Well.

It is a start. A restart, maybe, a reset, and so Clark is glad for the soft, lingering focus of the kiss from Bruce, his hand resting where it is, while also trying not to yearn for more immediately. For Bruce to hold onto him, or to initiate a second. The absence of that feels distinct, but they've gone down these roads before and Clark can't convince himself that reservation on Bruce's end is Bruce suddenly wanting him less.

It's the change. The shock of normalcy and strangeness. They really were in a vacuum, back there, up there. Coming apart, needing to be put back in order. He hopes that's it, anyway. That it's something he can do.

The tip of his nose brushes Bruce's on exit, leaning back, standing up. Dinner.

There is a small supply of Clark-friendly ingredients and he knows where they live, even without X-ray vision. A can of jackfruit, chickpeas, some leafy things, tomatoes, are assembled. A half empty jar of curry paste in the fridge, with an expiry date of at least another year.

"I don't think mom trusts any meal you can cook in less than ten minutes," Clark is saying, scanning some cupboards. "Except breakfast, barely. 'You're just warming it up'. Do you have rice?"