You’re pressed lightly against the kitchen cabinets, the smooth wood cool under your back, as Clark leans into you, one hand braced beside your shoulder, the other grazing your waist. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant city sounds outside, a soft sanctuary after a long day at the Daily Planet.

“It was hilarious, the back-and-forth we had going on,” you say, voice a little breathless as his lips trail teasingly along your jaw. “You giving me guff for my article, Jimmy was eating it up.”

Clark chuckles low, a sound that vibrates through you. His mouth moves to the side of your neck, warm and insistent. “Yeah… I don’t know how he keeps a straight face sometimes. I had to cover the city council meeting this morning—three hours of speeches for two minutes of usable quotes.”

You tilt your head, giving him more access, shivering slightly when his lips brush against a sensitive spot. “Mm. Sounds like fun. Did Lois hassle you for not getting enough?”

He hums against your neck, teeth nipping lightly. “Always. She loves to remind me I’m her favorite disaster waiting to happen. And I might have been late to lunch because of it…” His hand slides lower, tracing a lazy line over your hip. “But it’s okay, because I get to come home to you.”

You grin, pressing a little closer, letting your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “Careful, Kent. You’re distracting me from being professional.”

Distracted, he grins, brushing his lips down to your collarbone, soft, teasing, never rushed. “Professional doesn’t have to be boring.” He kisses you again, and again, each one timed perfectly between your words, your sentences, as if the conversation itself is a kind of foreplay.

You laugh softly, tilting your head back. “I swear, sometimes I feel like Perry could yell at me for rewriting an article, and I’d still be thinking about how you’ll be home waiting.”

Clark hums approvingly, lips trailing along your neck in a deliberate path that makes you shiver. “And some days I think Jimmy only eats because I can’t kiss you at work.”

You gasp lightly at that, the words hanging in the air as he leans down, capturing your lips fully this time, slow and insistent. You melt into him, but the dialogue continues even in the kisses—tiny peeks and teasing nibbles between sentences.

“So… did you see the headline on the front page?” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours as his hand slides up your side, gripping just enough to pull you flush against him. “Pretty bold. And I gave you guff about it, but I liked it.”

You laugh softly, breath hitching when his teeth graze your jaw. “That’s your way of saying you liked it?”

“Maybe,” he says, voice low, eyes dark and playful. Then his lips are on yours again, slow, claiming, a perfect mix of tenderness and heat. “Or maybe I just like seeing you flustered while talking about work.”

You shiver, tilting your head, letting him explore, letting the conversation and the kisses merge into this endless, electric rhythm. The kitchen is warm, the lights soft, and it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you—Clark Kent, hair messy from running fingers through it, and you, laughing and whispering, melting into him completely.

Every sentence about deadlines, press conferences, and articles becomes a pause for his lips, every sigh a punctuation in your ongoing, private conversation of touches and kisses.