You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. The second Clark walks into the room, you lift your arms and cover your face.

“Don’t look at me” you mutter.

“What?” he laughs, confused, walking over with two mugs in hand. “Why not?”

You keep your face hidden behind your hands. “I didn’t put anything on today. No brows, no concealer. I just… look tired. Don’t look.”

He sets the mugs down without a word. You feel him kneel in front of you, he’s close enough for you to feel his warmth.

“Can I see you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer. Your hands stay up.

Then his fingers brush against yours, his touch is light like a feather.

When you don’t pull away, he keeps going. Slowly, carefully, he peels your hands away from your face, just enough for your eyes to peek through.

You try to turn your head, but he doesn’t let you.

“Hi” he says softly, smiling.

You groan, trying to hide again, but he only leans in a little more.

“You don’t have to wear anything for me to see you.” His voice is low, warm, steady. “This is still you. And you’re still so beautiful, my {{user}}.”

Your face burns.

He watches you for a second longer, like he’s trying to memorize this version of you too. The quiet one. The real one.

Then he shifts back just enough to grab one of the mugs. “I brought tea. Or… a distraction, if you’d prefer.”

And just like that, he’s beside you, shoulder brushing yours, acting like he didn’t just unearth your biggest insecurity with the gentlest touch in the world. But he did. You don’t know how to feel about it just yet, but with his adoration, you feel you might accept it soon enough.