Awareness
He's critically aware of her humanity, how fragile she is in his hands.
He's critically and unabashedly aware of the sound fabric makes against her skin, the way her skin flushes when things don't go her way, at her speed.
He's inescapably aware of the way his heart pounds rapidly beneath the symbol of his house and inside this alien body. His eyes follow her across the street, watch her climb the steps of her apartment, follow her until she's safe beyond her door, locked and bolted against the oh so very dangerous world they're floating in.
He listens across the night for the familiar sounds of Martha Kent, matches the beat of her heart to the rustle of the wind in his cape. He keeps one ear open for her, always, his compass, his very truest north. But it's complicated because now there's Lois, just as precious, just as rare, just as his to protect. But he can't watch over everyone and he's afraid that one day, everyone will drown out his only ones.
He's acutely aware of the reasons, the pressure, the saving the world above everything else, that sits between and on top of everything that he holds dear.
Clark, Kal-El, Superman. Whatever they want to call him - he has a home and a family and romantic sensibilities borne from watch Jonathan Kent love his wife like she's the only thing that makes the sun come up in the morning. He wants to love Lois like his father loves his mother, even if it means the world falls apart because of it.
He can't, of course.
He's painfully aware of the price, of the tradeoffs, of the won'ts and can'ts that will color the rest of their lives and in this moment, watching her sip coffee and catch up on late night talk shows, he's undeniably aware that he just can't bring himself to care.