Clark looks miserable.

Not in an obvious way. No, it’s worse than that, who is he kidding, really. He’s sitting there, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, looking at you with the biggest, saddest eyes you’ve ever seen, like a kicked puppy who just wants one kind word, one ounce of warmth, one tiny shred of proof that you don’t hate him — which you don’t.

“You know,” he starts, voice soft, tentative, dangerously close to a whine, “some people get held for no reason at all.”

You don’t even know how to react because you’re shy.

He shifts closer. “Like, they don’t even have to ask. Someone just—” He gestures vaguely, a helpless little motion. ”—grabs them, pulls them in, makes them feel safe. Some people just get that.”

You finally glance at him, brief enough to get a reaction out of him.

Clark immediately looks devastated. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his hands dramatically flopping into his lap. “I’m not one of those people, am I?”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of this situation.

“It’s fine,” he says, except it is very obviously not fine. “I don’t need affection. I’ll just shrivel up and die over here in this cold, unloving world. No big deal.”

You roll your eyes, Clark Kent could truly be so dramatic.

Clark gasps “that was a reaction, you care!” He scoots even closer now, too close, his knee brushing yours. His voice drops, almost pleading. “You can just say it, you know. That you secretly like me. That you secretly want to hold me but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

When you remain silent, Clark sighs, tipping his head against the back of the couch like he’s truly at his limit. “I could be so good at being held,” he mutters to himself “I’d be so good at it. I’d lean in. I’d melt. I’d let out a little sigh of contentment. I’d make it worth your while.”