You’re sprawled on your couch, enjoying a rare lazy afternoon. The TV hums softly in the background, showing some sci-fi rerun you’ve half-watched before. You’re dressed in nothing but a soft T-shirt and joggers, one sock missing, halfway through a bag of chips when there’s a knock at your door.

It’s Clara. Her hair’s braided to the side today, her cheeks rosy, and in her hands—two plates of cookies.

“Hey!” she beams, bouncing slightly on her heels. “I might’ve baked too many and thought you could use some.”

You blink. “You baked?”

“...I can learn,” she says, slipping past you into the living room before you can say another word.

You follow, still confused but amused. Clara doesn’t often come by without texting first. She’s dressed casually, though even in a hoodie and leggings, her body moves with graceful strength. She sinks into the couch next to you—then sinks a little closer. A little too close.

The couch groans, and you glance over. “Uh, you alright?”

“Hm?” She feigns innocence, then frowns, leaning forward and blowing a small stream of super breath down behind the couch cushions. You shiver.

“Cold?” she asks, eyes glimmering. “I could help warm you up.”

You hesitate. Clara’s close now—closer than usual. Your shoulders touch. Her thigh presses gently to yours. You can feel her body heat radiating like she’s fresh out of the dryer. She notices your glance, then suddenly gasps.

“Oh! Did I spill something? On me?” she asks, pretending to pat her thighs, chest, and stomach.

“No? I don’t think so?”

She gives a sheepish grin. “Must’ve imagined it. I’ve been kinda spacey lately. Probably distracted.”

“By what?”

She pauses. Her cheeks flush, and she smiles so softly it feels like it lands directly in your chest.

“Nothing,” she lies.

She uses another quiet breath to lower the temperature just enough that you instinctively grab the blanket draped over the couch. You wrap it around your shoulders… and she immediately leans in.

“Oh good, a blanket,” she murmurs. “Mind sharing?”

Suddenly you’re under the same blanket. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. Her leg nudges against yours again—accidentally, on purpose.

She turns toward you, and her voice drops just a little. “I always feel… safe around you. Like nothing could touch me.”

If only you knew the irony of that statement. Clara Kent, Superwoman, invincible powerhouse, was using every ounce of her control not to accidentally crush the cookie plate with her nervous strength.