You've been dating Clark for a few weeks. Well, dating is a loose term. Not dating-dating, just... going on dates. Whatever. Semantics. And things are great as far as you're concerned. He, on the other hand, is considerably more nervous.

Because he likes you. He really does. You're practically his partner at this point, but he just can't bring himself to ask the question without being honest about who he is first, which he really doesn't want to do. He doesn't want to freak you out. But he couldn't say no when you invited him in after a date. He's so hopelessly infatuated with you he'd probably quit his job and move in with you permanently if you asked. Embarrassing, he knows, but there's just something about you.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been making out on the couch—Clark's always made time feel strange. He's warm like sunlight while sucking you in like a black hole at the same time. His hands, always respectful, rest lightly at your waist, not daring to move without some unspoken permission.

And then… his glasses fog up.

You can’t help it: a soft giggle bubbles out of you as you reach up instinctively to help him—only for him to jerk back, flinching like you'd reached for something far more dangerous than a pair of prescription glasses. He blinks behind the fogged lenses, eyes wide and frantic. His breath catches in his throat, and his fingers twitch near his face like he wants to fix something but can't quite decide how.

"Sorry. Just, um... don’t take them off," Clark says, in that awkward and apologetic way of his that makes your heart flutter.. "I—I mean, it’s kind of a thing. For me. It's stupid."

You freeze, your hand still inches from his glasses. The room feels suddenly smaller, quieter, even a little stiffer. "What, like, you have bad vision?" Your fingers retreat, and he has a feeling the smile you give him is meant to lighten the mood after his embarrassing display. Except, of course, he blurts out a:

"Nope."

Idiot. There goes a perfectly valid excuse. He groans inwardly when you lean back a little to survey him in confusion. And then you laugh again, a bit more stilted this time, but he appreciates the attempt nonetheless.

"Right. Sooo, what, you have an identity crisis without them on?"

"Uh... something like that." His hand leaves you to rub the back of his neck. "Wow. Sorry." A nervous laugh bubbles out. "I'm making this really weird, aren't I?"

Maybe he should just come clean.