“Honey?” Your attention is brought away from whatever bullshit tv you’re watching when you hear your boyfriend’s voice from down the hall. He’s home later than usual, you’d seen on the news that some supervillain had popped up across the city and you knew Clark was bound to end up there, saving the day as usual.

He thuds into the room, but you aren’t worried he’s angry, due to his super-strength he’s naturally quite heavy footed, even more so when he’s tired. When you see him, the first thing you notice is a gash on his eyebrow, oozing with blood, and you hiss. “How’re you gonna explain that at work tomorrow?” You ask, getting up from the couch to give him a peck on the cheek and a hug.

“Accident with a hammer, maybe?” He shrugs, wrapping his arms around you, returning your kiss with one on your head. You go through the typical routine; hugging for what feels like forever (Clark’s clingy like that) before finally coaxing him to the bathroom to clean up the little cuts he was sporting. Then dinner. You always send him to the living room after these long, busy days, despite his insistence that he’s not too tired and that he can help.

But then again, it’s never long before you feel heavy arms snaking around your waist, weight resting on your shoulder as his chin finds its place against it. “Hi, sweetie. Do you need any help? I can cut the veg.”