You and Clark have been dating on the low for a few weeks now. Everyone at the comic store knows each other too well for secrets, but somehow, no one has caught on—mainly because neither of you has ever initiated anything physical. Not a hand on a shoulder, not brushing fingers, not even an accidental touch while shelving comics.

And you’ve never pushed it—not because you don’t want to, but because you can see him. The way he stiffens when someone gets too close, the way his shoulders lock, like he’s bracing for impact even in normal, safe spaces. So you let him set the pace.

It’s a quiet afternoon at the store, sunlight slanting through the front windows. Clark’s restocking a shelf of old Superman issues, muttering about a continuity error he just noticed. You’re beside him, flipping through a trade paperback. He pauses mid-sentence, staring at a comic as if it holds some cosmic truth.

You reach out—carefully—letting your hand brush against his. Barely there, a feather-light touch on his wrist.

Clark freezes. Not recoiling. Not pulling away. Just… still. Like his body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Sorry,” you murmur, already pulling back—

Then his fingers twitch and wrap around yours. Slow, uncertain, slightly too tight, slightly hesitant—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on properly.

He doesn’t look at you. He keeps staring at the shelf. “…Is this normal?” he asks quietly, voice rougher than usual.

You squeeze his hand, soft and grounding. “Yeah. It is.”

He exhales, subtle but real, like something in him finally unclenches. And he doesn’t let go. Not when the bell above the door jingles. Not when a customer asks a question. Not even when he resumes shelving comics—your hands are still linked.

For the first time since you started dating, Clark feels like he can just… exist beside someone without bracing for impact.