A wise course of action, especially given that the pause allows Bruce's internal clock to catch up and put together: yes, Martha probably poked her head out and went right back inside. A mildly panic-inducing thought, because it's one thing to be happy your son brought a friend you like over, it's another to catch your son making out with said friend. He forgets, sometimes, that not everywhere is the same social super-liberal (immoral?) haven as Gotham City (the conservatives love it - look, look, they let the queers touch and give poors more food stamps in Jersey, and their capitol is a shithole). Though, Clark did not seem particularly skittish, and it's nearly 2018. Maybe she's fine with the fact that it wasn't a woman her son was out here attached to by the face.

"And pretend we've been talking about the weather for an hour?"

He's got jokes.

He's also got-- this last thing, before he steps away (which feels terrible, for a moment). Bruce nuzzles against him, faint sound of stubble audible in the chilly air, and kisses his jaw near the curve of it, nose pressing just behind his ear. It would be fine, he thinks, to stand out here until he can't feel his feet for the cold - to discover if it's possible to leave Clark's invulnerable lips kiss-reddened, to memorize the taste of his mouth on an atomic level.

Going inside and not looking like complete lunatics or twitterpated teenagers is fine, too.