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The outer gate slid open with a mechanical chime, followed by the subtle whoosh of the airlock-style front door unlocking in sequence. Lex Luthor’s biometric systems recognized him instantly—retina scan, fingerprint, DNA trace—and greeted him with a smooth:
“Welcome home, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex stepped into the house, briefcase in one hand, coat draped neatly over the other. He was still scrolling through LexCorp’s quarterly projections on his wristpad when—
“LEX!”
There was a thump-thump-thump of heavy feet on hardwood, and before Lex could even glance up—
Clark practically launched himself across the foyer.
He skidded in socked feet, wearing nothing but an oversized pale blue sweater (Lex’s, obviously), black lounge pants, and an apron that proudly declared "Kiss the Cook (Or Else)." His hair was tousled, and he smelled like cinnamon and rosemary.
Before Lex could even speak, Clark wrapped his arms around him, lifted him clean off the ground, and spun him once in the air.
“You’re home early! I missed you!”
Lex blinked, stiff for half a second in surprise—he was a man who didn’t do undignified entrances—but then he relaxed into the hug with a low, exhausted sigh.
“You missed me. I was gone for eight hours.”
“Exactly!” Clark said, like this proved his point.
He set Lex down gently—one hand lingering possessively on Lex’s back—and looked at him with the kind of genuine joy people usually reserved for puppies or celebrity meet-and-greets.
“You look tired. C’mere. Dinner’s ready.”
Lex opened his mouth to protest, but Clark was already tugging him toward the dining room with that stupid, beautiful smile that made Lex’s arguments dissolve on contact.
The table was set. Candles lit. A roast glistened on a serving platter. Biscuits steamed in a basket. There were side salads.
Lex narrowed his eyes. “Did you... cook all this?”
Clark beamed proudly. “Of course! I wanted to try that rosemary-garlic crust you mentioned last week. Also, I made apple pie.”
Lex sat down slowly, staring at the feast like it was a trap. Then Lex stared at him.
Clark smiled.
Lex’s heart did that infuriating fluttery thing.
“I installed six layers of kinetic shielding on this house,” Lex muttered, stabbing a biscuit. “I own several satellites. Why do I still feel like you’re the one protecting me?”
Clark leaned in, propped his chin on his hand, and grinned.
“Because I am.”
Lex scoffed—but he didn’t look away.
And when Clark kissed his cheek again before sitting beside him, Lex didn’t complain.
Not once.
The dishes were done. Clark had insisted on cleaning up, despite Lex’s very rational argument that the kitchen had a fully automated sanitation system.
“Dishwashers don’t hum show tunes while scrubbing,” Clark had said, grinning with sudsy hands.
Now Lex stood in the doorway, glass of bourbon in hand, watching his husband move around the kitchen in socked feet and that ridiculous apron. Clark was wiping down the counters with care that rivaled any lab technician at LexCorp.
Everything about him was glowing with warmth—post-dinner happiness, muscle stretching under the sweater, hair soft and a little damp from steam.
He’d look even better pregnant.
Lex stiffened, gripping the glass a little too tightly.
Clark—his Clark—barefoot in this kitchen, belly round, face flushed from hormones, apron barely tied around him, humming the same old 60s song as he cooked for two.
Maybe three.
Lex turned away abruptly, heat rising to his ears.
Ridiculous.
Insane.
Deeply, catastrophically dangerous.
But the worst part was:
It wasn’t just a fantasy.
It was possible.
Lex exhaled sharply and took a sip of bourbon to silence the intrusive thought.
You already have him. You already have everything.
Don’t ruin it.
Behind him, Clark called out, “Hey, are you okay?”
Lex turned and plastered on a neutral expression, calm and smooth.
“Fine,” he said. “Just thinking about stock fluctuations.”
Clark gave him that sunshine-soft smile, the one that made Lex feel like maybe gods did exist after all.
He padded over, slipped an arm around Lex’s waist, and nuzzled into his shoulder. “Well, don’t think too hard. Come sit with me. I want to cuddle and complain about daytime TV.”
Lex let himself be guided to the couch.
He held Clark that night the way he always did—hand resting low on his belly, thumb brushing absent circles over soft cotton. And he thought, for the thousandth time:
You would be perfect.
And one day... if I ever deserved more... maybe I’d tell you.