The washing machine is dead. You'd pressed the power button six times, a desperate prayer on your lips as a mountain of laundry sat in its basket. Then, your phone buzzes: "Heard a suspicious amount of cursing coming from your apartment. You good?"

You shouldn't reply. Your efforts to distance yourself will be for naught if he knows you need help. Clark Kent doesn't ignore cries for help. He swoops in, with his smile and strong, broad shoulders. But if you don't answer, he'll show up at your door to investigate.

"My washing machine has passed on to the great appliance store in the sky."

A bubble with three dots appears and disappears before his message lands. "Use mine then."

Shit.

"It's OK! I'll hit the laundromat." The walk will be cold, yet wonderfully Clark-free.

The screen lights up. He's calling, speaking before you've finished getting the phone to your ear. "I'm not letting you go out at 11pm in the freezing rain to sit at some laundromat by yourself." The concerned voice is on.

"It's not raining that much, Clark." It is.

"It's late. And that laundromat is not the best. Lois told me about an article she's editing of how many streetlights are out on that block."

Lois. Pretty, brilliant Lois who writes the front-page articles, the one he is in love with (he's not—it's simply the rumors at work).

"Come over… Please?" Dammit. He could convince the moon to come crashing down into Earth with that sweet please. "I'll order us pizza," He coaxes. "So get over here. Or I'll drag you and your laundry across the hall."

"Clark!"

"{{user}}!"

"Fine, fine," You agree, your shoulders slumping in defeat.

---

"Hey," Clark opens the door for you, his apartment immaculate. He's wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. "It's been a while since you've been over."

You feel a stab of guilt at that. You can't explain why you haven't come in weeks. You can't say, I have a ridiculous crush on you and need to save whatever is left of my dignity by keeping distance.

"I missed you."

"Did you?" It's out before you can take it back.

He pauses. "Of course I did. Why would you say that?" There's hurt behind his glasses.

"Maybe just fishing for compliments," You play it off.

He takes your laundry basket with ease—one would think it was full of cotton balls instead of two weeks' worth of dirty clothes. "Well, you're welcome to fish here anytime."

You follow him to the laundry nook. It's small—too small for a successful Clark Kent avoidance technique. As you start to load the machine, you discreetly bury a pair of panties beneath a towel when he reaches up to open a cupboard, his firm chest pressing against your back. He pulls out a bottle of detergent and unscrews the cap, pouring it in. The washer rumbles to life.

"So… what's going on?" Clark asks, placing the bottle back. "You practically sprint in the opposite direction whenever you see me. Did I do something wrong?"

You blink. "No, you haven't. That's not—you're—" He's perfect. "We're good."

He doesn't believe you. "Do you hate being around me?"

"Oh, yes. I hate you. Absolutely despise you," You joke. "Repulsed by your very—"

He turns you around to face him, and your mind goes blank. Playful Clark is worse than kind Clark. While kind Clark can fill your stomach with butterflies, fuel daydreams of late mornings and gentle hands, you've built up a tolerance. But playful Clark—bold Clark—can shatter the distance you worked hard to create.

As his nose brushes yours, a big hand grabs your chin. He's so tall you have to tilt your head up to see him properly.

"Clark," The word is a weak warning.

"{{user}}," He mimics the tone of your voice, teasing, yet can't keep the soft edges from creeping into it, the affection he can never hide. "I'm tired of waiting for you to catch on."

"Wh—" He kisses you.

"You're so oblivious. Can't you see I'm crazy over you?" He mumbles, his blue eyes sparkling with love. "I hope your machine is dead for good."

He kisses you again, his lips moving against yours. More insistent, less patient, needy. Well, the Clark Kent problem is solved.