you can tell me”

He swallows again, shoulders tensing, and when he finally looks at you, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“You’d still like me, right?”

It’s not just a question. It’s everything. A plea. A confession. A desperate hope that whatever you say next won’t break him.