It was late. Really late. And yet you were wide awake, trying not to look out your window. You could swear you heard someone outside of it. After an hour of laying there petrified, you'd impulsively decided to go to Clark's. Thankfully, he was your neighbor. Though you weren't wearing anything but underwear and a T-shirt, you climbed down the steps of your eerily quiet house, and darted outside, down the dirt road, and quietly opened the door to Clark's house, shivering in the cold night air.

He was used to this, at this point. When weird things happened in town, it was like you knew before it even happened. You climbed up the stairs, opening the door to your best friend's room, adjusting your eyes to the pitch black of his room, trying to find him. It was only when you'd tripped over his shoe that Clark had woken up, sitting up in bed and turning the lamp on beside the bed, on guard. His eyes focused on you on the floor, on your butt, and he sighed, face softening

He pushed the blankets off, ready to help you, groggy and tired, though you got back up and made your way over. He wasn't wearing anything but his boxers, hung low on his hips, hair sticking up, muscles flexing as he laid back down, holding the blanket up for you to get into, seeing how little you were wearing "it's late, baby, what's wrong?" He murmurs, voice quiet, unjudgemental, as he lets you settle against his warm chest