Yay.

Not that 'yay' is the appropriate reaction, really. The offer isn't being made for the purpose of a nice time, and what Clark feels is relief, mainly, that something has been settled, shifted, and he hopes for the better.

But still, slightly glad for more selfish purposes, of nearness and acceptance thereof, and while he presses a smile at Bruce, gives his hands a last squeeze, he entertains the brief fantasy of leaning across the table to kiss him in front of god and everyone. Inappropriate, too, but there it is, and it wasn't the first time today he's thought about it, and it won't be the last.

What Clark does instead is gather the remnants of their lunch and the recyclable plates and napkins it came with, leaving Bruce the cup of melting margarita slushie to do with as he likes. Reflexively tidying before the person he's with even thinks to do it themselves is probably the number one mama's boy tell he has, chief among all the other ones. They make pretty good boyfriends, his tribe.

"Seal feeding's in ten minutes," Clark says, on his way back over. "We can make it if we don't get distracted by cephalopods."