The amount of times Clark decides not to be pushed is not never, but not tonight. He goes and his hands are on Bruce to take him along for that short ride.

There are so many places he belongs, now, after what felt like a lifetime of feeling out of place. Some of it by choice, never making his way back to Kansas for long stretches of time, most of it not. But he does, now, standing in his mother's kitchen and drying the dishes, or sitting cross-legged opposite Lois and handling cardboard boxes of vegan chow mein, or finding himself invited to Alfred's simple and classy midweek dinner table, or meeting Diana anywhere from the wild sky to a Parisian bistro.

Or here.

He lifts his head and kisses Bruce as if they were getting right back to where they'd left off a couple hours back, even though it's not quite that. His hands gripping Bruce's waist and half slipped up beneath his shirt, drawing it up in absent minded function when most of his focus is on kissing. None of the above contemplations are coherent thoughts, but manifest anyway as an inarticulate contentment, warm in him and the way he touches Bruce back.