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By the time Clark gets his coat off, the apartment already looks like a minor disaster zone. Cardboard boxes are stacked unevenly near the couch, the plastic tree is half out of its bag and shedding fake needles like it’s offended to be awake this early, and there’s a faint smell of dust and pine-scented cleaner lingering in the air. You’ve got holiday music playing from your phone, something upbeat and a little too cheerful, and you’re kneeling on the floor trying to untangle a mess of lights that absolutely did not look this bad last year.
Clark pauses just inside the living room, taking everything in with a slow blink. He doesn’t say anything right away, which is usually how you know he’s processing more than he’s letting on. He sets his glasses on the counter, folds his coat carefully over the back of a chair, and steps closer, sleeves already getting rolled up like this is a job he intends to take seriously.
“Wow,” he says finally, soft and fond, like this chaos is endearing instead of overwhelming. “You really went all in.”
“You say that like I had a choice,” you reply, tugging harder at the lights and immediately regretting it when the knot tightens. “Once the boxes come out, there’s no backing down. It’s basically a rule.”
He hums at that, crouching beside you without hesitation. He reaches for one end of the lights, careful and precise, and for a moment you’re both just focused on the same small task. His hands move slower than yours, deliberate in a way that feels practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times before and knows rushing only makes it worse.
“You want to start with the tree, right?” he asks, glancing over at the lopsided branches still trapped halfway in plastic.
“That was the plan,” you say. “Get the hard part over with first, then reward ourselves with hot chocolate and ornaments.”
His mouth curves into a smile at that, warm and easy, and you catch the faintest flicker of something else underneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Anticipation. It’s subtle, but you notice it anyway.
“Okay,” he says, nodding once. “Tree first. That makes sense.”
You stand, brushing dust off your hands, and grab the bag to wrestle the rest of the tree free. Clark steadies it without being asked, holding the base while you yank the plastic down and shove it aside with your foot. The branches are stiff and stubborn, refusing to cooperate at first, and the whole thing looks more like a green cylinder than anything festive.
“Every year I forget how much work this part is,” you mutter, bending one branch out and then another. “It’s like it actively resists becoming a tree.”
Clark laughs quietly, a soft sound that feels closer than usual in the small space. He starts shaping branches on his side, careful to spread them evenly, stepping back every so often to assess the overall shape like this matters more than it probably should.
“It’ll look good once it’s done,” he says, confident, reassuring. “It always does.”
You glance at him, catching the way he’s focused, the way his shoulders are relaxed but his attention is sharp. There’s something grounding about it, the way he treats this like a shared project instead of a chore. It makes the apartment feel warmer already, even without the lights on.
“Lights next,” you say, gesturing toward the tangled mess on the floor. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
Clark opens his mouth like he’s about to agree, then hesitates just a fraction of a second. It’s so brief you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking right at him. He closes his mouth, clears his throat lightly, and nods.
“Yeah,” he says, reaching for the lights again. “Lights next.”
You don’t notice yet that he’s already checking the color through the wires, already cataloging what’s missing, already mentally measuring where everything should go. For now, it’s just decorating day, boxes everywhere, music playing too loud, and Clark Kent on your living room floor, smiling like this is exactly where he wants to be.
Clark lifts the strand of lights, letting them spill over his hands in a loose loop as he checks for broken bulbs. It’s an automatic sort of inspection, the same way he looks over a news draft or a half-assembled bookshelf: focused, steady, patient. You’re still fluffing the last stubborn branch into something resembling a tree shape when he clears his throat, a small sound meant to get your attention without interrupting the music humming through the room.
“These are… nice,” he says slowly.
You turn, brushing needles off your shirt. “That sounded like the world’s gentlest insult.”
“No, no, they’re good,” he insists, but his brows are pinched just enough to give him away. He holds up the strand so the bulbs catch the overhead light—tiny white LEDs glowing faintly even without being plugged in. “They’re just… um.”
“Clark,” you say, leveling a look at him. “Are you about to criticize my Christmas lights?”
He winces—barely, but enough. “Not criticize. Just—observe.”
“That’s worse.”
He sets the lights down carefully, like they might take offense, and rubs the back of his neck. There’s a faint flush at the tips of his ears, which is usually a sign he’s embarrassed—not about the lights, but about what he’s about to say. He shifts his weight like he’s bracing himself. “I usually use multicolor lights,” he says finally. “On the tree. Not white ones.”
You blink at him. “Okay… but why?”
His shoulders lift and fall in a mild, awkward shrug. “It’s just how it’s supposed to look. At least… that’s how I grew up with it.”
You step closer, crossing your arms—not confrontational, just curious. “So this is an actual rule for you? No white lights on the tree?”
He nods, very slowly, like he expects you to laugh at him. “Pretty much.”
The thing is, he’s so earnest about it—no defensiveness, no annoyance, just genuine belief in this tiny, strangely specific detail—that you can’t bring yourself to tease him. He looks a little vulnerable, like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to care about something so small.
“Well,” you say, breaking the moment with a softer tone than you meant to use, “it’s a good thing we’re still at the stage where nothing’s committed yet.”
Clark’s eyes flick up to yours, hopeful in that quiet way he gets when he wants something but doesn’t want to impose. “Really? You don’t mind using multicolor instead?”
“I mind the idea of you suffering through a tree you secretly hate,” you say. “Multicolor it is.”
The relief on his face is subtle but immediate. His shoulders loosen, his smile returns—one of those warm, blooming ones that shows up when he’s genuinely happy, not just being polite. He moves toward one of the unopened boxes, kneels, and lifts the flaps like he already knows exactly what he’s looking for.
“There should be a set in here,” he murmurs. “I brought them just in case.”
“You brought your own Christmas lights?” you ask, incredulous.
He freezes for a beat. “I… may have anticipated that we’d need them.”
You laugh, and he ducks his head like he deserves every bit of that reaction. When he finally pulls out a tangled bunch of bright, unapologetically colorful bulbs, he handles them with the kind of reverence that would be excessive for anything except, apparently, this.
“See?” he says, holding them up triumphantly. “Perfect.”
The bulbs scatter color across his palms—red, blue, green, yellow—nothing elegant, nothing minimal, just cheerful and loud and a little nostalgic. It suits him more than he probably realizes.
“Alright,” you say, stepping closer to take part of the strand. “Rule one: multicolor lights.”
Clark nods, proud in a quiet way, like the universe just tilted back into alignment.
“Rule one,” he repeats, and there’s something almost relieved in the way he says it.
Clark plugs in the multicolor lights to test them, and the entire strand comes alive in a burst of uneven, joyful brightness. A few bulbs flicker like they’re remembering how to exist after eleven months in storage, but the overall effect is almost aggressively festive. He looks at them the way most people look at puppies or first snowfalls—like something in his chest just eased into place.
“See? These feel like Christmas,” he says, a surety in his voice that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. You loop part of the strand over your arm, already preparing to wrap it around the tree, when he stops you with a quiet, “wait—hold on.”
You freeze mid-step. “What now?”
He approaches the tree like he’s about to perform a delicate medical procedure, palms raised, expression thoughtful. “You can’t start at the top.”
“Why not? That’s how I’ve always done it.”
He shakes his head, firm but gentle, like he’s correcting a well-meaning but misguided intern. “Bottom to top gives you even spacing. If you start at the top, you’ll end up with dark patches near the base. Or you’ll have to go back and fix the spacing later.”
You blink at him, trying to decide if he’s joking. He isn’t. He’s studying the artificial branches with the kind of focus he normally reserves for front-page stories. “So that’s rule two?” you ask.
He nods solemnly. “Rule two: start at the bottom.”
“Alright,” you say, repositioning yourself below the lowest branches. “Anything else before I mess this up?”
His mouth presses into a thin line—thoughtful, not irritated—and he taps a single fingertip against the side of the trunk. “Make sure the lights go into the tree, not just around it. They shouldn’t sit on the outer branches. They have to glow from inside. That’s what makes it look warm.”
You stare at him. “Clark, that is extremely specific.”
He flushes slightly, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s important.”
“Rule three,” you say under your breath, weaving the lights deeper into the branches just to humor him. You glance up after a minute, and the soft, satisfied look on his face makes the extra work worth it.
He crouches beside you to help, his shoulder brushing yours as the two of you pass the lights around the trunk like a slow dance with tangled wires. He’s meticulous about placement, pausing every few feet to step back and eye the symmetry like he’s mapping out constellations.
When the first loop is settled, you take a moment to breathe. “That’s it, right? No more rules?” He hesitates. And that hesitation is loud. “What?” you ask, eyes narrowing.
“Well…” He shifts his weight, glancing at the ornament box. “You shouldn’t group too many ornaments of the same color together. It has to feel balanced. Like the tree grew them instead of being decorated.”
You let out a slow breath. “Rule four.”
“And,” he adds carefully, “the ornaments with strong sentimental value should go at eye level. Not too high. Not too low. They should be part of the center of the tree. That’s where people look first.”
“Rule five.”
He winces at the tally but keeps going. “Also, the star goes on last. Always last. Not before the lights. Not before the ornaments. It’s the final piece.”
“Rule six,” you say, placing a hand on your hip.
He looks genuinely apologetic now, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I know it’s a lot. I don’t want to take over. I’m just… used to doing it a certain way.”
“Clark,” you say, “you didn’t just grow up with traditions. You grew up with a full operations manual.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, sheepish and warm. “Maybe a little.”
“More than a little,” you correct, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he’s standing there in the glow of half-strung lights, looking like someone who’s trying very hard not to intrude on something that already matters to him.
He gestures toward the next section of branches. “Should we keep going?”
“Only if you promise you’re done adding rules.” He hesitates—again. And you groan. “Clark!”
He lifts his hands defensively, smiling now because he knows exactly how ridiculous this is. “Just one more. Maybe two.”
You don’t even try to stop the laugh that slips out. “Of course.”
He steps closer, his voice softening with a sincerity that sneaks up on you. “I promise it’ll look good when we’re finished.”
It isn’t the rules that get you—it’s the way he says we. The way he acts like this messy, glowing project is a shared ritual instead of a task. The way his eyes follow the lights as if building this tree together is something quietly important.
You shake your head but gesture for him to pass the lights along. “Alright, Mr. Christmas Operations. Give me rule seven.”
He brightens the way the bulbs do—suddenly, fully, without hesitation.
Once the lights are finally settled—tucked deep into the branches the way Clark insisted, glowing like a small galaxy trapped in plastic pine—the two of you step back to admire the progress. The tree isn’t finished by any stretch, but it already looks fuller, warmer, more intentional than it did half an hour ago. You’re still catching your breath from crawling around the base when Clark glances toward one of the unopened boxes near the kitchen doorway.
“So,” he says, casual in the way people are when they are absolutely not casual, “where’s the wreath?”
You blink at him. “The what?”
“The wreath,” he repeats, nodding toward the front door as if that clarifies anything. “For the door.”
There’s a moment of silence in which he clearly expects you to reveal the hidden wreath you’ve apparently been saving. When you don’t, his eyebrows lift, tiny and hopeful. “Clark,” you say slowly, “there is no wreath.”
He stops dead, like you’ve told him gravity has been cancelled. “There’s… no wreath?”
“No wreath,” you confirm, spreading your hands. “I didn’t get one.”
He doesn’t speak right away, but the look on his face is comically sincere—somewhere between disappointment and a man doing complex emotional math. Then he inhales, steady and diplomatic, like he’s trying very hard not to sound dramatic. “You need a wreath,” he says.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” he insists, stepping forward a little. “It’s not—look, it’s not about decoration. It’s about… greeting. A wreath tells people, ‘this is a warm home. This is a place where kindness lives.’ Without it, the door looks cold.”
“The door looks cold?” you echo, fighting a smile.
He nods earnestly. “A little.”
You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. “So that’s another rule?”
“It’s not a rule,” he argues, then falters. “Okay, it’s sort of a rule. But it’s an important one.”
You sigh, but it’s not annoyed—it’s more like you’re trying to keep up with how his mind works. “Alright. I’ll get a wreath tomorrow.”
Clark hesitates, then gestures toward the coat rack. “I can run out now. There’s a hardware store a few blocks away. They might still be open.”
“Clark, it’s nine-thirty. And snowing.”
“They have extended hours during the holidays,” he says, straight-faced, like this is a public service announcement.
“You are not going out in the snow to buy a wreath.”
His shoulders drop—not sulky, just resigned—but the softness in his eyes says he’s still picturing the apartment with that missing piece. He turns back toward the boxes, trying to shift gears, but he’s not subtle enough to hide how much he cares about this. “Alright,” he murmurs, “tomorrow then.”
You nudge his arm lightly. “We’ll get a nice one. Something you approve of.”
He brightens a little at that, then crouches to open another box. It’s full of random decorations you barely remember owning—garlands, figurines, a pair of old stockings you forgot you kept. Clark sorts through them like an archaeologist discovering artifacts.
“These would look great on the windowsills,” he says, pulling out a strand of cranberries and felt stars. “Windows should always have something. They make the place look alive from the outside.”
“Rule eight,” you mutter.
He pretends not to hear you.
He reaches deeper into the box and retrieves two heavy stockings—one red, one green. “And these should go up before we finish the tree,” he adds. “It sets the scene.”
“You’re decorating the entire apartment before we even finish the ornaments?”
He looks up, almost confused by the question. “Of course. Everything should feel cohesive.”
You stare at him. “Clark, this is starting to sound like you’re planning a storefront display.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says, returning his focus to the garland. “Storefronts don’t use this kind of color balance.”
You can’t even respond to that. You just watch him as he walks toward the window, holding the felt stars against the glass to test how they’d look from outside. He considers the placement, steps back, checks the angle, adjusts the height—it’s a whole process.
“You know no one is actually grading you on Christmas décor, right?” you ask, leaning against the wall.
He glances over his shoulder, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m not doing it for them.” He says it so simply that you feel it like a warm shift in the air. He returns to the decoration box, rummaging again, and pulls out a bundle of small, gold bells tied with red ribbon. He holds them up triumphantly. “These go on the inside of the door.”
“Why?” you ask.
“So you can hear when someone comes home,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s… comforting.”
Your chest tightens a little, unexpectedly. Not painfully—just a gentle tug, like someone drawing a curtain back from a window.
He hangs the bells carefully, adjusting the ribbon twice before he’s satisfied. When he steps back, he looks around the apartment with a quiet, growing pride. The tree glows behind him, the windowsill is slowly transforming, and the bells at the door catch the light every time he moves.
“This is starting to feel right,” he says softly. He isn’t talking about the decorations anymore. And neither are you.
---
The next morning rolls in slow and soft, sunlight muted behind a sky that can’t decide whether it wants to snow again. The apartment still smells faintly of pine and warm electronics from the tree lights Clark insisted on leaving plugged in overnight, “just to make sure none of the bulbs burn out.” He’s already awake by the time you shuffle into the kitchen, hair still mussed from sleep, shoulders wrapped in the nearest sweater you could grab. Clark stands by the counter with two mugs of coffee and that easy, unassuming smile he slips into when he’s comfortable.
“Morning,” he says, handing you a mug that’s exactly the way you like it. “Ready for mission wreath acquisition?”
You groan into your drink. “It’s too early for you to be this enthusiastic.”
“It’s almost eleven.”
“Still too early.”
He laughs, then grabs his coat and helps you with yours even though you don’t need help. It’s instinctive, gentle, and entirely Clark. Before long you’re both stepping out into the cold, boots crunching over a thin layer of snow left from the night before. The air has that crisp, bright quality that makes your breath fog instantly, and Clark pulls his scarf higher around his neck, cheeks already pink from the wind.
The main street is buzzing with preholiday errands—families with bundled-up kids, people dragging real fir trees to their cars, someone arguing loudly about an overpriced inflatable reindeer. Clark takes it all in like it’s a warm tradition instead of festive chaos.
“There’s a place two blocks down that sells wreaths,” he says, adjusting his glasses as though that somehow helps him navigate faster. “Ma used to order from a woman who ran a similar stand. I’m hoping these look a little like hers.”
You smirk. “So there’s a standard you’re comparing them to.”
He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Of course.”
The wreath stand is tucked between a bakery and a hardware store, a temporary wooden stall draped in garland. The vendor—a short older woman bundled in three layers of wool—waves cheerfully as you approach.
“Looking for a wreath?” she asks. “Got fresh pine, got artificial, got ones with bows, ones with bells, ones with berries—”
Clark perks up immediately. “Do you have multicolor lights woven through any of them?”
The woman laughs. “Haven’t heard that request in years. I’ve got one with warm lights, but if you want colorful, you’re on your own.”
Clark glances at you, trying not to look crestfallen. You nudge him with your shoulder.
“We can add our own lights if you want,” you say. “We’re already improvising half the apartment.”
That brightens him again. He studies the rows of wreaths with the attention span of someone picking out a pet. His hands hover, testing the fullness, the symmetry, the scent, the sturdiness of the branches. When he finally picks one—medium-sized, real pine, decorated with tiny red berries and a simple velvet ribbon—he holds it like it’s fragile.
“This one,” he says with quiet certainty. “It feels… right.”
The vendor wraps it in paper, and Clark carries it like a gift the whole walk back toward the grocery store. People pass and stare occasionally, probably because he’s holding it so carefully you’d think it was an artifact from a museum.
You bump his elbow lightly. “You know, most people don’t cradle wreaths like newborns.”
He actually blushes. “I’m not cradling it. I’m just… being careful.”
“Right. Totally different.”
His laughter fogs in the cold air, warm and embarrassed and pleased.
Inside the grocery store, the blast of heat fogs your glasses, and you both pause near the carts. Clark holds a shopping list he wrote with genuinely impressive precision—ingredients for sugar cookies, frosting supplies, sprinkles in four separate sections because “each type has a purpose.” You swear you’re going to ask him about that later.
“Okay,” you say, scanning the aisles, “what’s first on the list?”
He taps the paper. “Butter. Real butter. Not margarine.”
“Rule nine,” you mutter.
He pretends he didn’t hear you again, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. You weave through the aisles, stopping every three feet because Clark wants to check the expiration dates, compare brands, or make sure the vanilla extract is “actual extract, not imitation.” He speaks the last part with a seriousness normally reserved for breaking news.
He hands you a bag of sugar next, then pauses halfway down the baking aisle with an expression that can only be described as reverent.
“What now?” you ask, following his gaze.
He’s staring at the shelves of sprinkles—rows of reds, greens, metallics, shapes that look like tiny trees and stars. He picks up a jar of rainbow nonpareils and holds it like he did the wreath. “These,” he says quietly, “are perfect.”
“For what?”
“For the cookies.”
“You mean all the cookies?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the ones that need to be joyful.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”
He shrugs helplessly—because he doesn’t know how to explain it, but he feels it anyway. It’s adorable. It’s ridiculous. It’s completely Clark.
By the time your cart is full—flour, butter, sugar, sprinkles, food coloring, cookie cutters shaped like stars and bells—you’re exhausted from navigating the aisles, and Clark looks fully energized, like this is his version of a perfect Saturday.
When you step back outside, snow has started again, small flakes catching in Clark’s hair and melting on his coat. He adjusts his grip on the wreath, then glances at you as you shift the grocery bags. “Want me to carry those?” he asks.
“You’re already holding the wreath like it’s sacred.”
He gives a sheepish smile. “I can multitask.” But he still reaches for the heavier bags while keeping the wreath balanced in the crook of his arm.
On the walk home, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm—boots hitting snow together, the quiet hush of winter settling around you, the wreath bobbing gently with each step. Clark looks over at you once or twice, like he’s making sure you’re enjoying this as much as he is. “This is going to be a good day,” he says softly.
And with the snow swirling around him, the wreath tucked close, and a bag full of sugar-cookie ingredients bumping against his leg, you believe him.
---
The wreath goes up first. Clark stands just inside the doorway, watching as you undo the twine and settle the wreath against the hook. The moment it hangs, he inhales like the apartment itself just exhaled. The deep green of the pine needles frames the door perfectly, the red berries catching the light, the ribbon draping in a way that even he can’t nitpick.
“There,” you say, stepping back. “The door no longer looks cold.”
He shoots you a look—mock offended, mock delighted. “It looks welcoming,” he corrects softly. “It looks like home.”
And for a moment, he stands there absorbing it, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Content. Peaceful. The kind of expression that appears on him when something old and familiar intertwines with something new.
You nudge him lightly. “Alright, Mr. Wreath Whisperer. Cookies.”
His eyes brighten instantly. “Cookies.”
The kitchen becomes a controlled disaster within minutes. Flour dusts the counter, the floor, your sleeve. Clark insists on measuring every ingredient with textbook precision, leveling the flour with the flat edge of a butter knife like a man performing delicate surgery. You crack the eggs while he softens the butter, and soon you’re both leaning over the mixing bowl watching the dough come together in soft, pale clumps.
“Needs a little more vanilla,” he murmurs, reaching for the bottle.
You tilt your head. “You can smell that?”
He nods sheepishly. “I have a good nose.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He laughs, shaking his head, and the sound warms the kitchen in its own way.
When the dough is finally smooth and pliable, you turn it onto the floured counter. Clark watches your hands work it, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with flour. He leans in to help, palms pressing beside yours, steady and warm as you roll it out.
“Cookies should be cut at least half an inch thick,” he says.
“That another one of your rules?”
“It’s a guideline,” he insists, though the smile betrays the truth.
You press the star-shaped cutter into the dough. He handles the bell cutter. The shapes pile up on the parchment-lined tray—imperfect, charming, crowded like they’re leaning on each other. Clark arranges them with care, spacing them with mathematical accuracy.
“They’ll bake evenly this way,” he says, nudging a star half an inch to the left.
You don’t argue. The oven preheats, humming softly, filling the kitchen with slow warmth. When the tray slides in and the door clicks shut, Clark relaxes like a mission has reached a stable point.
“Now we make frosting,” he says, already pulling bowls from the cabinet.
You mix powdered sugar, butter, and vanilla until it’s smooth enough to spread. Clark holds the bowl steady, occasionally scraping the sides with a spatula like a man who takes pride in every small task. When the frosting is ready, you divide it among three bowls—white, and two more waiting for color.
“What colors?” you ask, holding up the little bottles of food dye.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Red, green, and blue.”
“Not surprised.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
You drip red into one bowl, green into the next. Clark takes the blue bottle, carefully squeezing a few drops into the frosting before stirring. The color deepens into something soft and winter-bright. He dips his finger in, testing the consistency. “This one looks good. Should I—?”
Before he can even finish the sentence, you grab his wrist gently and lean forward, brushing your tongue over the frosting on his fingertip before he can taste it himself. He freezes. Absolutely still. The only thing that moves is the faint rise of his chest and the slow, startled widening of his eyes. “That was supposed to be my taste test,” he says, voice quieter than before.
“You were taking too long.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and warm, the kind of smile that feels like someone dimmed the room’s noise instead of the lights. He doesn’t pull his hand back right away. He just watches you, cheeks slightly pink, the blue frosting still staining the edge of his knuckle.
“Well,” he murmurs, “you beat me to it.”
“You complaining?”
He shakes his head once, deliberate. “Not even a little.”
The oven timer dings before the moment can stretch further, breaking the tension with a burst of cheerful noise. Clark inhales sharply, almost grateful for the interruption, and steps around you to grab an oven mitt.
“Cookies first,” he says, clearing his throat. “Then frosting.”
But even as he opens the oven door, heat spilling into the room, his eyes flick toward you again—quick, instinctive, warm—as if he’s still replaying the feel of your mouth brushing his skin. There’s a new brightness there, tucked just beneath the surface, something soft and unmistakably hopeful.
After a while, the cookies are now cooling on wire racks while you and Clark set up the decorating station like two people preparing for an art competition neither of you signed up for. He lines the bowls of frosting in a neat row—blue, red, green, white—then places the sprinkles in a small triangle around them, because apparently even chaos must obey his sense of structure.
“You know,” you say as you grab a butter knife and a star cookie, “most people just slap some frosting on and call it a day.”
“I’m not most people,” he replies, already smoothing white frosting onto a bell-shaped cookie with surgical precision. “And neither are you.”
“That sounds like pressure.”
“It’s encouragement,” he says, but the slight smile suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You settle into a rhythm—frosting, sprinkling, occasionally leaning over to bump his elbow just to see if you can break his concentration. You can’t. He decorates cookies like a man trying to impress the spirit of Christmas itself. “You’re putting so much effort into that one,” you tease, nodding toward the cookie in his hand.
He shakes his head, eyes narrowed as he adds tiny green dots along the edges. “Details matter.”
“And yet,” you say, glancing at the many undecorated cookies, “we have about forty of these to go.”
“We’ll get through them.” He pauses, then adds, almost shyly, “Together.”
You pretend you’re not affected by that, even though it hits somewhere warm and low in your chest.
Several minutes pass, then half an hour, then another ten minutes during which you barely speak. Clark glances at you occasionally, curious, because you’ve spent far too long hunched over one cookie, blocking it from his view like you’re guarding a classified document.
“Can I see?” he asks at one point.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not done.”
He raises an eyebrow. “It’s a cookie, not a sculpture.”
“You’ll see.”
He hums, but he lets you work, returning to his own cookies without complaint. Still, every so often you catch him peeking—subtle, but not subtle enough. He wants to know what you’re doing. He wants to see it. He wants, in that absolutely Clark way, to be part of whatever you’re making.
At last, you lean back and stretch your spine, satisfied. The cookie sits on the plate in front of you, a ridiculous little masterpiece that makes you grin.
Clark notices the shift instantly. “Are you finished?”
You lift the plate but keep it angled away from him. “Close your eyes.” He does so without hesitation, trusting you completely, hands resting gently on the counter. You place the snowman cookie into his palms. “Okay,” you say softly. “Open.”
His eyes open—and then widen. Truly widen. His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or stare.
The cookie is a simple snowman shape, but you’ve turned it into something unmistakable: a tiny Superman. Blue frosting forms a suit, red frosting makes a cape and boots, and a miniature “S” sits on its chest in painstakingly neat yellow lines. You even added a swooping curl of frosting on its head.
Clark looks at it for so long the frosting might as well be drying into stone. “You… made me,” he says finally, voice soft in a way that tugs at something deep.
“It’s a snowman,” you say lightly. “You’re not that round.”
He doesn’t laugh—and that’s how you know you’ve hit something deeper than humor. “It’s—” He swallows. “It’s really thoughtful.”
You shrug, trying to pretend you aren’t watching his reaction like it matters. “The curl took forever.”
He runs a thumb along the edge of the cookie, careful not to smudge the design. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“You deserve representation,” you tease. “Even in cookie form.”
He lifts his gaze from the cookie to you, slow and deliberate, and his expression is warm in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Thank you,” he says, and the sincerity in those two words lands with more weight than any frosting-covered snowman should reasonably evoke.
“It’s just a cookie,” you whisper.
“No,” he murmurs, still looking at you like you’ve handed him something gentler, quieter, more personal. “It’s not.”
You sit beside him, leaning just close enough that your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts slightly nearer, just enough for warmth to meet warmth.
He sets the cookie back on the counter—reverently, almost protectively—then picks up a blue-frosted star, handing it to you. “What’s this?” you ask.
“A trade,” he says. “You gave me something meaningful. I should give something back.”
You bite into the star, frosting smudging your lip, and he watches you with far too much attention for someone trying to pretend the moment is casual.
The kitchen smells like sugar and vanilla, the wreath’s pine drifting in faintly from the door. The soft glow of the tree lights reaches down the hall. And Clark, sitting beside you with blue frosting on his fingertips, looks like someone you could spend a thousand quiet winter afternoons with.
You lick the last bit of frosting from your thumb and nudge his arm. “Ready to decorate the rest?”
He grins—a full, bright thing that reaches his eyes. “With you?” he says. “Always.”