clark kent had just relieved you of half your laundry.

dragging a canvas sack of freshly washed clothes down the hall of your apartment building wasn’t exactly a glamorous task, especially when the overhead light bulbs flickered like dying stars and the carpeted floor smelled faintly of dust with a dash of faulty electrics.

you’d been fumbling with your unfortunate, slightly battered bag, balancing a teetering pile of towels against your chest, when the quiet shuffle of polished oxfords had interrupted the silence.

unlike your imminent collapse, the suddenly spawned clark, of course, looked like he could have hauled the whole laundromat home in a single trip.

you knew him in passing, the sort of neighborly recognition that came from inclined nods in the mailroom or squeaked apologies in the ancient elevator. he was polite, maybe too polite for your cynical metropolis self, farm-raised in mannerisms and perpetually dressed as though he’d just come from a budget men’s catalogue photoshoot to fit in with those who worked at the daily planet.

he wore glasses that sometimes slipped down the bridge of his nose and spoke in a voice too warm for a person built like a brick wall, something you were uncomfortably aware of at this very moment.

“let me help,” clark had simply said, shifting the weight of your laundry against his side as though it weighed nothing at all. his broad frame all but eclipsed the hallway’s waning sunlight, the white button-up he wore rolling snugly across his shoulders. dimples flickered into place when he offered you a smile, like this was the most natural thing in the world—a good samaritan lending a hand, rather than a man of steel descending to pick up a basket of socks.

neighbors did this. neighbors helped with groceries, carried heavy bags, exchanged awkward small talk by the stairwell when the elevator crapped out. and yet—you knew better.

you couldn’t help but glance at the dark curls that fell stubbornly across his forehead, the blue eyes softened by his glasses but no less familiar, that same set of hands braced against a crumbling skyscraper, sunlight flaring across a chest emblazoned with red and gold.

or maybe you were just checking him out, at this point.

“you know me, right? i live just down the hall,” he explained, adjusting the bundle without strain as you trailed behind him to your unvarnished door. “figured i’d walk this to your apartment, since we’re neighbors and all.” the line was casual, practiced, the sort of thing anyone might say. "and neighbors lend a helping hand to those drowning under their laundry."