if there was one habit clark picked up from his ma, it was making his bed every morning. even when he’d wake up 17 minutes after his alarm went off, he’d still make sure to tuck his comforter up and fluff his pillows — even if he had to do so a little haphazardly.
then you came along. at some point you started spending the night with clark, not that he minded, no, he preferred it actually. you’d join him in the kitchen every morning, wrapping your arms around his waist and smushing your cheek into his shoulderblade as he made you both breakfast. you’d brush your teeth next to him, standing shoulder to shoulder in his tiny bathroom. you’d help him pick out his tie for the day as you did your hair. it was the small, domestic things that made his cheeks warm and his chest feel lighter.
but you never made the bed, and he found that he wouldn’t make it either, not when the only thing he could think about was how you joined him in the shower that morning.
he’d return home on a night where you had to work late, kicking his shoes off by the door as he made his way to his bedroom. he’d flick the light on and be loosening his tie when his eyes landed on his messy sheets. his… messy sheets? comforter kicked aside from when you’d practically fought it trying to get yourself out of bed. pillows askew. sheets wrinkled from not one, but two bodies sleeping against them. a small, but oh so loud reminder that you had been there.
and maybe, just maybe he’d let himself continue to forget to make it on the nights you’d stay.
