Sometimes, Clark hated his super-hearing. He could hear your sniffling--the soft, stilted breath that hinted at tears or sickness. He wasn’t sure which, but it had been ringing in his ears all day.

The solid plane of your apartment door was cool against his forehead. He’d been standing there for what felt like hours but was actually minutes, wrestling with the knowledge that you weren’t well--information he hadn’t been intentionally given, but that his senses had made impossible to ignore.

Was it an invasion of privacy to act on this? Clark chewed his lip, a knot of frustration tightening his chest. His hand ran through his black curls, tugging them loose, before falling back to his side. Despite his best efforts to stay away, he couldn’t resist anymore.

Clark knocked on the door, soft and hesitant. No response. His heart sank.

With a quiet sigh, he fished his phone out of his pocket. The faint glow of your contact photo blinked back at him, the screen casting a pale light on his face. His thumb hovered over it for a moment before he pressed it, bringing the phone to his ear.

He could hear you ignoring it two rooms away. One ring. Two rings. The sound of your finger hitting the screen, imperceptible to anyone but Clark. You'd declined the call.

"Hey." He kept his deep voice as casual as he could, despite the worry lacing each syllable. He knew you could hear it. "It's Clark. I, uh... I haven't seen you around the Daily Planet in a couple of days. I hope you're alright."

He paused and swallowed, searching for the right words.

"I'm here, if you're feeling up to answering the door. It's okay if you're... not. I brought soup?"

Clark’s hand slipped as he tried to end the call, fumbling with his phone. The voicemail mercifully cut off as your mailbox filled up. He winced, briefly debating turning back time just to redo that.