Work Text:
Something’s missing.
You’ve been bent over your stove for the past hour, tweaking your take on the classic Béarnaise sauce, but it’s missing something.
Something you think you may never find.
With a deep sigh, you look around at the Béarnaise sauce graveyard you’re in.
You had to get this right.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’re under immense pressure, not just from yourself, and the expectations you’ve built up in your own mind. Maybe that’s why nothing makes sense right now.
You take another spoonful, tasting, letting it coat your tongue, thinking that maybe this time, something will click. But no.
It still feels hollow.
You stare at the pan, at the slow swirl of butter and egg and vinegar, and feel like giving up.
Before you can continue to beat yourself up looking for answers, you hear the familiar squeak of the kitchen door.
There stands Lois, hands on her hips, like she knows you’ve been driving yourself into the ground.
“You okay?” she asks, concerned. Without which you would have kept spiralling, or be found under a pile of dirty pans and half-finished sauces.
“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud.”
“I’m sure you’re being dramatic.”
“Am not. This stupid sauce is missing something,” you reply with a pout. You grab a fresh spoon, handing it to her. “Try it. It’s supposed to go with the porterhouse.”
She takes the spoon, blows on it slightly, and tastes, her expression softening instantly. That small look of satisfaction, that’s why you got into cooking. To make people happy.
“I may not have your highly trained palate, but I think it tastes delicious.”
“You’re too kind,” you mutter with a light giggle. You knew she’d say that, though it doesn’t bring you closer to what you're missing.
It’s not just the Béarnaise, it’s most of the menu. The restaurant has been steady, reliable to a fault, a well-oiled machine; you have a brigade of talented chefs who execute every dish with precision, though some of this place’s joie de vivre has gone.
That fresh spark is fading, and ideas are starting to feel recycled.
You knew that it was bound to happen, but only three years in? The stress of it was starting to gobble you up, feet first. If you didn’t shake things up, business would slow to a crawl.
You just knew it, it's a fickle business that thrives on innovation. But you could get it back, you just needed to keep trying, keep pushing, keep—
You hear a shuffle in the main restaurant and look towards the door.
“Is someone else here?” you ask inquisitively.
“Sorry, I brought my coworker with me. We were on our way to a café to work on an article when I thought I should drop by and check on you.”
“You’re not going to a café. Let me cook for you and your friend,” you demand, practically decided on the matter.
“I couldn’t—”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Aren’t you under enough pressure?”
“It’ll be good practice. You could be my little guinea pigs.”
Lois hesitates, studying your face, as if she’s trying to calculate how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten from a single look.
“You sure about that?”
You wipe your hands on a towel, already reaching for a fresh pan, ready to cook your heart out.
“I need this. Just something simple, y’know. Cooking for friends.”
“Alright,” she says, a small smile breaking through. “But if I get food poisoning, I’m writing about it.”
“Very funny.”
***
Clark waits by one of the tables, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When Lois asked if they could drop by her friend’s restaurant, he agreed.
“She’ll probably be cooking herself into a coma right about now,” she told him.
It’s a beautiful place, intimate without feeling too small. He can’t believe he hadn’t come across it sooner. From the softly painted mural of the sky at sunset stretching across the ceiling to the polished wood of the tables and bar. It felt warm, lived-in even.
His ears perk up when you start to speak.
“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud,” he hears you lament.
Your voice…there's something about it. Clark feels his heart skip a beat. He's only heard you speak once, but it's like a hit of dopamine.
He tunes back in to hear Lois compliment your cooking.
“You’re too kind,” you say in response, followed by a soft giggle. Clark feels the tips of his ears start to turn a soft pink.
He wasn’t trying to listen. Really. But his super hearing didn’t seem to want to turn itself off all of a sudden. Complete coincidence.
Though it doesn't hurt that the tones of your voice float through his head like a melody. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something private.
He tunes the rest of the conversation out, focusing on the traffic outside and the light rain just starting to hit the pavement.
Lois exits the kitchen and makes her way over, weaving easily between the tables. “My friend says we can stay and write here if you want.”
“Oh, uh, how kind of her.”
“Yeah, she’ll cook for us too, and before you try and protest, I’ve already tried to convince her not to, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”
They settle down at a table, the cutlery neatly aligned and cute placemats matching the mural above them.
He listens in again and hears your little mutterings to yourself, “Where did I put the shallots?” and “I need to put an order in for more tarragon…”
“Where are you?” Lois asks teasingly as she waves a hand in front of his face. Had he gotten caught swooning over a person he hadn’t even met yet?
“Just thinking, is all.”
It’s not a complete lie, just a lie by omission.
With a deep breath like you’ve been running all over your kitchen, you step out into the main dining room area. Clark hears your footsteps before he sees you, light and swift.
You come into view with a smile like sunshine, and it’s like he forgets to breathe.
“You must be Clark. Forgive me for trapping you in my restaurant, but now that you’re here, I refuse to let either of you leave hungry.”
For a second, he just… stares.
Then, as if remembering how words work, he straightens, nearly knocking his knee against the table in the process.
“Oh—no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, fumbling with his glasses again, a faint flush still clinging to his ears. “Better than fine. Great.”
Lois snorts under her breath.
“You should’ve heard her five minutes ago,” she adds, leaning back in her chair. “On the brink of a total meltdown.”
“Lois,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.
You turn your attention back to Clark. “So what sort of food do you like?”
“I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
You pause for a moment to look him over and attempt to read his mind. With a soft hum, you note his slightly hunched posture, his kind blue eyes behind his glasses, the way he seems both confident and yet a little unsure of where to put his hands.
An interesting case.
“You probably wouldn’t like something super avant-garde, so I’ll leave the molecular gastronomy alone. How about something warm and comforting? You’re a real home-cooked meal kind of guy, right?”
“Right on the money.”
“I can work with that. Any allergies I need to be aware of? I don’t want to kill you, talk about a bad first impression,” you chuckle nervously.
“No allergies I know of.”
You give him a nod, already filing things away. “And the usual for you, Lois?”
“You know me so well.”
“Well…you’re such a Metropolis girl. Your order isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lois calls after you, only a little offended, as you walk away toward the kitchen.
Clark follows you with his eyes until you disappear behind those silver doors.
And without meaning to, he's counting down the minutes until he can see you again.
***
You cooked up a little storm in there. A carrot or two may have gone flying, but it was fun, though, no pressure of trying to be the most inventive chef Metropolis has ever seen.
You lay the plates in front of them, that small pit of dread in your stomach as you debate whether they’ll like it or not. It sucks how your perfectionism can’t seem to let you go, or maybe it’s just a bout of imposter syndrome, or even better, a wonderful mix of both.
Though judging by the look on Clark’s face, you have nothing to worry about.
“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but… dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”
“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder.
“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.
“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”
“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.
You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it.
Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?
After much deliberation, you call her the next day to find out more about this classically handsome man.
The phone trolls for a few moments before she picks up with a tired “hello”.
“Lois, what the fuck?”
“What did I do?” she groans, no doubt running a hand through her hair. You're constantly stressing her out like this.
“Be honest with me.”
“Always.”
“Clark.”
“...Uh huh?”
“Are you tapping that?”
There’s a beat of silence so complete you can practically hear her blinking through the phone.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Come on! You said you’d be honest with me.”
“He’s single. Happy now?”
You kick the air in your kitchen like it personally offended you, grinning despite yourself.
“…very.”
“Is that the only reason you called me?”
“Uh… no? I wanted to check in on my best friend—”
“You’re so transparent,” she cuts in, amused. “Go back to cooking and daydreaming about Kent.”
“That’s not—”
The line goes dead mid-protest. You stare at your phone for a second, then lower it slowly.
“…Rude,” you mutter.
You glance back toward your stove and a smile blooms on your face. You had every reason to celebrate.
He’s single.
***
He really wants to see you again.
You’ve stayed in his mind for the past few days; whenever his mind was idle, it would all somehow circle back to you. Your nervous monologuing in the kitchen as you cooked, the soft laugh you tried to hide behind your hand, the way your heart skipped a beat when he complimented your food. His might have even skipped a beat too in response.
He’s even gone by your restaurant for dinner… more than once.
“Any exciting plans tonight, Clark?” Jimmy asks, spinning slightly in his chair.
“I think I might drop by Sky Avenue,” he muses casually.
“Wouldn’t this be the fourth time you’ve been there this week?” Jimmy asks with a raised brow, every thought clear as day.
He thinks he’s crazy and maybe he’s right.
“It's a nice restaurant.”
Admittedly, he’s never been the type to frequent the same place over and over, but there’s just something about the food you make. It’s like one bite could transport him somewhere completely new, somewhere where the sun always shines and the air smells of roses; somewhere closer to you.
“You should join me. The food there is really good. Lois can vouch for it.”
“Uh huh. The food,” Jimmy grins.
Clark exhales through his nose, already regretting opening his mouth.
“Yes, Jimmy. The food.”
“Right,” Jimmy says, unconvinced. “And I suppose the chef has nothing to do with it?”
Clark doesn’t answer right away. He just fumbles with his tie a little, loosening it unnecessarily.
“…She’s talented.”
Jimmy laughs at his coy response; he’s more obvious than he thought. Turns out, when it comes to you, Clark can't hide a thing. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve been there three times in one week, and you want to go a fourth.”
“It’s a nice restaurant,” he asserts again.
***
The two of them sit by the window, the restaurant bustling, the sound of good conversation and the smell of good food in the air.
It’s strange just how at ease Clark feels here, like he’s seeing into a world you’ve created for others to enjoy.
“So it's not about a girl?” Jimmy asks, still unconvinced.
“No.”
A moment passes as he sees your face flash in your mind. Bright with golden backlighting that most certainly wasn’t there in real life. Or maybe you could just do that, he wouldn't put it past you.
“Not necessarily.”
Clark takes a deep breath as your laugh rings in his mind. Maybe he does have it bad.
“Not entirely.”
Before Clark can defend himself any further—
“Clark. You’re back!”
He startles slightly, looking up, genuinely surprised. He didn’t even hear you walk up.
Where’s his super-hearing now?
“I hope it’s not an imposition,” he says, standing a little too quickly.
“Not at all,” you reply easily. “Spend all the money you want at my restaurant. Plus, in all honesty, the waitstaff are always happy to see you.”
“They are?”
You tilt your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s always nice to see a handsome face, right?”
That steals the air from Clark’s lungs in an instant.
“And you must be Jimmy. Lois has mentioned you,” you move on, not privy to the mental breakdown you’ve just caused.
The two of you converse, but he's still caught in the fact that you called him a “handsome face.”
He tries to focus, but then you look at him again, and whatever thought he had just… disappears. He blinks, catching himself, and gently tunes back into the conversation.
“It’s an honour, Clark.”
“What is?” he gulps.
“That my restaurant is your…coup de coeur.”
“Coup de cœur?”
“It's like…”
You tap your chin as you try to find the words, your eyes widening when you finally do.
“It's like you have a crush on my restaurant.”
“That's a good way to put it.” He smiles but thinks what he’d dare not say out loud, “Not just the restaurant.”
***
You're still buzzing from seeing Clark last night. You had heard that he's been by, but he's always been too in the weeds to go out and say hi.
And he looked just as good as you remembered, like the kind of guy you'd end up in a whirlwind romance with. Though you might be getting ahead of yourself.
It’s a slow lunch, the usual clientele lining the tables by the windows, lingering over wine and quiet conversation.
When a rumble shakes the floor—
And when there’s a rumble in Metropolis, there’s bound to be property damage.
You step out of the kitchen into the front, eyes darting to the windows just in time to see Superman.
He’s darting through the sky, a streak of red and blue, lifting debris, carrying people to safety.
Though you're afraid, you feel your heart start to calm. He’d keep you safe, you knew that.
Later, when the worst of it has passed, he lands nearby, scanning the area one last time.
You step outside before you can overthink it.
“Uh, Superman?” You squeak as you walk right up to him.
He turns to you with that million-dollar smile, “Yes?”
He can sense him assessing you for any injuries, ready to help at a moment's notice.
“I—”
You pause, head tilting slightly, thinking, or rather, knowing, you heard something. It’s like your chef instincts kicked in, tuned like a sixth sense for anyone hungry in the vicinity.
“I think your stomach just grumbled.”
“My stomach? Impossible.”
Right on cue, another distinct grumble echoes through the air.
“…Wait.” You point at him, already backing toward the door. “Right here. I mean it, okay?”
Before he can respond, you’re gone.
The bell above the door chimes wildly as you rush back out five minutes later, slightly out of breath, a plate balanced carefully in your hands.
“I’m a chef, so you can trust me. This is like top-tier stuff,” you say, holding it out to him. “Slow-roasted beef, toasted brioche, plus my signature herb butter sauce. And forgive me for sounding a little cocky, but it’ll knock the socks off your grandma.”
He laughs, and butterflies flood your chest like they were activated by it.
Something about it feels warm…familiar.
“Thank you.”
“Long day?”
“You have no idea.”
He takes a bite, and you hold your breath. You might just die if he hates it. The guy saves lives, he deserves a decent lunch.
“This is amazing,” he beams.
“My first job was at a sandwich place, so I've had a lot of practice.”
“I should—”
You know what he's going to say, so you stop him in his tracks and put your hand on his.
“No, no, no, it's on the house, Superman. You just stopped the whole street from becoming a pancake; it's the least I can do. Plus, I doubt you have anywhere to put a wallet. Unless there are pockets I can't see.”
“No pockets.”
“Thought so.”
***
You found yourself inspired yet again, ideas bubbling over faster than you could keep up, churning out sandwich after sandwich after Superman’s visit the day prior.
So inspired, in fact, that you found yourself making a sandwich for a certain journalist you couldn’t quite stop thinking about, sending it to the Daily Planet with a note: “Since you like my food so much.”
As you cool down from your lunch service, your phone buzzes. It’s a text back from Clark, with the cutest slightly off-centre picture of him holding the sandwich, a thumbs up taking up half the frame, like he’s just discovered selfies.
You snort at it, typing out a quick, “Don’t let it get cold.”
He’s such a dork.
You feel yourself brimming with ideas nowadays. You can’t stop them; you’re a fountain of inspiration. Everything just makes sense, like it’s just clicking into place. The puzzle in your mind slowly completes itself. Everything that new feeling goes straight into what you’re cooking.
As you bounce ideas off your sous-chef, pacing slightly, hands moving as fast as your thoughts, she chuckles.
“I haven’t seen you this inspired in a while.”
“Yeah, something’s changed, I guess,” you mumble.
“Or someone?”
“Hm?”
“The super hot guy that’s shown up three or four nights this week?”
You roll your eyes, turning back to your prep for dinner. “It’s nothing.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
You try to ignore the way your lips betray you, curling into a smile so bright that someone could see it from the moon.
***
As if to prove your sous-chef right, Clark’s here again, just stepping in as you clear down. Your head snaps up at the sound of the cars rushing by, becoming muffled as he closes the door behind him.
“Clark?” Your voice jumps an octave, far too excited to hide it. He looks good, almost good enough to eat.
“Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood… I thought I’d visit. Are you busy?”
You blink, then gesture vaguely behind you. “No, I’m just clearing up. About to head out.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Ironically, no. Why? Are you offering?” You chuckle.
“Maybe?”
Seeing him outside the restaurant?
You know you’d be a fool not to say yes.
“You’re on.”
***
After a brisk walk, you reach his apartment.
It’s all comfy and lived-in, books and newspapers strewn across his coffee table, a quiet view that overlooks the city skyline, a wide array of ambient lamps glowing softly in the evening light.
“So what are we doing?” you ask, stepping into the kitchen, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossed.
“We are not doing anything. You’re sitting back as I cook for you.”
You think of arguing, but that thought quickly dies when you think about how distractingly appealing it would be to watch him cook, sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexing as he moves, completely focused on pleasing you, and decide to acquiesce.
“And what are you making for me, Chef?”
“Breakfast for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say breakfast for dinner?”
“Just sit back and relax.”
“Most days, I skip breakfast, so this will be a nice change of pace.”
“Skipping meals, especially breakfast? That seems illegal for a chef, no?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He leads you to his kitchen island, and you sit, watching him from your perch, chin resting in your hand, eyes following every movement whether you mean to or not.
He makes quick work of clearing space, pulling ingredients together, taking out pans and bowls with an ease that feels almost practised, starting on eggs like he’s done this a thousand times before. Though the thought that he’s made breakfast for someone like this does have you feeling a little jealous.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, interrupting your pouting.
“Soft-boiled,” you reply, a little too quickly, like you’ve been waiting to be asked.
He moves around the kitchen with quiet confidence, tossing bacon into a pan with a sharp sizzle.
“Why do you come by my restaurant so often?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
“It’s like you said. It’s my coup de cœur.”
“Is it just my food?”
He pauses and turns from the stove to look you in the eyes. It's so distracting that you think they should be registered weapons.
“It’s not just your food.”
You look away, knowing that if you looked any longer, you’d end up a puddle on his floor. “Someone once told me that cooking is an act of love,” you murmur, almost like you’re letting him in on a secret.
“Yeah?” he asks softly, turning down the bacon as he approaches the kitchen island, leaning across from the other side, bringing himself just a little closer.
Eye to eye.
"It was a chef I met when I studied in France for a bit. It was this super-intense French kitchen. I felt like throwing myself in a blender half the time."
You chuckle at the memory of the head chef throwing a pan of coq au vin into the trash just as you were completely it after a single look at it. It wasn't funny haha then, and it isn't funny haha now, so maybe the chuckle is a trauma response.
“Fresh out of culinary school, it was like being on a different planet. My French was shit, I barely understood half the orders being shouted at me, but even being what felt like a million miles away, I cooked my way through it. Made the soup that my mother would make me when I got sick, or the ridiculous overloaded grilled cheese sandwich that my dad called a ‘five-star meal’. And after that one bite, it felt like I was right back there with them.”
Even now, you can taste the salty warmth of broth and melted butter on toasted bread, the memory bringing a soft smile to your face.
“And I… held onto that, knowing that they made them because they loved me. And with every dish I make, every dish I eat, I hold the idea that no matter how far away you are, one dish can make you feel right at home. It’s cheesy, I know.”
“I happen to love cheese so…”
“You love cheese?”
“My favourite’s gouda,” he admits, a little sheepish, and you lightly punch his arm.
“Of course it is. So… what's the Kent family speciality?"
“Biscuits and gravy… takes me back to potlucks and Sunday mornings with more food than anyone could reasonably eat.”
“You'll have to make it for me sometime so I can add it to my mental recipe rolodex.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says like it's a promise.
His hand inches toward yours. You notice him hesitate like he wants to hold it, but isn’t sure if he should.
“Is that why you cook?” he asks.
“I’d say so. I don't know, I just like to take them to places they’ve never been or places they haven’t been in a while, all through food. I find it interesting, like the association of taste and memory…”
“Are we making a memory, right now?”
You nod, your mind wrapped up in a soft haze. “I think so. Breakfast for dinner will always belong to you, Clark Kent.”
Taking the leap, his hand finally closes the distance, and you feel your heart bloom like a red tulip in spring. He toys with your hand, the rings on your fingers, tracing the small scar you got from the first time you tried cutting onions too fast and nicked yourself for it.
"Cooking is an act of love..." He repeats.
You huff, nudging him lightly with your free hand. “You’re such a dork.”
"You're the one who said it."
"Yes, yes, that's true but..."
You look up from your intertwined hands, catching his eyes, just as smitten with you as you are with him. "There's just something about you saying it."
Letting out a slow breath, your body visibly relaxing as the moment settles around you.
“Makes it… dorky.”
He chuckles before taking your hand and kissing it lightly, the tenderness of it, sending your heart into overdrive. It was a soft brush of his lips against your hands. Hands which work so hard day after day, to feel him kiss them as if they were something precious, made you feel like you were melting.
The moment is interrupted as you both hear the bubbling in the background start to get quite ferocious, “The eggs!”
With a rush, you both fumble back over to the stove, nearly bumping into each other in the process.
“The soft-boiled eggs might be slightly hard-boiled now.”
As he lifts the lid off, the steam gets in his face, so, like the kind person you are, you reach for him on instinct. Just a simple, absent-minded gesture.
“Won’t your glasses fog up?”
Without thinking too much about it, you take off his glasses to de-fog them.
Clark doesn’t move.
You don’t even notice that Clark has become a statue as you wipe off his glasses with your sleeve, humming to yourself oh-so innocently.
Looking back up, you freeze too.
It's like you’ve both looked at Medusa.
If you weren’t mistaken, Superman was now standing right in front of you, but that can’t possibly be, right? The whole world starts to tilt on its axis as you fumble with Clark’s glasses.
What the fuck is going on?
Slowly, almost mechanically, you put his glasses back on his face. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Internally, you are absolutely not okay.
Out loud, you add, “Though we should probably talk about what I just saw.”
“…Probably.”
“You let me take them off,” you sputter out, trying to rationalise what you just witnessed.
“I didn't see it coming.”
“You're Superman. I’m sure I was practically moving in slow motion.”
“Are you mad? Scared?” he asks carefully.
“Wait, mad? Scared? Why would I be scared?”
“I can hear your heartbeat.”
“My heart isn't racing because I'm scared. I guess I'm just surprised…”
You twiddle your fingers, toying with your rings, “Or... excited?”
“Excited?” he repeats back to you, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion.
“Okay,” you add, slightly breathless. “Maybe a little overwhelmed. This is a lot, you’re a lot. In an amazing and kinda batshit crazy way. I mean…you’re Superman.”
“I’m still me,” he says.
“I know, I know. It's just going to take some or a lot of getting used to, I guess, because, well, holy shit.”
You gesture at him wildly, trying and failing to get your breathing back to normal.
“You’re taking this better than most people.”
“Yeah, well. Most people haven’t had their best customer turn into a superhero while they’re trying not to burn eggs.”
He laughs at your joke, and you feel yourself ease up. Not only was he a cute journalist, but a superhero?
Jackpot.
“Did you like the sandwich I gave you yesterday…Superman?” you ask as you step into his space, your hand brushing against his.
“Yeah, it was absolutely delicious.”
Like “delicious” was your activation word, you step forward and pull him in by the tie before you can think better of it, pulling him slightly off balance.
He says your name breathy, almost desperate. You gulp, fuck, it sounds too good on his lips, those words of his.
Without delaying for another second, you kiss him like you've been starving for him all your life.
His hands find your waist, holding onto you as you try to climb him like he’s a tree.
The soft moans that escape his lips only urge you on. If you didn't need to breathe, you never would've let go.
You separate to catch your breath, your eyes locked onto one another. You're both hungry but not for pancakes or hashbrowns.
“So you’re okay with me being Superman?” he asks.
“If the way I just attacked your face is any indication, yes. Now, kiss me before I lose all my nerve.”
Like he's been waiting for it, he pulls you back in, all but melting against you. He kisses you as if his life depends on it, like he never knew it could feel so good.
Behind you, the stove clicks softly as you turn it off without looking.
As if reading your mind, he pulls back just a little bit to murmur in a husky voice, “Jump.”
You follow his order, and he lifts you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist.
“Fuck…” you mumble to yourself.
You could get used to this.
“Bedroom?” He asks, searching your face for any hesitation.
You nod excitedly, “Please.”
The world outside can wait.
***
Morning greets you happily, and you greet it back with a big smile.
Everything that Clark did to you last night is still fresh in your mind, just thinking about it makes you feel tingly.
You find your face pressed against Clark’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively.
And you must admit, his pecs make good pillows.
You sneak out of bed, successfully not waking him, ready to cook a breakfast to end all breakfasts.
Clark wakes up a while after you to the sound of a busy kitchen.
He follows the noises to see you already cooking and humming to yourself, completely at ease.
In that moment, he wonders to himself if you know just how wonderful you are. It’s like everything you do only makes him fall that much more.
“Morning,” he drawls, his voice deeper from just waking up. Your head snaps up, pupils dilating the moment you lay eyes on him.
“Good morning to you too.”
He rounds the kitchen island to wrap his arms around you from behind.
“Unfortunately, due to you keeping me up last night, we have to have breakfast for breakfast,” you tell him as you crack an egg.
“I'm sorry,” Clark murmurs against your neck, kissing your skin lightly. He just can't help himself.
"How are you making our eggs today?" He asks as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.
“I was gonna make us omelettes. How do you normally like them? Scrambled? Poached?”
“Sunny side up.”
“I should've known.”
Among the ingredients spread across his countertop, he notices something he doesn't remember buying.
He looks between you and the bread, “This was not in my pantry.”
You shrug at him, "So what if I snuck out to go buy a baguette? It’s going to taste divine, my bread guy baked it just this morning.”
“Your bread guy?” Clark chuckles, the laugh vibrating against your back.
“Oh yeah, fresh ingredients are my love language. Just you wait until I drag you to a farmer’s market, I'll be bouncing off the damn walls.”
He kisses your cheek lightly.
“It's a date.”
***
A little over a month has passed, and you've fallen head over heels.
Farmer’s market dates have become a routine, Sundays spent perusing stalls as if you’ve always done it.
Of course, Clark has been showing up at the restaurant just as often, sometimes helping carry crates when you don’t ask him to and coming to keep you company when you're up late doing prep.
He even surprised you one night by sliding a bowl of beef noodle soup straight from your favourite restaurant in Taiwan. You had been dreaming of this soup since your trip last year.
“Did you fly there?” you asked, mouth agape.
“You told me how much you missed it and I—”
Safe to say you didn't let him finish his sentence, practically leaping into his arms and kissing him senseless.
Some nights, you fall asleep at his apartment without meaning to. Just sitting beside him for a moment that turns into hours, your head on his shoulder, as he reads to you.
And now, you’ve never been more inspired. Ideas don’t feel like something you have to force, freeing yourself from the likes of the Bearnaise sauce graveyard.
Love will do that to a person, you suppose.
The pressure you used to carry like a second spine continues to loosen. You’re not digging yourself into a little hole. Instead, you’re taking it one plate at a time.
Your restaurant is closed, it’s late at night, and you’ve already said goodbye to the last of your staff. You enjoy the kind of quiet that only comes after a full service settles over the dining room, after a job well done.
You walk out of the kitchen and stop still.
Standing among the empty tables is Clark, a smile blooms on his face the moment you step into view.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to stop by.”
“You had to.” Looking him over, like he stepped out of your wildest dreams, “With flowers?”
He shifts a little, suddenly a touch sheepish. That dimpled smile appears like it always does when he’s trying to charm you. It works every single time. “Yes. With flowers.”
“I would be insane if I left things the way we have.”
You hold your hands behind your back with an easy smile and an even easier lilt in your step.
“And how have we left things?” you ask with a tilt of your head.
“It has been a month, a wonderful month, and we've never said the words. Never put a label on it.”
You continue to weave through the tables, footsteps soft against the floor, until you’re standing just close enough to feel his heart beating in time with yours or at least imagine it.
The dim amber light spills over his handsome face in a golden wash, like he's stepped straight out of a painting.
Outside, rain begins tapping gently against the windows, a familiar pitter-patter.
“And you want to?”
One more step, your shoes are just short of his.
“Put a label on it?”
“I do, you have no idea how much.” He reaches out and takes your hands in his softly. “If I could be so lucky, I would like to be your boyfriend.”
“I’d like that. A lot.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks without realising it, then leans in and presses a tender kiss to your knuckles.
“Are you going to call me a dork again?”
“It’s a term of endearment, Clark,” you say, smiling as you lean in to kiss his cheek. “You’re my dork… and I’m yours.”
Then your eyes brighten as if you’ve just remembered something very important.
“Oh! I have something to show you!”
You pull back just enough to grab a menu from the nearby table and wave it at him with unmistakable pride.
“Now serving breakfast for dinner, once a week.”
“Really?”
“What can I say? You inspired me.”
He wraps his arms around you and picks you up, spinning you around.
“Clark!” You chuckle before returning to the ground.
Though you don't get a moment to catch your breath as his lips find your neck, intent on covering every square inch of it with his touch.
“Let's go to my office.”
“I'll follow your lead.
With a smirk, you grab onto his tie and pull him towards the doors at the back.
Making things official between the two of you deserves a proper celebration.