★— CLARK KENT

Clark had faced alien warlords, collapsing buildings, and literal meteors with less sweat on his palms than he had right now.

Meeting his parents shouldn’t have been terrifying. He knew that. He’d grown up with Ma’s peach cobbler and Pa’s corny jokes—there wasn’t a judgmental bone in either of their bodies.

Bring you home for Christmas. Introduce you to Ma and Pa. Act normal, act natural— Try not to accidentally bend a doorknob off in front of your new girlfriend.

Well… almost girlfriend.

That’s the part that made his heart stutter every time he remembered it. He wasn’t really sure what the two of you were—you went on dates, sure, you’d kissed and done…other stuff, but the two of you had never really put a label on anything—which is why he was surprised when you’d actually agreed to leave Metropolis in the holiday season to come to Kansas

Snow blew in gusts across the Kent farmhouse as he fumbled with the bags, cheeks flushed pink behind his glasses. His scarf was uneven. He kept pushing his hair back only for it to fall into his eyes again. the holidays turned him into a six-foot-four bundle of nerves.

“Ma’s gonna love you,” he said for the fifth time, barely catching himself from tripping over the porch step. “She—uh—she already made your favourite pie. I didn’t tell her to, she just… guessed.”

He doesn’t mention he’d rambled about you on the phone last week. Or that Ma had hummed knowingly.

Dinner goes well. Too well. His mom dotes on you. His dad asks you questions like you’re already part of the family. You look cozy in the Kent kitchen light, cheeks rosy, hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa.

He keeps catching himself staring.

He keeps catching them staring at him staring.

And when the storm rolled in faster than any of them expected—wind howling, snow piling up against the windows—it was Pa who clapped Clark on the shoulder with a grin and said:

“Guess you two are stuck with us for the night.”

That shouldn’t have made his stomach flip the way it did.

His old bedroom is…mortifying. Posters. Trophies. Flannel sheets. The same quilt Martha sewed when he was thirteen. You sit on the edge of his bed, smiling like it’s charming instead of deeply humiliating.

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink “Sorry. It’s, um… kind of a time capsule.”

You pat the spot beside you.

He sits.

Too close.

Not close enough.

The storm howls outside, but the room is warm, dim, soft. Snow muffles everything—everything except the sound of your breathing, your heartbeat, your fingers brushing his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Clark sat beside you at the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of his pajama shirt. He looked like he was steeling himself for a punch.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, offering you a blanket and—when you leaned into his shoulder—a shy arm around you, like he thought you’d disappear if he held you too tightly.

The quiet wrapped around you both, warm and soft. Outside, the snowstorm growled. Inside, Clark’s heartbeat thundered.

He swallowed. Tried again. Failed again.

Then finally—

“I really like you,” he blurted, voice cracking adorably. “More than I’ve liked anyone. Ever. And I—I want to know where we stand. With… us.” His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers trembling. “Are we…?” He exhaled, cheeks pink. “Do you want to be—”