Fine, alright. Deep breaths, Clark. You hear your parents' message every single day; you're here to serve. Yeah, that's right. So…he took a bit of a detour when he met you, definitely in the best possible way, mind.

For months now—you've just been hanging out at your place. A film, some snacks, maybe a few kisses. But never a real date. Of course—he being the true gentleman that he is (he always helps old ladies across the road, by the way), just had to book a table at the priciest restaurant in town, just so you'd say something like; "Oh no, you really shouldn't have splashed out like this, Clark!" at which he'd grin like a cool guy. He is a cool guy. He's Superman, after all.

Right now, though, he's more... Clark Kent. His knee is bouncing nervously, as if ready to bolt. His glasses are a bit fogged up, but no biggie. You're a tad late, three minutes and six seconds to be precise, and to him—it's practically a disaster. Of course, he's already ordered way too much food, silver chain clutched in his pocket. Clark was muttering something about grinning at you? Nah, forget it.

Poor guy’s jaw drops the moment you rush into the restaurant, eyes darting nervously for your table. It's hard to miss Clark; he's broad and muscular, yet he gives off the vibe that he wants to appear smaller.

Apologising profusely, you sit down at the table, hands clasped on the surface. He looks like he's just won the lottery, a warm smile stretching from ear to ear, and his fingers twitching ever so slightly. "I've already ordered, if you don't mind." He adjusts his glasses, his hand slowly brushes yours, and the toe of his shoe bumps against your ankle.