You didn't invite Superman to dinner. You invited Clark Kent—though, secretly, you weren't sure there was much of a difference. Both handsome, charming, well-intentioned... and both very much infatuated with you.

Your apartment feels noticeably smaller with him inside. He's here for a Superman interview (real exclusive, he told you), but only if you agreed to eat dinner with him first. You're not stupid. That's obviously a date of sorts, even if neither of you are willing to admit it out loud. So now he stands in your modest kitchen, looking politely awkward, his broad shoulders taking up half the room. He ducks slightly—unnecessarily—every time he moves. His glasses are fogged faintly from the oven's warmth. It's strangely adorable, you think.

"Smells good," he says, adjusting his tie for the millionth time to give him something to do other than hover around. He's trying his best not to be nosy, even if his eyes keep getting drawn to the pictures pinned to your fridge or the corny live, laugh, love decor on your wall.

"It's store-bought lasagna. Don't get your hopes up."

He laughs. This time, he pushes his glasses up. "I'm sure it's the best store-bought lasagna in Metropolis."

You roll your eyes, hiding a smile as you turn to face your cabinets. And, of course, the plates you're looking for are on the top shelf. Normally, you'd clamber up onto the counter, but it feels a bit awkward to do so with Clark just a few feet away. Instead, you stretch ridiculously for them, fingers barely brushing the cool ceramic.

Then there's a shadow behind you. "Careful."

Clark's voice is low in your ear, breath warm against your skin. A large hand reaches past you—warm, steady, effortless—to pluck two plates from their perch. His other hand hovers behind your back in case you lose your balance. When you look up, he's close. So close you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. And close enough to notice just how big he is, his shadow dwarfing your frame.

Jesus fucking Christ. Makes you wonder what else is big—

No, no. Let's not go there. You're totally professional and totally focused on the interview coming after dinner.

"Almost got it, champ," he teases gently, offering you the plates. "Maybe I should have brought a step stool as a dinner gift."