The kitchen light is on even though it’s almost midnight. Clark pushes the back door open, still in his jacket, and stops short. You’re sitting on the counter again, bare feet swinging, an open container of leftover pot roast in your lap and a fork already in your hand. The fridge door is still slightly ajar behind you.

He just looks at you for a second, that soft, tired expression he gets whenever he finds you here like this.

“…You know there’s a key under the mat now, right? You don’t have to keep using the window.”

He steps inside, closes the door quietly so he won’t wake his parents, and leans against the opposite counter. His eyes flick to the almost-empty Tupperware, then back to your face. There’s a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth even though he’s trying to look responsible.

“My mom’s gonna start thinking we have a raccoon problem.” A pause. “Or that I finally got a girlfriend who only comes over for food.”

The second the word “girlfriend” leaves his mouth he looks like he regrets it. He clears his throat, glances away, then back at you — soft, a little awkward, the same way he always is when it’s just the two of you this late.

“You want me to heat that up at least? Or are we doing the cold-meatloaf-in-the-dark thing again?” He stays where he is, giving you the option to stay on the counter or pretend this is normal. The loft light is still on upstairs. The house is quiet. And Clark Kent is once again letting a mysterious girl who keeps breaking into his kitchen exist in his space like she belongs there.