Sometimes, it's just really nice to be driving a German-made luxury car that was designed with people over five feet tall in mind, back seat included. The top of Bruce's head still makes contact with the roof of the car, but he manages to get the door shut behind them (does this look any less suspicious on security cameras than just making out leaning on the car would be? no, but). Thud. It echoes through the parking garage, sealing them into a clipped off bubble of reality.

He pulls his hat off. Hair a little funny. Leans over and kisses Clark.

Probably that kiss is more amorous than the setting warrants. But it doesn't feel like it; it feels like this is the right level, preemptively a degree higher than it should be, for several reasons. Like: how painful this morning was. The way Clark looks when he's smiling about sharks. How rare it is to be kissing in the back of a car like idiot teenagers.

Knees on seatbacks. Bruce has to be mindful not to jam a heel into the breakable mugs in their paper bags. His injured hand is gentle against Clark's chest, resting there. Safely.