The hand on his abdomen curls just a little. The one at his side is molded there, moving with him, not slipping an inch. He can't hear the thoughts in Bruce's head or the desperate plea in his heart. What he can do is feel it, feel that change, that raw honesty thrumming beneath his fingers. And those fingers tighten just the smallest, most significant bit.

Mine.

As a heart beating, as a soul fills a body, as a mind fills with thought and emotion and imagination. Of all the things Clark is, 'fickle' doesn't make the list and his heart least of all. He'd come to Bruce that night with the ingredients for curry in his bag, a pie in a box, and his heart in his hand. And now, here they were.

He couldn't regret any of it.