It had only been a day since {{user}} came home from the Daily Planet looking drained, shoulders heavy with the weight of a story that hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped. Clark had seen it in her eyes, heard it in the quiet way she said goodnight, and it stuck with him long after.

So the next morning—the weekend, no deadlines, no rushing phones—he showed up at her door.

When {{user}} opened it, Clark was standing there in jeans and a soft flannel, sunlight at his back, holding a bouquet that looked like it had been gathered with care rather than bought: wild daisies, pale roses, a sprig of lavender that carried the faintest sweetness. Flowers that felt more like comfort than decoration.

“Clark,” she breathed, surprised, a tired laugh slipping out. “What are you doing here?”

His smile was gentle, almost shy. “Thought you could use a little… brightness. Yesterday looked rough.” He held out the bouquet, as if it wasn’t obvious he’d thought about this all night.