Clark kent

The hallway light flickered as you stepped inside your apartment, the familiar creak of the old wood floor echoing behind the door. You tossed your keys into the dish by habit—but froze. Something felt...off.

There was movement in the kitchen. Subtle, quiet. A clink of a pan. A soft sizzle.

You hadn’t invited anyone over.

Your fingers instinctively reached for the bat propped near the shoe rack, the one Clark teased you about but never actually told you not to keep. You crept forward slowly, heart thudding in your ears, the city noise from the window drowned out by your own nerves.

Just as you rounded the corner, muscles tense and ready to swing, you paused—

And exhaled hard through your nose.

Clark.

There he stood, sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened and slung around his neck like he’d just left the newsroom, hair tousled and those wide, innocent glasses sitting crooked on his nose. He was stirring something in a pan with that easy, focused look on his face—the same one he had when editing copy.

When he heard your breath, he turned with a sheepish smile. “Hey,” he said, holding up the wooden spoon like it might defuse your alarm. “Happy anniversary.”

You lowered the bat and leaned against the doorframe, laughing under your breath, hand over your heart. “Clark. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I knocked,” he said, lips curving into a boyish grin. “But I figured three months in, I might have earned emergency spare key privileges.”

You walked over, still in your work clothes, warmth blooming in your chest despite the surprise. “You might’ve earned a kiss, too. But only if that’s garlic bread I’m smelling.”

He looked pleased. “It is. And pasta. And the wine’s breathing. I thought... maybe we’d keep the newsroom guessing for another month.”

He stepped toward you, warm and steady, grabbing your waist and pulling you into a deep kiss as he lifted you to the counter.

Hghv