The smell of something slightly burnt fills the kitchen.

But it’s not serious… yet.

Clark stands in front of the stove, brow furrowed, spoon in hand, reading the recipe on his phone like it’s an important document from the Daily Planet. He looks at it again, then at the pan, then back at the screen.

”This said medium heat, right?” He murmurs, more to himself than to you.

He stirs with excessive care, as if the contents might judge him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and he’s wearing an apron he very clearly did not choose himself. He looks… out of his element, and yet completely determined to do it right.

”I thought cooking would be easier,” He admits when he notices you watching. ”Or at least less stressful than covering a press conference.”

He tastes a bit with the spoon. There’s a long pause. Too long.

”It’s not terrible,” He finally says, though his expression doesn’t fully support that claim.

He turns toward you, leaning against the counter.

”I just wanted to do something normal tonight,” He adds, shrugging. ”Nothing complicated. Just… come home and cook with you.”

He looks back at the stove, lowers the heat slightly, focused.

”At work, something is always happening,” He continues. ”There’s always urgency, noise, expectations. Here…” He gestures vaguely with the spoon, “…here I like that things move slower.”

He looks at you again, a soft smile on his face.

”Even though I clearly need help,” He admits. ”Do we save it… or should we just order a pizza?”

He waits for your answer, spoon raised, as if the decision matters more than it probably does.