Chapter Text
The routine settled in so naturally that Lois barely noticed when it became a thing. Date nights turned into challenges. Challenges turned into reviews. Reviews turned into something readers genuinely looked forward to.
They took down a massive steak at Willie’s Steakhouse, then plowed through a kitchen-sink sundae at a little ice cream bar downtown, and when they took down the most ridiculous giant cinnamon roll donut Lois had ever laid eyes on, Clark nearly drowned himself in frosting. Then came the massive pancakes at a diner off the highway, which Lois refused to participate in unless they actually went for breakfast. So, that was a Saturday morning well spent.
It was getting quite clear that Clark gravitated toward the sweet stuff. Lois noticed it when she caught him lingering a little longer over dessert challenges, lighting up at anything involving sugar. She teased him about it, too.
Eventually, he sent her something that made her laugh out loud at her desk. It was a post about a cookies and milk challenge at Beaulieu’s Bakery. She stared at her phone, snorted, then tried to smother the sound behind her hand.
Clark glanced up from his computer. “What?” he asked, peering at her over his glasses.
She waved him off. “Nothing.”
Clark narrowed his eyes and brought his peppermint mocha with him as he scooted his chair closer until he was fully in her space. “What’s so funny?” he asked. “Is our column suddenly too refined for a little holiday theme?”
She sighed, setting her phone down. “No… it’s not that.”
Clark frowned. “Then what is it?”
Lois leaned back in her chair, eyeing him, trying desperately to keep her mouth shut. “Nothing. Just… I knew you were a Claus all along.” She just couldn't help herself.
His brow furrowed. “A Claus? Like Santa Claus?”
Lois grinned. “Uh-huh. The milk and cookies outed you, sorry,” she continued, managing to keep her giggles contained, “it wasn't enough that you’re our designated fake Santa for office Christmas parties and elementary school field trips. Nope, you eat like a Claus, too."
He stared at her, utterly and adorably baffled. "I don't understand what you're trying to suggest, here."
As much as she knew this was going to turn into a much longer ordeal, she couldn't keep it in anymore, she just had to tell him.
“It's so dumb. Not even worth talking about. But, Cat said something the other day when you were off on your third mysterious emergency of the week. She noticed that picture of you and your parents on your desk and said that you all look like characters from a Hallmark movie where Santa and Mrs. Claus have to go undercover as Kansas farmers to save Christmas."
Clark choked on his coffee. He sputtered, spilling a few drops onto his previously spotless white shirt before dissolving into laughter.
"And then their hot son meets the stressed-out businesswoman on vacation or something in desperate need of a trip to the Christmas Fair to keep magic alive or whatever,” she continued.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. But then he paused, obviously thinking about it.
“… Dang it,” he murmured. “She’s… kind of right, actually. And I'd totally watch that, by the way.”
Lois smirked. "I know you would. You love those corny movies."
Clark smirked. “Yeah, alright. I like cute holiday movies, so what? But I never noticed that about my parents before, though,” he went on, much more thoughtful now as he entertained the thought. “I guess Pa has been looking pretty Santa-ish lately.” He glanced at her. “But I was adopted, so if my parents are Clauses… what's that make me?”
Lois rolled her eyes as she tried to get back to work. Real work. Like, investigative stuff that she was supposed to be spending most of her time on.
“I don’t know," she shrugged, trying to dismiss him. "An elf?”
Clark laughed. “I thought elves were small.”
She sighed and set her notebook aside. “Fine. If its a Hallmark movie, then in this universe, maybe all the elves are big and hunky.”
Clark's eyes widened, and his cheeks turned just the slightest shade of pink as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Did you just call me 'hunky?'”
“Yes, Clark,” Lois said dryly. “As a matter of fact, I did just call my boyfriend 'hunky.' Now if my big, hunky boyfriend would please let me get back to my job, maybe I’ll finish in time to take him to that bakery for after-work cookies and milk before they close.”
Clark grinned again. “Gotcha.” That was more than enough to get him to shut up.
----
The challenge was no problem. Lois only managed a few cookies before calling it quits. Clark handled the rest with alarming enthusiasm. The cookies were… fine. Not as good as the ones from the original chocolate-fudge-monster bakery, and Lois made sure that made it into the review.
Still, readers loved it, and so did all of the businesses.
Eventually, the column became popular enough that restaurants started noticing an uptick in sales whenever Lois and Clark mentioned them.
Soon, local writers, bakers, and chefs even began sending them cookbooks to review. Clark loved trying them out. Lois loved watching him. She’d never been much for cooking or baking, but Clark knew his way around a kitchen. It led to quieter nights in and home-cooked meals every now and then. And honestly, it was kind of hot watching him in there doing his thing. Apparently, the way to her heart was through her stomach, too, in the form of appropriately sized romantic homemade meals.
So far, they'd received a cookbook featuring flavors from around the world (Clark’s favorite), another focused on comfort food gone gourmet, and then there was the fancy one for aphrodisiac-based recipes with spendy ingredients that they had to splurge a bit for.
They couldn't exactly write much about the aftermath of that one... at least not in a fluff column for The Daily Planet. But the truffle mushroom risotto served with oysters and champagne awakened far more than just an appreciation for higher-end cuisine.
Five stars. That was her favorite, by far.
Unfortunately, as much fun as the cookbooks were to explore, Clark quickly ran into a problem he hadn’t quite anticipated... the tiny portion sizes.
After weeks of Clark-sized plates and indulgent excess, the recipes in these books were… modest. They were painfully thoughtful and far too balanced, very clearly designed for people who were not six-foot-five Kryptonians with a metabolism powered by sunlight and good intentions.
Lois found herself perfectly satisfied most nights, but Clark, on the other hand, had started midnight snacking again.
It finally came to a head one evening as they worked their way through a dinner-for-two recipe.
They’d just finished a rigatoni arrabbiata. It was a genuinely excellent spicy, rich dish that she'd most definitely want again. Lois leaned back in her chair, satisfied, while Clark stared down at his empty plate, pouting.
He sighed. “There’s no way that was enough food for two,” he said finally. “Maybe one person… plus a toddler. Gosh, that went by fast.”
Lois raised an eyebrow. “Oh wow,” she said. “Is that your first bad review? Ever?”
Clark blinked at her. Usually, all criticism came from her side of things. Getting him to say anything negative was like pulling teeth. He was rainbows and unicorns incarnate. But here he was, actually voicing it.
“Maybe I’m biased,” he admitted quickly. “I eat a lot more than the average person. And the recipe itself was great. It was easy to follow, quick to make. Did you feel like it was enough?”
Lois shrugged. “I had enough,” she said. Then, with a small smirk, she added, “Kind of ironic that now you’re the one struggling with hamster-sized portions.”
Clark let out a weak chuckle. “Yeah. I guess so.”
She watched him for a second, then glanced back toward the stove. The pan was empty. Still, she surprised herself by sort of agreeing with him. She could've gone with a small second helping.
“You know what?” she said. “I think you do have a point. Maybe they should increase the serving size just a bit. We’ll make a note of it in the article.”
Clark hesitated. “I feel bad,” he said quietly. “Maybe we shouldn’t say anything. I should probably just learn to eat like a normal person.”
Lois turned fully toward him. “No, Clark. Your criticism is valid. And it’s not harsh. At all. It’s going in the review.”
The relief on his face was immediate. He smiled, visibly buoyed by the validation.
Still… something lingered. Over the next few days, Lois noticed him trying to recapture the challenge aspect of it all. One afternoon, he decided, very deliberately, that he was going to stick to the suggested portion sizes and see if he could actually feel satisfied.
Unfortunately, the day he chose to do that was the day he decided to bake. Specifically, a vanilla caramel cake from one of the baking books they’d been sent.
It was the definition of indulgence.
Lois sat at her counter and watched him work, utterly content as he took over her kitchen. The whole apartment filled with the warm, almost intoxicating scent of browned butter and vanilla. She could smell the nuttiness as he carefully monitored the butter, watched the precision with which he cooked the caramel, bringing it to the perfect temperature so it wouldn’t turn brittle or stay syrupy. He didn't even 'cheat' and use his powers when it was time to let everything cool down.
Then came the assembly. One layer of vanilla cake, followed by a careful ring of vanilla bean and browned butter buttercream. Then, the caramel sauce was spread gently into the center. Another layer of cake came before he covered the entire thing in more buttercream. The remaining caramel was poured generously over the top.
It looked heavenly.
He sliced it into eight generous portions, even though the book claimed it could serve eight to twelve people. Lois got served first. Then Clark took a slice for himself.
The first bite made her close her eyes. It was better than anything she’d ever had during their culinary conquests. She’d never thought she’d actually taste love and effort in food, but it was there. Plain as day. It was so rich and thoroughly warmed her to her core. Never had she eaten something so delicious.
The slice ended all too soon. But it was big, and she was satisfied.
Clark... wasn’t.
When they finished, he sat there staring at the remaining cake, pouting. Lois studied him carefully, wondering what would happen next.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Are you gonna have more?”
Clark startled slightly. “No—no,” he said quickly. “I worked too hard for this. It’s too good.” He gestured toward the cake. “I’m gonna have one slice like a normal person. There’s six slices left, so that means you and I can have one slice every day for the next three days. I’m gonna make it last.”
Lois blinked. “Pacing yourself,” she said. “That’s new.”
Clark nodded solemnly. “This cake was worth it. Ten stars. Eleven stars. A million stars.”
Lois laughed softly. “A million stars, indeed.”
She already knew that the book was going to earn one of their highest ratings. If Clark was willing to ration dessert, those authors were miracle workers.
Still… watching him sit there, denying himself something he clearly wanted, made her chest ache a little. He worked so hard. He cooked for her time and time again. He loved her so deeply with a steadiness that still caught her off guard.
He deserved the world and more... Lois had an idea.
She decided she was going to bake for him. This was, objectively, a terrible idea.
Lois Lane did not bake. She could follow a box mix, and she could probably manage to make a no-bake cheesecake in a pinch. She could generally improvise her way through most things in life with her natural instincts and stubborn confidence, but this was different and required a level of skills that she most definitely did not possess. Still, she wanted to try for Clark.
She started by flipping through the aphrodisiac cookbook they’d received, which she still mentally referred to as 'the one that ruined several perfectly productive workdays'. Eventually, she found a beautifully romantic raspberry chocolate ganache cake. The book called it 'The Crimson Affair,' as it was also supposed to be served with a full-bodied Cabernet.
Lois smiled to herself, deciding it would be the perfect one to attempt. It reminded her of that first night at the bakery with the ridiculous, towering chocolate fudge cake Clark had somehow spotted out of a crowded street and used to open her world up just a little wider. She hoped he’d notice the sentiment. And, perhaps most dangerously of all, she assumed it wouldn’t be that hard. She’d watched Clark cook a hundred times by now. How complicated could it be?
She started late in the morning with grocery shopping, buying everything the recipe asked for and more, high-quality cocoa powder, chocolate chips, heavy cream, fresh raspberries, and pure vanilla extract.
Clark was out for the afternoon, apparently busy with an important Justice Gang meeting, which Lois absolutely tried to ask about further. Clark assured her that it wasn't an emergency. So, his apartment was peacefully quiet when she let herself in.
Lois tied her hair back, washed her hands, and got to work. She read the directions about a million times before getting started.
Butter and sugar went into the bowl first. 'Cream until smooth,' it said. She did exactly that, using the hand mixer until her wrist ached and the mixture turned pale and fluffy. Vanilla extract followed. Then the eggs, cracked carefully into a separate bowl. She broke them up before tossing them in, because she remembered Clark always doing that. Then she mixed it all together again, nodding to herself. So far, so good.
The dry ingredients came next. She folded them in slowly, careful not to overmix. The batter looked… mostly right. She’d already greased and lined the cake pan with parchment paper, just like she’d seen him do a dozen times before.
Then she glanced at the clock. 11:40. It needed to bake for 20 minutes. That was easy, she'd check on it at 12:00.
In the meantime, she turned her attention to the ganache. Ganache was supposed to be easy. She knew this. She’d seen Clark make it a couple of times, and it seemed impossible to mess up. Even the ratio was easy to remember, one part heavy cream, one part chocolate.
She dumped both of those ingredients into a microwave-safe bowl, heated it for about a minute, and when it came out, the chocolate was perfectly melty. She stirred, watching the mixture swirl together.
At first, it looked fine. Great, even.
She set it aside to cool and moved on to washing the raspberries. But when she glanced back, her stomach dropped.
Oh, shit. The ganache looked… wrong. It was clumpy and completely split. The surface was oily and uneven. Something had gone violently off the rails.
“No,” she muttered, staring at the mess in horror. "Please, no..."
She stirred it again and again, but nothing helped. She could see the fat from the cream separating, refusing to incorporate.
“What the hell?” Lois stared at it like it had personally betrayed her. Okay... There had to be a reason.
Did she overmix it? Undermix it? Was that even a thing with ganache?
She grabbed her phone and did what she always did when something didn’t make sense. She investigated.
If there was a reason this ganache was failing, she was going to find it. That was practically muscle memory at this point. She’d built her entire career on refusing to accept 'that’s just how it is' as an answer.
Could it be the chocolate brand? Was this some cursed, ganache‑proof chocolate engineered to ruin her afternoon? She searched for answers that way. But... no leads. Okay, who manufactured it, then? She traced it back to the factory, then the parent company, then the subsidiary that handled sourcing. She ended up reading about cocoa bean harvest regions and ethical trade practices like she was prepping for an exposé instead of a quiet day of baking.
Still, nothing explained why her ganache looked like a crime scene.
Fine. New angle. The cream.
She checked the expiration date. Nope, it was fresh as can be with no signs of being off. Then her brain latched onto another thread. What about heavy whipping cream versus regular whipping cream? Was there a chemical difference? A fat percentage issue? Surely someone on the internet had opinions about this. She dove in headfirst, opening far too many tabs with her eyes glued to her phone as she chased footnotes, blog comments, and half‑relevant baking forums.
It was a familiar kind of tunnel vision to the same hyperfocus that had kept her up until three in the morning chasing leads for work that had to connect somehow.
Unfortunately, cakes did not care about investigative journalism.
She only noticed she’d completely forgotten to check the oven when the smell of smoke hit her. Her heart dropped as her eyes flew to the clock.
12:42.
“Oh, fuck.”
She bolted for the oven, yanking it open as smoke poured out. The smell was just awful. The apartment was filled with the fumes of burnt sugar and scorched cocoa. She grabbed the nearest rag to take out the pans, only realizing too late that it was damp. Moisture transfers heat, meaning she burned the crap out of her hand.
“Shit!”
She dropped the pan back onto the rack, shaking her hand and swearing some more as the smoke alarm started off.
She hardly had any time to panic in the midst of all that pain, smoke, and noise before something big and blue came flying straight through the window.
“Lois! Step aside!”
Clark had swooped in like a force of nature, still in his super suit. He crossed the kitchen in a blink, pulled the cake pan from the oven with his bare hand, and cooled it instantly with one controlled gust of icy breath, clearing the smoke with it. At last, the alarm shut off, and the chaos was over.
Clark set the pan on the counter and finally looked at her, eyes frantic with concern. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?" By the look on his face, she could tell he was x-raying her for any signs of serious damage.
Lois swallowed hard. “I’m okay,” she said. “Just burned my fingers a little. I’ll live.”
Clark didn’t like that answer. He took her hand gently and guided her to the sink, running the water over her fingers in order to carefully stop the burn.
“I heard the smoke alarm on my way back over here,” he said softly. “I got so worried... I just had to get to you. But, I’m really glad it wasn’t anything worse. Just a small cooking accident, it looks like.”
'Small' was generous. She probably could've burnt his apartment down if she'd spent another second researching that goddamn ganache, but she knew he didn't want to make her feel bad.
She winced at the feeling of the water, then sighed. “Yeah, I know, it was so stupid. I forgot about the cake for over an hour because I was fighting with this stupid ganache.” She gestured weakly with her unharmed hand toward the bowl of chocolate disaster. “I wanted to surprise you... And I completely screwed it up. I'm so sorry.”
She pulled her hand away and shut off the faucet as the pain started to fade. No signs of blistering, thankfully, but her pride was still mortally wounded.
“I couldn’t even make a simple ganache,” she added, with her voice nearly breaking.
But Clark didn't tease her. In fact, smiled at her, dimples and all.
“You wanted to surprise me?” he asked. “That’s… awful sweet, Lois.”
Then his expression shifted into something akin to determination, as if he couldn't possibly let her efforts go to waste. He stepped over to the counter and studied the ganache like he was at a crime scene.
“Don’t feel bad. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “I think we can save this.”
He's too damn good for her, Lois swore. She shook her head. “I don’t know how. I tried everything.”
It took him less than a minute before Clark had a solution. He picked up the bag of chocolate chips and nodded. “Oh. I see the problem here.”
She frowned. “What?” How could he possibly know so fast?
“These are milk chocolate chips,” he stated simply. “Not semisweet.”
Lois furrowed her brow, “…Does that matter?”
He nodded again. “It does, actually. See, they have different amounts of cocoa butter, meaning the ratio for ganache changes just a little bit.”
As he spoke, he studied the recipe from the book that she still had lying out on the counter, then, according to the measurements listed, he added more chocolate to the mix. After stirring gently, the mixture somehow smoothed out instantly.
Lois was speechless.
Clark dipped a finger into it, licking it off for a quick taste. “Oh, that's delicious,” he said. “Absolutely perfect, Lois. You make a great ganache.”
She laughed, exhausted and relieved all at once. Seriously... Superman just saved not only her from smoke inhalation but also her stubborn ass ganache? What even is her life?
“I’m glad it worked out, then. I appreciate the help,” she said. Then her gaze drifted to the ruined cake again. “Still… I was hoping to give you the whole thing. It's a shame there isn't any saving that disaster.”
But, she didn't let it get her too down. Instead of pouting some more, she stepped closer, reaching up to kiss him. “Thank you for rescuing me. And I’m sorry I worried you. So much for finally getting to try 'The Crimson Affair.'”
Clark looked at the open page in the book again and frowned. She could tell he was planning something... but what? Nothing could prepare her for the next moment as he promptly grabbed a chunk of cake with his bare hand and took a bite of the burnt-up mess.
“Clark! No!" Lois gasped, worried he'd just poisoned himself. However impossible that might be.
“Mm...” he smiled earnestly. “It's nice and smoky. That’s actually really delicious. I think you nailed the recipe.”
Lois stared at him. He had to be messing with her.
“Chocolate cake isn’t supposed to taste smoky," she said.
“Is it not?” He shrugged. “It tastes great, though, just a little dry. It could really use that tasty ganache, maybe a bit of raspberries, too.”
She laughed in disbelief. “You’re just trying to make me feel better. Please stop eating it."
She tried to take it from him, but he held it out of her reach before taking another bite anyway, entirely unbothered. “Oh, no, Miss Lane, I’m serious,” he said around it. “It’s different, sure. But I sure like it.” He pulled her into a big, warm, solid hug, and with chocolate-smudged lips, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Trust me, I can taste the love.”
Lois let out a short, incredulous laugh, melting against him despite herself. “I don't know if I can believe you, Kent. Aren’t you a little too much of a big‑time food critic to enjoy my completely fucked‑up cooking? I'm sure your palate is much too refined.”
Clark didn’t miss a beat. He looked at her, utterly sincere, and deadpanned, “Lois. I eat pens. What the heck do I know about refined palates?”
That did it. She burst out laughing, the tension finally breaking, her forehead dropping against his chest as he chuckled too.
He smiled down at her, cheeks faintly pink, and that bit of cake still clinging to his lips. “Thank you for making this for me,” he said softly. “Really, Lois, it's absolutely perfect, and I plan on eating every last bite.”
She searched his face for even a hint of pity and didn’t find any. Maybe smoky chocolate cake was actually a lost Kryptonian delicacy, and that's why he had a taste for it... or something. She didn't really need to make any sense of it.
Still, she watched him as he went back for another bite, chewing happily, somehow seemingly enjoying the charred edges.
She wasn’t exactly convinced it was fair to let a pen‑eating, smoky‑cake‑munching man continue writing a food review column. But… he was adorable, and earnest, and clearly very, very passionate about food.
Ultimately, she decided it was fine... at least for now. Currently, she had plans of opening that bottle of wine and helping him out of that suit. So, it was most definitely a problem to think about another day.