Clark closes the door behind him, eyebrows drawn together at that question. He hasn't bothered to put further layers back on, hands bare against the frigid air, but not cold. He generates his own warmth, and out here, maybe Bruce can feel a breath of it when he steps out alongside. Shelby's made tracks in the snow, digging around, still exuberant from the way the house smells so different and there's a new human to make friends with.

He sort of knows how she feels, does Clark, but lacking a tail to wag, he just fidgets with what he brought out with him. There's only one person in the world he might wrap a present with black paper for. It's of modest size, a little crumpled. Soft.

"Still figuring that out myself," he says, with hapless honesty.

Except he has a few ideas. Saying them out loud, even if invited to, strikes him as awfully presumptuous.

"But you don't hate it."