You don’t expect him to be in your apartment when you get home. But there he is—six-foot-something of perfect posture and mild chaos—wearing your apron.

Your apron.

The smell of something slightly burned drifts from the kitchen, and a pan clatters like a guilty conscience. Clark turns around, wide-eyed and smiling like a golden retriever that knows it just knocked something over.

“I know you hate surprises,” he says, flipping a clearly overcooked pancake onto a plate with a dramatic flourish. “But today’s special.”

You blink. Set your keys down on the entry table a little too slowly. “What are you doing here?”

“Three months ago,” he says, like he’s building up to a punchline, “we had our first date. Ramen, rain, and me tripping over my own feet outside your door.”

You pause by the counter. He holds up a fork like it’s a declaration of love.

“And to celebrate,” he continues, “I am making you… your favorite.”

He gestures to the plate like Vanna White. You squint at it.

“Charred breakfast?”

“Breakfast for dinner.” He says it proudly, like it’s a love language. “That’s your favorite. You told me once when you were reorganizing your kitchen junk drawer. You said, and I quote, ‘Breakfast for dinner is the only acceptable rebellion.’”

You reach past him to open a window, letting the smoke curl out into the night air. The cool breeze licks your arms, grounding you. He leans against the counter, watching you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You were funny today,” he says after a beat, voice softer. “In the bullpen. That little back-and-forth about your article. Jimmy was eating it up.”

“I wasn’t acting, Clark.”

His smile falters.

“If you keep interviewing yourself,” you say, turning toward him, “eventually someone’s going to figure it out.”

He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that angle. But you’ve got more.

“They won’t fall for it forever,” you add. “And when they don’t, they’ll start wondering who else knew. Like, say… me.”

Clark takes one slow step toward you. “I’m trying to be careful.”

You snort. “Careful? You’ve got half the world’s press corps convinced you’ve got insider access to yourself. Ethically, Clark—it’s a nightmare. You literally know the questions in advance—”

Before you can finish the sentence, he steps right into your space. One hand slips around your waist, the other under your thighs — and without a word, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you down onto the counter beside the slightly smoking pan.

“Clark—”

You barely get his name out before he kisses you.

It’s warm and firm and maddeningly slow — like he’s been waiting all day for permission. His hands settle on your hips as yours brace against his chest, but you’re not pushing him away.

You kiss him back, because of course you do.

The apron’s ridiculous. The food is burned. And your chest is still tight from the fight you’re pretending not to have. But he tastes like maple syrup and something boyish, and you forget the rest for a second.

Then two.

Then—

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath ghosting across your lips.

“I’ll let you interview me,” he says. “For real.”

You stare at him, dazed.

He nudges his forehead to yours. “Just promise not to call me delusional again.”

You press your palms against his chest. “No promises.”

Still half-smiling, he lifts you down carefully, like you’re made of glass.

You walk ahead, pretending your heart isn’t doing somersaults. He follows behind, ditching the apron and grabbing a water bottle like it’s a press conference.

You set up your recorder on the coffee table, adjusting a stack of old magazines to prop your phone at the right angle. Clark watches from the armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like a man about to confess to something world-shattering.

When you hit record, your voice is cool. Professional.

“Superman,” you say, letting the name settle between you like a challenge.

His voice dips, playful, low.

“Ms. {{user}},” he says, and there’s a glint in his eye—half challenge, half intrigue.