“Babe?” Bruce called from the end of the hallway. I ignored him and continued to stare at the laptop screen. There were hundreds of posts.

“Clark?” Bruce stood at the doorway, casually leaning against the frame. “Is there something wrong?” I looked up at him and opened my mouth, but I couldn’t force a single sound out. Bruce’s face hardened and he walked to the edge of our bed and leaned over. “Clark is everything okay?” I gestured vaguely to the screen, to a post entitled Venus, which, to anyone who knew the man, was clearly about Poison Ivy.   

“Oh,” Bruce leaned back, “is that all?”

I nodded. Bruce sat down beside me laughing, “I was actually worried, -”

“Bruce, why wouldn’t you tell me about this?”

Bruce tilted his head, “…Because it’s just poetry? I didn’t think it was important.” I skooted closer to him. “Of course it’s important. I’m a writer Bruce, I understand just how much of yourself goes into making something like this.” Pink started to flood my lovers cheeks. “I just didn’t think you would care about it.”

I nudged our shoulders, “Of course I care about it. I mean I care about you, don’t I?”