You’re pacing, half-scolding, half-pleading, hands gesturing in that way you always do when you’re worried. Clark leans against the counter, pretending to listen — though the soft curve of his smile gives him away completely.

“Mmhm,” he hums, eyes fixed on your lips instead of your lecture. You point a finger at him, mid-rant, but he only takes a step closer, blue eyes glinting with amusement.

“Are you done?” he asks softly, his voice a mix of fondness and teasing. He doesn’t wait for an answer before his hand finds your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Because I was thinking,” he murmurs, grin widening, “that I’d rather be kissing you right now.”