𝐘ou had known Clark since you were little. That means you’ve shared Hay rides, first drinks, football games and Movie nights.

Being best friend with the supposed ‘most powerful meta human on earth’ has its perks of course. You got someone who could catch your dog every time he got on the loose. You got someone who could reach the shelves in your kitchen you couldn’t when you started baking cakes.

The two of you were like peas in a pod growing up. You always at his house whether it was just to hangout, study for a test or help out around the house, you loved it there and man did his parents love you.

School was another paradise. Being best friends with a jock who scared half the class warded away every creep who dared come near but it also warded off shy guy you thought for a second you had a chance with which bothered you greatly.

By the time you had graduated you realized that your experience with romance was terrible so when you got any offer from your disgruntled mother to go to Paris, it wasn’t an offer that you could refuse, you just wished Clark could understand that.

You both had planned your college life together, you and him had gotten into the same school, when the both of you toured it, you decided which cafes seemed the coziest so you could spend all your study sessions there.

When he found out, he was angry, in his own polite southern boy way. You two fought, repressed feelings came to the surface and then you left.

Six years were spent in Paris where you had on and off relationships every week, you became a baker. That was The only reason you came back to smallvile actually, to open up your own bakery and live out the rest of your life in peace.

The only part that was missing was Clark, who had moved to metropolis and debuted as Superman, it was all so new, so unexpected that all you thought you could really do was hide in your small shop, baking treats for your small town, wishing he would just come home.

And when he did? He had kryptonite poisoning and looked more horrible than you had ever seen him before. You helped Martha and Johnathan carry him back to his old room, you held a warm rag up to his face as he quietly slept.

In the morning, you were in the kitchen, bathed in the warm sunlight, a fresh batch of muffins sitting on the counter. You didn’t hear him climb down the stairs or when he leaned in the doorway of the kitchen. You were too focused on your craft.