Title: your slightest look will unclose me
Disclaimer: They're not mine and the title is taken from E.E. Cumming's poem "somewhere i have never travelled".
Summary: It is the first time she recognizes the flutter in her belly for what it is and not for what it could or couldn't be. (Early season 8.)
A/N: This is completely unbeta'd so please be kind if you review.
It hits her on a Thursday.
They're working on a story in the loft with papers stacked on the old wood and iron chest and Shelby at their feet. It is late and warm and the coffee she drank earlier is starting to wear off. She leans back against the soft red couch, deeply breathes in the familiar Kansas air, letting it fill her lungs and anchor her. Clark watches her and says something she doesn't quite hear because she's too busy watching his mouth.
It is the first time she recognizes the flutter in her belly for what it is and not for what it could or couldn't be. She allows herself to lean against his shoulder, let's herself get pulled into his tide as he rolls his eyes with a good-natured smile. Not for the first time, though, Lois Lane equates the Kent farm and Clark's arms with familiarity and belonging, with the idea of home.
It is in the moment between wakefulness and sleep that she finally comes to connect the flutter in her stomach, the light heaviness in her limbs, and the beat of her heart with Clark Kent's ocean-filled eyes and the gravity of his sun-warmed hands.
She finds that she is not nearly as terrified as she thought she'd be.