Clark had known from the start that letting you invite Bruce W ayne over for dinner was a terrible idea.

Sure enough, as the evening went on, you seemed more and more taken with him. You praised his manners, laughed at his jokes, and when he stood to help clear the table, you threw Clark a look that cut deeper than kryptonite.

"Oh, look at that—Bruce helps in the kitchen. You never help in the kitchen, Clarkie."

Clark just blinked. What was Super man supposed to say to that?

But a moment later, you both heard the unmistakable sound of ceramic shattering outside. You rushed toward the noise, Clark close behind, only to find Bruce standing by the open window, casually brushing crumbs from his cuffs.

“I assumed these weren’t heirlooms,” he said smoothly, as shards of your dinnerware sparkled on the driveway below.

He opened a cupboard and tucked in an envelope. “I calculated the market value with inflation. Left a little extra for sentimental damages.”

Clark folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

Bruce shrugged. “Efficiency.”