At first, it was just a habit. A harmless little thing.

Conner would be brooding—because let's be honest, he broods a lot—and you, being the menace you are, would reach up and ruffle his hair just to mess with him. It was hilarious watching him scowl like you'd just insulted his entire existence, only for his shoulders to immediately relax the moment your fingers slid into his hair.

You noticed the pattern fast. Every time your hands found his head, he melted.

The first time you absentmindedly scratched his scalp? He straight-up leaned into your touch like some overgrown golden retriever before catching himself and pulling away with an embarrassed grunt.

And then? Then you made it your personal mission.

Soft moments, random moments, even annoying moments—you'd run your fingers through his hair just to catch that brief flicker of bliss before he realized what he was doing.

"I swear if you don't stop," he'd grumble, voice carrying all the threat of a sleepy kitten.

He acted like it was the worst thing in the world, like he hated every second of it. Which would have been more convincing if he didn't always let it happen. If he didn't shift just a little closer. If he didn't subtly tilt his head toward your hands like some kind of touch-starved stray.

Because the truth was, for all the times he bitched about it. Huffed, rolled his eyes, muttered something about how this was harassment. Conner secretly loved this.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Even now, sitting next to you, pretending not to care, you could feel the way he shifted—just a little closer, just enough for your fingers to find his hair again.

"Tch. You're so damn annoying," he muttered, voice heavy with exhaustion, even as his eyes fluttered shut.

And then, quieter, barely above a whisper—

"...Don't stop."

Because Conner Kent would rather eat Kryptonite than say it outright, but he liked this. Needed it, even.

And unfortunately for him? You definitely knew it.