Clark Kent didn’t mean for you to find him like this.

He was up early, quietly moving around the kitchen, his sleeves are rolled up, hair still a little messy from sleep. He’s got a dish towel tossed over one shoulder and a frying pan in one hand, completely focused on not messing up your eggs, or your toast, or the way he wants this to be perfect even if you never find out.

He wasn’t trying to make a big deal out of it. He just… wanted to do something nice. For you. Something quiet and simple and warm. Something that says I like you without saying it out loud.

You step into the doorway and he freezes for half a second, oops, he got caught.

Then he turns, eyes wide, cheeks pink, spatula still in hand.

“Good morning” he says, sheepish. “I, uh… I was just… making something. For you.”