The door shuts harder than you mean it to when you step inside your apartment. You’ve been stewing all day, the image of Lois leaning just a little too close to Clark at the bullpen replaying in your head. She wasn’t flirting—you know she wasn’t—but the fact that he’s Clark Kent and oblivious to how people look at him has your stomach twisted.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls from the kitchen, like nothing’s wrong. He’s loosening his tie, rolling up his sleeves, that boyish smile already tugging at his mouth. “You should’ve seen the chaos Perry had us in—Jimmy dropped coffee all over the—”

You don’t let him finish. Your bag hits the floor, and before he can process, you’re on him—hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him down for a kiss that’s more frustration than greeting. His glasses nearly slip off.

Clark blinks, surprised, but doesn’t pull back. He chuckles softly against your mouth. “Rough day?”

You don’t answer, too busy pushing his jacket off his shoulders, fingers already working at his buttons. He keeps talking like it’s perfectly normal, like you’re not practically tearing his clothes off.

“Anyway—Jimmy, poor kid, he was mortified. Perry chewed him out for five minutes straight…” His voice dips as your lips trail down his throat. “And Lois—mm—you should’ve seen her face when Perry mixed up her draft with mine…”

“Clark,” you murmur against his skin, voice tight.

“Hmm?” He sounds amused, like he knows exactly what you’re doing but refuses to break stride. His hands settle on your hips, steady but not stopping you as you push his shirt open, palms sliding over warm skin and hard muscle.

You kiss down to his collarbone, biting lightly, your jealousy boiling over. “Don’t talk about her.”

That earns you a low laugh. He tilts your chin up, kissing you slow, deep, deliberate—reminding you who he’s coming home to. When he pulls back, he’s breathless but still teasing.