They say Superman represents hope. That kind of hope you sometimes lose when you can no longer see a way out, when the days grow heavy and everything seems dark. The people of Metropolis felt that hope when they saw him flying across the sky, when they watched him descend like a falling star to catch a bus or stop a collapsing building. Children shouted in excitement, adults sighed in relief, because they knew that as long as he was there, everything would be alright.

But Superman was shattered on the inside. Clark Kent, rather. Because when he took off the cape and stopped being the hero, he was left alone with his thoughts, and those thoughts weighed more than anything he had ever lifted in the sky. “Was it that day?” Clark wondered as the smile faded from his face. He had saved some children from a fire, had hugged them one by one, had posed for photos with that wide smile everyone knew. But the moment he turned away, the smile disappeared. He took it off as if it were part of the costume. Then he put on his ordinary-person clothes, his shoes that clicked as he walked, his glasses, and began the journey back to his apartment.

When he opened the door, the scent of home was the same. His home. The place where you waited for him. It smelled like freshly made food, like cheap candles bought from the corner store, like dried flowers they never threw away because they carried memories. He closed the door carefully, as if making noise might break something fragile that was already cracked. Before a tear could slip down his cheek, he wiped it away quickly with the back of his hand. He forced a smile—the same false smile he used for interviews, for photos, so no one would ask questions. He left his briefcase by the entrance, took off his jacket, and placed it on the sofa. He walked through the living room, and his eyes, unwillingly, drifted toward the photographs he once loved. They were pictures of the two of you, the day you were bound in marriage. You, in that white dress that made you look like a dream; him, in his blue suit with that genuine smile only you knew. But he couldn’t look at them. Not because he hated them, but because if he did, the tears would return, and this time he wouldn’t be able to stop them. So he looked away, pressed his lips together, and walked into the kitchen.

He walked toward you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, and closed his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. To pretend nothing was wrong.

“I told you I’d come prepare dinner,” he whispered near your ear, his voice soft in that way he only used when you were alone.

You turned and smiled. Your hair was loose, cascading over your shoulders like a waterfall. You used to say you hated wearing it that way because the city was too hot, because it stuck to the back of your neck and made you itch. But you also admitted you liked how you looked with it down, that it made you feel prettier. Then you would say you looked thinner, that your clothes were too loose, and he would always shake his head and tell you you were just as beautiful as the first day he saw you.

“I’m unemployed now,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, though you hid it behind a smile. “I want to be a good wife to my husband.”

You stepped closer and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He looked at you intently, with those blue eyes that always saw you as if you were the only person in the world. He nodded slowly.

“You are always a good wife,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “The best.”

You nodded, but your eyes were already shining. You didn’t want to cry. Not again.

“Clark,” you whispered, your hand rising to touch his cheek.

He shook his head before you could say more.

“No… don’t say anything right now, please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking just a little. “We should eat. Eat like we always do.”

You nodded and looked at him. His eyes were glassy, like a glass of water about to overflow. He wanted to cry—it showed in the way his chest rose and fell quickly, in how he bit his lower lip. But he stopped. For you. Because if he cried, you would cry, and then everything would fall apart. You understood. You stroked his cheek with your fingers, gently, as if he were something fragile.

“I made a cake too,” you said, changing the subject with a smile that was hard to maintain.

He nodded, grateful for the shift.

“I can’t wait to try it,” he whispered, and for a second, he seemed like the Clark from before—the one who got excited over homemade cake.

Yes. It was that moment. He confirmed it when he carried the plates to the dining room and set them on the table. He remembered that day in the doctor’s office, when the man looked at both of you and dropped the words like a stone against glass: it was a tumor in your brain. The doctor explained that your memories could be affected, that you would probably start forgetting small things first, then the important ones. They couldn’t operate—it was in a very dangerous place. They would begin chemotherapy. You cried all the way home, all that day, all that week. That had been a month ago. Clark had hope then. He believed that with treatment, with time, with luck, everything would turn out fine. But then the doctor had called him aside and told him the truth: the tumor had spread. Chemotherapy wouldn’t cure you, it could only delay your death sentence. A few more months, perhaps. Or maybe not.

Hope collapsed inside him. In the man who represented hope for the entire world. Clark Kent, Superman, broke. He screamed at the sky in an empty field where no one could hear him, begging for a power to save you. Any power. A new one, a greater one, one that could stop what even he could not stop. He went to Bruce Wayne in Gotham. He arrived flying, landed on the mansion’s rooftop, and when Bruce came out to meet him, Clark fell apart. He told him everything. He cried like a child. He apologized for the intrusion, for arriving unannounced, for the tears. And Bruce, Gotham’s dark man, simply nodded and said he would help. That he would call the best doctor in the world, that he would use his money, his time, everything necessary.

But while that was happening, you had lost your job. You grew tired more quickly. Climbing the stairs left you breathless. You wore your hair down because it had begun to fall out, strand by strand, and you wanted to keep it loose to remember what you would soon no longer have. In the mornings, you looked at yourselves in the mirror and both saw how time slipped away like water through your fingers. You cried, of course you did. You cried in bed with the lights off, you cried in the shower where the sound of water masked your sobs. But Clark clung to normalcy—to dinners, to silly conversations, to the three years of marriage that had been the happiest of his life.

You ate that night. He told you about Jimmy, who had made a terrible joke at the office. About Lois, who was learning to cook and had burned three pans. About Cat, who wore a hat so large it wouldn’t fit through the door. About Perry, who asked for coffee and was brought tea. You smiled, and you laughed at times, but he already noticed. He had examined you with his X-ray vision without you knowing, just to see, just to confirm what the doctor had already told him. He ignored it. He preferred not to know. He preferred to feel normal. You ate the cake, and you laughed when he smeared cream at the corner of his lips. You took a napkin and wiped his mouth carefully, tenderly. Then he smiled, but his eyes filled with tears again. You nodded. You knew. His blue gaze screamed a wordless question: why does the world want to take away what I love most? You smiled at him as tears rolled down your cheeks as well.

“Come here,” you said, and your voice did not tremble because you had cried so much you had no strength left to shake.

He rose from his chair, knelt before you, and buried his head in your abdomen. His shoulders shook silently.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Clark said, his voice broken, shattered.

You sobbed. No, you didn’t want to die either. You didn’t want to imagine that one day his pain would heal. That he would smile again without his chest aching. That he would love again—someone else—and you would remain in the past like an old photograph in a drawer. A bitter past. A memory that would blur with time. You hated that. You hated not being able to do anything. But Clark already had enough, carrying you, watching you slowly fade. You yourself knew the medication would enter your body and the deterioration would begin sooner or later. The vomiting. The exhaustion. The pain. You refused the treatment. You preferred to suffer for less time but with more clarity, with cleaner memories. But Clark begged you to stay, to try, not to give up. And in a desperate attempt to remove the tumor, everything worsened. The tumor only spread. Like a stain of ink on wet paper.

And there you both were, on the kitchen floor, holding each other while the cake cooled on the table and the world kept turning outside, unaware that the man who flew in the sky was falling apart in his wife’s arms.

The months passed, and the days became both slower and heavier at the same time. The dizziness came—sudden spells while you were in the kitchen or when you got out of bed. The world would begin to spin, and you had to grab onto something to avoid falling. But Clark was always there. He held you with his strong arms, arms that could lift a building yet held you with a gentleness that seemed impossible. He carried you through the skies to your treatments, flying slowly so you wouldn’t feel the cold wind, so you wouldn’t grow more dizzy. That way, you didn’t have to endure the stress of traffic, of buses, of people pushing in the streets. He smiled for you all the time, even as he was breaking inside. He prayed to the gods, to whatever watched from above, to help you. He was so strong—he could stop a train with one hand, could change the course of a river—but he couldn’t help you. And that broke him more than any blow he had ever received.

One night, you were sitting in front of the bathroom mirror. The lights were off; only the moonlight coming through the window illuminated your reflection. You held a lock of hair between your fingers, one that had fallen out while you brushed it. You looked at it as if it were the last piece of yourself you had left.

“I don’t want to cut my hair,” you cried without looking at him. Your voice came out broken by sobs. “I don’t want to… I’ll be ugly.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your thin hands. You knew that soon you would have almost no hair left, that chemotherapy would take it from you little by little, and the thought of looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself frightened you more than the illness itself.

Clark knelt beside you, just as he had done so many nights. He looked at you with those blue eyes that had always been yours, that had always seen you as the most beautiful woman in the world. And although his eyes were also filled with tears, he didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

“You will be the most beautiful of all,” he whispered, gently caressing your cheeks with his fingers, as if afraid of breaking you. “Look at me.”

You lifted your gaze and saw him. He smiled at you—that smile he saved only for you, the real one, the one that never appeared in newspapers or Superman photographs.

“You’ll be so beautiful that I’ll fall even more in love with you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “and you’ll only make my heart ache from loving you so much.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said it or the way his eyes shone like wet stars, but you laughed. You laughed while crying and threw yourself into his arms. Your tears mixed on his shoulders, in your hair, in the silence of that night. You held each other tightly, as if by holding on hard enough, you could stop time.

Clark continued working at the newspaper. He went every day, wrote his articles, talked with Lois and Jimmy, pretended everything was fine. And you, in secret, left him notes. You hid them in his briefcase, in his pockets, between the pages of the books he read. Small notes that said “I love you” or “buy milk” or “don’t forget to water the plants today.” Because the two of you had divided expenses, chores, life. The plants you had bought together at that corner nursery, the goldfish swimming in the round bowl you loved so much, the laundry you always left for Sundays. You wrote everything down. An entire notebook with contacts, with phone numbers of friends, of doctors, of Martha. With recipes—though he could cook almost anything, he had always loved your lasagna and those chocolate-filled cookies you made on cold days. You wrote them with precise instructions: how much flour, how much butter, what temperature for the oven. Everything. Your will was simple, because you didn’t have much. Clark was your husband, the sole owner of your heart, and he would keep the little you had gathered—your books, your dresses, the letters you kept in a box under the bed. You left everything ready, as if you knew. Maybe you did.

After a year, the doctor looked at both of you in his office. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the desk cluttered with papers. The doctor removed his glasses, sighed, and released the words like dropping something unbearably heavy.

“Three months at most,” he said, his voice tired. “The chemotherapy has extended your time, but your condition is declining. I would recommend hospitalization.”

“No,” you said immediately. The word came out fast, almost without thought. You looked at Clark with fear in your eyes, that fear you felt every time someone talked about confining you to a white room.

“No,” Clark replied without hesitation. You lowered your gaze, grateful, and he squeezed your hand beneath the table. “I’ll take care of her.”

“But she needs to be monitored,” the doctor insisted, looking at you with eyes that had already seen many patients fade away. “We might be able to extend her time further.”

You smiled. A sad smile, the kind that hurts in the chest.

“But would it be miserable to spend my last months in a bed?” you said, your voice breaking. “I’d rather spend them at home.”

The doctor nodded. He knew you were right. You signed the papers to go home, to stop the treatment. Clark didn’t speak that day. Maybe you never realized it, but you were forgetting things. Your keys—you left them in the refrigerator. Your phone—you put it in your bag but later couldn’t remember where. The apartment number you had repeated so many times one day vanished from your mind. You stepped into the elevator, walked down the hallway, and stopped in front of a door that wasn’t yours. You called Clark, crying, not knowing where you were. And he came for you, found you sitting on the hallway floor, your hands trembling. He never made you feel bad. Never said “again.” He just held you, led you home by the hand, and poured you a glass of water.

That night, he slept with his head resting on your chest. He closed his eyes and whispered so softly it was barely audible.

“I love you,” he said.

You swallowed hard, clenching your teeth to keep from crying again. You kissed his dark hair.

“I love you more,” you replied.

“I will love you all my life,” he admitted, his voice shattering like glass hitting the ground.

You smiled. It was better this way—to believe him. Because if you thought about a future where he would have everything with someone else, everything you couldn’t give him, it would destroy you inside, and you would feel selfish for not wanting him to be happy. So you held him tighter and fell asleep listening to the sound of his breathing.

Martha would come to take care of you with Jonathan whenever Clark felt he wasn’t doing enough. Clark’s mother, that woman with gray hair and gentle hands, would cry in silence as she helped you get dressed. You comforted her, even though you were the one who was dying. You told her how much you loved her, how grateful you were for everything she had done for you. Jonathan, Clark’s father, a man of few words but warm embraces, would hold you tightly, and you would smile. They cared for you as if you were their own daughter. At night, Clark would accompany you to the bathroom, because the headaches were stronger now, and sometimes you became disoriented and didn’t know where you were.

One night, you looked at him with a frown. You didn’t recognize him. He was standing at the bathroom door, a towel in his hand, waiting to help you. But you saw him as if he were a stranger.

“Yes?” you asked, your voice sounding confused.

He smiled, though inside his heart was breaking.

“I’m Clark,” he said, pointing at the little note he had stuck on your mirror.

There were several. All written in his clear, rounded handwriting. “Clark is my husband.” “I have been married to Clark for four years.” “Clark fell in love first.” “You met him during an interview.” You read them slowly, moving your lips like when you were learning to read as a child.

You turned to look at him. You looked at your hand, the ring on your thin skin, your bones visible beneath. Then you looked at his finger, the ring identical to yours. You nodded, even though you still didn’t fully remember.

“I won’t come closer if you don’t want me to,” Clark said, his voice trembling slightly.

You looked at him again. The hallway light illuminated half of his face. His eyes were blue, very blue, like the sky after a storm.

“You have beautiful eyes,” you said, not knowing why, but feeling that it was true.

He blushed. He lowered his gaze and bit his lip. Then he swallowed with difficulty and looked at you again, his eyes filled with tears he could no longer hold back.

“I know,” he said, his voice broken. “You told me that when we first met.”

You smiled. Something inside you—something that wasn’t your mind, something deeper—told you that this man was important. You stepped closer and embraced him. Your mind no longer recognized him, but your heart seemed to, because when he held you, you felt at peace. As if you were home.

And so it went. Everything passed. The good days and the bad. The laughter and the silences. The memories that faded and the embraces that remained. Everything passed, until the clear skies turned gray. Drops began to fall over Metropolis, slow at first, then heavier. Darkness stained entire weeks, as if the sun had forgotten to rise. And then, as if nothing had happened, the sun was reborn. That is life. It goes on, even when it hurts.

Superman kept flying. He saved people who were falling, stopped trains that derailed, put out fires that threatened to swallow homes. And Clark Kent kept working at the newspaper, writing articles about traffic and neighborhood fairs, pretending the world was still the same.

“Are you coming, Kent, or what excuse are you inventing now?” Lois asked one day, her hands on her hips, a smile on her face that had no idea what Clark carried in his chest.

“I’m going to see my wife,” Clark said, looking at her. And for a second, Lois fell silent. Jimmy, who was nearby, smiled and nodded, because he knew. Everyone in the office knew that Clark went to the same place every day.

“Will you be okay?” Jimmy asked, in that voice of his that always sounded concerned.

“I always am,” Clark said with a smile. He stood from his chair, turned off his lamp, and adjusted the frames with the photos of his wedding that he kept on his desk. He looked at them for a second. You were there, in your white dress and that wide smile. He carefully placed them in his briefcase and left.

He walked slowly through the streets of Metropolis. People passed by him without looking, without knowing that the man who flew in the sky was walking with a shattered heart. He stopped at a hamburger stand and bought two with barbecue sauce, not too spicy, no mustard, just the way you liked them. Also two sodas, very cold. Then he stopped at a bakery and bought two pieces of bread, the kind you always broke apart with your hands before eating. Finally, he arrived at a flower shop. The scent of fresh flowers filled the place.

“That one, please,” he said to the woman attending, pointing at a bouquet of white flowers. “It’s for my wife. Please arrange it nicely.”

The woman smiled, the kind of smile people have when they’ve seen many men buy flowers for their wives.

“Wedding anniversary?” she asked as she tied the flowers with a ribbon.

“Seven years,” Clark said. The woman nodded and handed him the bouquet carefully.

When he arrived at the place, he entered in silence. The grass was green, freshly cut. The afternoon sun painted everything in warm colors. Clark looked toward the headstone and smiled, as if he could see you sitting there, waiting for him.

“I told you I’d be early,” he said as he approached. He knelt in front of the headstone and set everything on the ground. “Two hamburgers, because I didn’t have time to cook today. I know, I know, but you know I couldn’t miss today.”

He removed the dry leaves that had gathered at the base of the stone, brushing them away carefully, as if he didn’t want to make noise. Then he placed the white flowers in the small stone vase they had set there.

“I brought these so you’ll forgive me,” he said, his voice softening. He sat on the grass, crossing his legs like he used to when you watched movies together on the sofa. He placed one hamburger in front of the headstone, with its soda beside it. He took the other for himself. “It was a long day. You’re probably upset because I didn’t come yesterday. Hey, love, I’m working. Actually, it looks like I might get a promotion. With that, I’ll be able to buy a car and pretend to be more human.”

He took a bite of his hamburger and chewed slowly, watching the sky turn orange.

“Lois is getting married, can you believe it?” he continued, speaking with his mouth half full. “And Jimmy seems to have settled down. He bought a house with a garden and everything. But neither of them loves the way we do.”

When he finished eating, he put the remaining hamburger into a bag and set aside the soda he hadn’t opened. He cleaned the crumbs that had fallen onto the grass, as if he were cleaning the table at home. Then he knelt again in front of the headstone, his hands resting on his knees, and tears began to roll down his cheeks. But he was smiling. He always smiled for you.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” he whispered. He breathed slowly, deeply, like when he tried to calm himself before breaking. “It’s a bit unfair that our anniversary is the same day as your death. Life is a little unfair. But I told you. Even though you didn’t want me to listen that night when you said you were afraid of being forgotten in a grave, here I am, beautiful. Remembering you every day of my life.”

He wiped a tear away with the back of his hand.

“The house is still yours,” he continued, his voice trembling but steady. “The paintings are still there, on the same wall where you hung them. I wear your ring here.”

He pulled out a silver chain from beneath his shirt. Hanging from it was your wedding ring, the one you used to wear on your finger. It gleamed in the light of the sunset.

“And I wear mine here,” he said, pointing to his ring finger, where he still wore his own ring. “I told you. I love you, and I will love you all my life. Even if fate has taken you away from me, I can’t fall in love with someone else because… you gave me everything I ever wanted.”

The wind blew softly, moving the white flowers and Clark’s hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, and in that silence, it felt as if he could hear you. As if you could hear him too.

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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

“Are we there yet?” Ellie asked from her car seat for what felt like the hundredth time, her small voice carrying easily through the quiet cabin.

You smiled despite yourself, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. She looked impossibly bright back there, tucked into her seat in that pale yellow dress she’d insisted on wearing, the skirt puffing slightly over her knees. The flower-shaped sunglasses sat a little crooked on her nose, too big but worn with pride and her feet swung gently, the squeaky-clean new rain boots catching the light every time she moved.

The sun spilled generously over the hood of the car, warming the metal and seeping through the windows until the whole interior felt softly golden, like the day itself was wrapping around the two of you. You’d come straight from school, the transition so abrupt it still felt strange in your chest, Metropolis was fading behind you in your mirrors, all glass, noise and urgency, replaced by something quieter and slower. Out here, the silence wasn’t empty, it was full in a way that made you breathe differently.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” you answered gently, glancing down at the GPS before returning your eyes to the road. “We’ll be there in about…” you squinted at the screen, “…twenty minutes. Maybe less since there’s no traffic.”

You said it almost absentmindedly, still a little stunned by the open stretch of road ahead. Smooth pavement had given way to rockier paths, tall buildings traded for endless planes of grass that rolled toward the horizon. Trees stood in loose clusters, their leaves whispering in the breeze and now and then you passed kids riding bikes in dusty driveways, horses grazing lazily behind wooden fences and birds so bright they almost didn’t look real darting from branch to branch.

Ellie pressed her hand lightly against the window, watching it all go by. “Where are we going, mommy?”

The word still landed somewhere tender every time she said it, not painful exactly but heavy with meaning you hadn’t fully unpacked yet.

“I wish I knew,” you admitted softly. “We’re meeting Clark somewhere around here. For… something.”

You let your gaze drift over the landscape as you spoke, the unfamiliar calm seeping into your bones. You rolled the windows down and fresh air rushed in immediately, carrying the smell of grass, earth and something warm and green. The sun kissed your skin and for a moment you let yourself pretend you weren’t waiting for answers, that this was just a drive for the sake of it.

Almost when you began to think the GPS had led you astray, it chimed, instructing you to turn right. The road narrowed, bending gently and soon you were easing into a long driveway. The gate stood open, welcoming rather than imposing and the land beyond it stretched farther than you could take in at once in hectares of open space, soft hills and scattered trees. The driveway itself was paved with old reddish brick, worn smooth by time and as your tires rolled over it, you slowed instinctively.

It was only then that you saw the house.

It sat comfortably in the middle of it all, not grand in a showy way but undeniably beautiful, wide and sturdy, wrapped in a porch that curved around it like open arms. It looked lived-in and loved, the kind of place that held stories in its walls. You pulled the handbrake and turned off the engine, the sudden quiet almost reverent.

“Where are we?” Ellie asked, her voice hushed now, as if she felt it too.

You grabbed your phone and stepped out of the car, leaving the windows down. “I’m… not sure,” you said honestly. You walked around to her side and opened her door but didn’t unbuckle her just yet, dialing Clark’s number as you stood there.

He picked up after two rings and immediately a rush of wind flooded the line, followed by a high-pitched whine that made you flinch.

“You sound like you’re… skydiving,” you said, half-laughing, half-panicking. “What did we say about calling while flying?” Your chest tightened for a second before logic kicked in, he was the one in the sky, not you.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Clark’s voice came through, breathless but warm. “I’ll be there in a bit. Why don’t you walk inside? The key’s under the rabbit pot.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, glancing up at the open sky as if you might spot him. “Whose house is this?”

He smiled to himself somewhere above the clouds, voice steady despite the wind. “Yes, I’m sure. And it’s–”

The call cut out abruptly, replaced by a rushing, waterfall-like sound before the line went quiet. You stared at your phone for a moment, blinking and searching for an explanation that wasn’t there. Then you turned back to Ellie, pasting on a smile that felt more excited than forced. “Alright, bunny. Let’s go explore.”

You unbuckled her and she climbed down carefully, boots thumping against the ground.

“Where’s Mr. Magic?” Ellie asked, stepping fully out of the car and looking around, her sunglasses slipping down her nose.

“On his way,” you said, extending your hand.

She took it immediately, her fingers warm and trusting in yours and skipped beside you up toward the wraparound porch. The wood creaked pleasantly under her feet and she bounced a little with each step, excitement bubbling out of her. You found the pot Clark had mentioned, a ceramic rabbit tucked near the door and moved it aside to reveal the key beneath.

You held it up for Ellie to see and her face lit up instantly. She clapped, jumped and laughed, like you’d just uncovered buried treasure instead of a simple house key.

You opened the big wooden door and stepped into an empty entryway that somehow felt anything but empty. The floorboards looked warm beneath your feet, sun-soaked in a way that suggested the house had been waiting all day just for you to arrive. Light poured in from tall windows, soft and generous, spilling across the wood and climbing the walls, so bright it almost felt tangible, like everything inside the house had been shaped from it. The way it stretched down the hallway and up the staircase felt like an invitation, like a path you were meant to follow.

Ellie stepped further in first, her small hand slipping from yours as she crossed the threshold with fearless curiosity. You followed close behind, letting her lead without even realizing you were doing it. She seemed strangely at ease, more comfortable here than you’d expected, as if the house recognized her and she, in turn, recognized it too. Her boots tapped softly as she wandered, tracing every inch of unfurnished space. She crouched by bare walls, dragging her tiny hands lightly across the surface as though memorizing the texture, pausing in doorways and peeking into corners that held nothing yet somehow promised everything.

Despite the lack of furniture, the house had charm, an undeniable warmth that clung to every beam and window frame. It felt lived-in with the echo of a life that hadn’t happened yet but already belonged there.

The kitchen stopped you in your tracks.

It looked like it had been pulled straight from a sitcom, the kind of kitchen where mornings were loud and unhurried, where families gathered around a worn table with mismatched chairs, where homework, conversations and late-night snacks all happened in the same place. Wide counters caught the sunlight just right and the sink sat beneath a window that framed the outside world like a painting. You could almost hear laughter bouncing off the walls, see a coffee mug left behind in a rush, smell something warm baking in the oven. It felt familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

There was a sunroom just beyond it that also connected to the livingroom, its glass walls catching the light from every angle. You paused there, heart tugging as you imagined it filled with plants, green vines curling up toward the ceiling, pots lined along the windowsill, maybe soil under your nails and Ellie asking questions while you tried and probably failed, to keep everything alive. The room called to you, quietly but insistently yet Ellie was already moving again.

She headed down the hall, her steps quick and determined, toward what looked like the master bedroom. You followed, still taking everything in from the attached bathroom with its simple elegance to the closet that felt bigger than it was because of how thoughtfully it was laid out. Nothing was excessive, nothing overwhelming, just… different and balanced like it knew exactly what it was supposed to be.

Before you could linger, Ellie darted toward the stairs.

You went after her, almost in a daze, following her voice as she called your name over and over, pointing out everything that caught her eye. “Mommy, look!” she said, tugging at your hand to show you intricate floral patterns carved into the woodwork, details so delicate they felt like secrets. The banister was smooth, polished by care rather than use and the sunlight upstairs was even brighter, spilling in through wide windows and wrapping the hallway in gold.

Ellie made a beeline for the room with the most light.

“A princess room!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing as she ran to the window seat and climbed up with practiced ease. She pressed her hands to the glass, peering out over the back of the lot, her excitement bubbling over. “Mommy, there’s a playground! Let’s go!!!”

You barely had time to reach her side and follow her gaze to the green grass stretching out, open and inviting before she was already sliding off the seat and racing toward the door.

“Don’t run down the stairs!” you called, the words automatic, your eyes still glued to the view outside, heart thudding a little too fast for reasons you didn’t fully understand.

That’s when you saw him.

Clark landed gracefully in the backyard, careful and precise, as if anything less would disrespect the ground he stood on. He scanned the back of the house, his gaze searching, until it found you through the window. He offered a small, careful smile, uncertain and almost nervous, like he wasn’t sure whether to brace himself or hope.

He couldn’t read your expression. He couldn’t hear the way your heart stuttered or the way the familiarity of the place wrapped around you like déjà vu made real.

You turned away from the window, swallowing hard and followed after Ellie. “Ellie, wait for me.”

“I am!” she replied, bouncing impatiently in front of the back door, hopping from foot to foot. “Can’t open the door!”

You smiled when you reached the bottom of the stairs, something soft and overwhelmed blooming in your chest as you moved to help her, the house still humming quietly around you like it knew you’d stay a while.

“Alright, hold on, hold on,” you said, laughing softly as you examined the unfamiliar lock, fingers fumbling just a bit as you figured out how it worked. “So much excitement for such a little thing.”

Ellie barely heard you. She was already bouncing on the balls of her feet, rain boots squeaking while her whole body vibrated with anticipation. “I wanna go on the swing!”

“I know you do,” you smiled, finally turning the handle and opening the door.

She bolted past you the second it was open, a flash of yellow and giggles as she ran straight toward the playground area in the yard. Her boots slapped against the wet grass, leaving tiny dark prints behind her. Halfway there, she gasped an audible, dramatic sound and suddenly detoured, changing course like a tiny missile.

“Mr. Magic!”

She ran straight into Clark, wrapping her arms around his legs with all the force her small body could manage before immediately taking off again, as if that hug alone had refueled her. Clark barely had a second to react but he still managed to bend down and squeeze her back for that brief millisecond, laughing under his breath as she disappeared toward the swings.

You both watched her go.

Clark stepped closer to you, slowly and carefully so, like he was acutely aware that this moment mattered. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, posture careful and unsure. “Hi,” he greeted quietly, like anything louder might break something fragile between you.

You turned to meet his eyes and your heart hiccupped painfully in your chest. For a second, the world felt too big and too small all at once. Then your gaze dropped to his shoes, dark dress shoes already splattered with mud and grass, ruined without a doubt.

“You came straight from work,” you said softly, more observation than accusation.

He glanced down, sheepish. “Yeah. I didn’t want to keep you wait–,” he stopped himself, shaking his head slightly.

“I brought rain boots for you too,” you added, nodding toward the driveway. “They’re in the car.”

Clark blinked, genuinely stunned. “You did?”

You chuckled, warmth curling in your chest. “Yeah. Ellie picked them at the store…They’re Superman-branded,” you added, unable to hide the smile.

Clark laughed, real and unguarded. “Of course they are.” He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “And I’m guessing you didn’t influence her decision in any way, shape or form.”

“Of course not,” you lied smoothly, not even blinking. “It was either those or Green Lantern ones.”

“Well,” he said solemnly, “then clearly you made the right choice.”

The humor faded gently as Clark shifted, turning fully toward you now. His eyes flicked past you to the house, taking it in again like he was seeing it through you for the first time. He pointed toward it briefly, hesitating. “Did you–did you guys have time to see everything?”

You shook your head slowly. “Not everything,” you admitted. “Ellie got distracted about…every five seconds.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, fond and unsurprised. “That tracks.” He nodded once, as if deciding something. “I’ll go get her and give you both a proper tour.” He glanced back at you, searching your face. “Is that okay?”

You nodded, unable to find words that wouldn’t feel too small.

Clark turned and jogged toward Ellie, his steps heavier now as his shoes sank deeper into the wet, soggy ground. She was already deep in her own little world, crouched inside what looked like a tiny makeshift store built into the play structure, examining imaginary items with complete seriousness. Before letting her climb any higher, Clark tested the structure instinctively, pressing on beams, tugging gently, making sure it was solid enough to hold laughter, scraped knees and a childhood worth remembering.

“Ms. Ellie?” Clark said, crouching down so they were eye level, his knees sinking slightly into the damp mulch. His voice softened naturally like it always did around her. “Are you having fun?”

Ellie nodded enthusiastically, curls bouncing then pointed a small finger toward the swing. “There’s water on the seat.”

Clark followed her gaze and nodded thoughtfully, as if this were a very serious observation. “It rained here yesterday,” he explained gently, “but the sun’s already out. It’ll dry it soon.”

She seemed satisfied with that answer and turned back to the little wooden structure beside the swings. She opened and closed the tiny cabinets with care, peeking inside each one like she was checking inventory. The fake fridge creaked softly when she opened it, revealing neatly arranged wooden food. It had painted fruit, little cartons, tiny pots and pans. Clark watched her, pride blooming quietly in his chest. He’d scrubbed each piece clean himself, replaced the chipped ones and sanded down rough edges until everything was smooth enough for small hands.

“Do you like it here so far?” he asked, keeping his tone casual, though the question meant more than he let on.

Ellie nodded again, then turned and pointed toward the house with sudden excitement. “There’s a princess room up there.”

Clark blinked. “Is there?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes!” she insisted, like this was obvious information.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, scratching his chin, “do you think you could show it to me? I’ve seen most of the house but I don’t think I’ve come across a princess room yet.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if inviting her into a very important secret.

Ellie’s eyes widened. She leaned forward against the low counter, elbows planted, voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe…maybe it only appears with magic,” she said seriously, “when there’s a princess close to it.”

Clark’s lips twitched. “I think you might be right.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill, holding it out to her like a formal transaction. “I’d like to get something for the tour. What can I buy with this?”

Ellie tapped her chin, humming loudly as she considered her options. She turned back to the fridge, opened it with purpose and pulled out a carved wooden banana. She held it up proudly. “This!”

“A fine choice,” Clark said solemnly, accepting the banana and handing over the money. He slid the wooden banana carefully into the inside pocket of his suit jacket like it was priceless. “Excellent service.”

Ellie beamed.

“Could you close the shop for a few minutes?” he asked politely.

She nodded, stepping out of the little house and clutching the bill with both hands, staring at it like it might disappear if she blinked too hard. The two of them walked back toward you, Ellie breaking into a run at the last second, skidding to a stop in front of you.

“Look!” she said proudly, holding it up.

You laughed softly. “Where did you find that?” you asked, glancing from the bill to Clark.

Clark raised the banana. “Have you ever had a twenty-dollar banana?”

“Can’t say I have, no.” You smiled, shaking your head. “You know they sell fake money for this exact purpose, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, completely unfazed. “But I don’t usually carry that around with me.” He gestured toward the back door. “Come on.”

All three of you stepped inside through a mudroom you hadn’t noticed before. It smelled faintly of clean wood and laundry soap. Ellie climbed up onto the bench without being asked, swinging her legs as Clark knelt to help her tug off her muddy boots. You followed suit, setting your own shoes aside and waited as Clark kicked off his ruined dress shoes with a resigned sigh.

Once everyone was settled, Clark straightened up and clapped his hands together once, a bright sound that echoed lightly in the space.

“Alright, tour time.” he said, smiling at both of you, “Let’s… let’s explore,” he then added, already stepping forward before either of you could answer, like momentum was the only thing keeping him upright. 

He headed straight into the living room with long strides that were a little too purposeful and tense shoulders beneath his jacket. Ellie bounced along beside him, enthusiasm radiating off her in waves, while you followed a step behind, watching the way he never quite looked back at you, never long enough to read your face.

“The fireplace…uh,” he began, gesturing a little too broadly toward the stone hearth, “I was told it hadn’t been used in a long time, so I had it checked when the house was inspected for structural issues and it works, it’s solid, just needs a cleaning…it’s scheduled and that’s…normal, apparently, very normal.” He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, eyes darting anywhere but to you. As he walked past Ellie, his hand came down automatically to ruffle her hair, gentle and familiar like muscle memory.

Ellie grinned up at him and then latched onto his leg, wrapping her arms around his thigh and planting both feet squarely on top of one of his. Clark barely missed a beat, adjusting his stance so she wouldn’t lose balance, continuing as if this was just part of his usual bodyweight.

“The windows,” he said, moving toward them, Ellie still attached, “they’re all double glazed, every single one, including the sunroom. They’ve got locks, proper ones not flimsy and they keep the house warm in winter and cool in summer, which…uh…the AC helps with too. That’s actually the most recent addition, works great, I tested it myself.” He gave a quick, breathless half-laugh and stepped into the sunroom, tiles cool and patterned beneath your feet.

“The tile’s original,” he added quickly, pointing down, voice picking up just a little. “Vintage pattern, blue detailing…really well kept except for that corner there.” He lifted a finger, excited and anxious all at once. “Previous owner dropped a heavy pot, but…and this is the good part, he kept replacement tiles. In the garage. Or…no–” Clark froze mid-step, eyes flicking upward. “Attic. It’s the attic. He never got around to fixing it, but it’s… it’s doable. High on the list.”

Ellie finally let go of his leg to spin in a slow circle, arms out, sunlight catching in her hair. Clark smiled at her reflexively, then kept going, words tumbling out like if he stopped they’d catch up to him.

“All doors and windows can open fully in the summer, screen doors were removed but they’re intact, stored properly, could be screwed back on easily with no damage.” He gestured vaguely toward an imaginary future.

You followed them into the kitchen, your mouth opening as if to speak but Clark was already there.

“Appliances are new…clearly,” he said, tapping one lightly. “Window bench seat…my mom can sew new cushions for that. The table needs sanding, maybe another coat to seal it but it’s–” He knocked on it with his knuckles, solid. “All wood, like at my parents’ place.”

Ellie hugged his leg again, cheek pressed to his thigh and he absently rested a hand on her shoulder, grounding himself.

“Pantry’s here,” he said, opening one door, “garage through here and also through the mudroom, old houses just have… so many doors.” He gave a breathless chuckle and swung the garage door open. Light flooded in. “Big space, not dark at all. One garage door works, the other one doesn’t but I can fix that…or call someone…probably call someone.”

Then abruptly, he turned. “Ellie, hey,” he said softly, leaning down as if sharing a secret. “I have to show you something.”

Her eyes lit up immediately and she took off down the hallway. You followed, slower now, heart thudding as Clark led the way, hands fidgeting at his sides.

He stopped at a room you’d barely registered before. “This one,” he said quickly, “could be a playroom, cabinets are already at kid height. It’s also the only room with carpet in the house, it can be removed if you want…or kept. It’s flexible.” He barely let you look before moving again, like if he paused too long the weight of it all would settle.

“Master bedroom’s there,” he pointed down another hall without stopping. “But…upstairs. Let’s go upstairs.”

Ellie was already halfway up the stairs. “The princess room!” she announced.

“Yes,” Clark said, smiling despite himself. “The princess room.” He finally glanced at you then, just a flicker like checking that you were still standing, still breathing.

Upstairs, Ellie pushed the door open like she owned it. Pale pink door, matching trim, vintage wallpaper dotted with soft illustrations. The chest in the corner and window seat glowing with afternoon light. The room felt unreal, too perfect and intentional.

“Closet space is…probably excessive,” Clark said, voice quieter now. “But if she takes after you, I think that’s a safe bet.” He gestured to the built-in wardrobes lining the walls. “Shutters on the windows but blackout blinds would be good, easier. And the bathroom next door has pink cabinets,” he added for Ellie’s benefit, earning a delighted gasp.

He ushered you both out gently, showing two more bedrooms and another bathroom, then stopped at a narrow staircase you hadn’t even noticed.

“And…uh–this.” He led the way up, steps creaking softly, until the space opened into something airy and calm. The space had bookshelves from floor to ceiling as sunlight spilled across hardwood floors offering endless possibility.

“Library,” he said, finally slowing. “Office space…an attic, technically but nothing creepy.” A nervous huff of laughter escaped him. “The previous owner’s wife used to read here. Fits three desks or… whatever you want.”

For the first time, he stopped talking. He turned to you fully then, chest rising with a deep breath, and pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket. His hands shook just a little as he held it out.

“It’s not Kansas,” he said softly, voice bare and honest, “but…” He swallowed. “It’s yours.”

You blinked at him once, then again, your gaze dropping from his face to the paper in his hand like gravity had suddenly doubled. You took it and unfolded it slowly, as if moving at this pace might make the words rearrange themselves into something less terrifying, less real. Your eyes tracked each line, each paragraph, the legal language swimming before finally settling into sense or so you thought.

“That’s not…that’s not the whole thing,” Clark started immediately, the words spilling out in a rush the second silence stretched too long. “I can email the rest or print it, maybe printing would be better but I’ll email it anyway because I know you like to read things on paper and cross-reference and–”

“Clark,” you interrupted softly, not raising your voice, not sharp in any way but just enough to stop him.

He froze. “Sorry,” he said quickly, like an instinct.

You pressed your palm to your forehead, breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth, grounding yourself. “I’m…having trouble understanding what…” Your voice faltered and you swallowed hard before forcing yourself to look up at him, really look. “You didn’t buy me a house.” The words came out wrong, too firm and too edged, sounding more like an accusation than disbelief. “Clark Joseph Kent,” you added, because suddenly that felt important. “You did not buy me a house.”

His eyes darted away immediately, to the window, the bookshelf, the floor…really anywhere but your face. He scratched at the nape of his neck, that familiar nervous gesture that always made your chest warm and ache all at once. You looked back down at the paper, willing your brain to cooperate, to process. It took effort, far more than it ever should have. You read it once, twice and third time for good measure before your breath caught.

“A year ago?” Your head snapped up. “Clark, are you insane? What were you thinking?”

He hesitated and in that pause you felt everything he hadn’t said over the past few years settle into the room with you. “I was thinking that making a home takes time,” he said quietly. Then, softer, almost afraid of the truth in it, “and that you’ve spent too long dreaming of one.”

Your heart betrayed you immediately, its rhythm changing, loud enough that he could hear it, fast and uneven, the same cadence it had the first time he’d coaxed you to the edge of a building, trying to help you face your fear of heights, your fingers locked in his sleeve as you shook.

“Clark,” you said and the way his name left your mouth nearly undid him. “I know I talk a lot. I don’t expect you to do anything about the things I say.” You gestured vaguely, helpless. “Much less–” your voice dropped, a whisper now, “buy a house.”

“Metropolis was never a forever thing,” he reminded you gently, something you’d both said years ago like a promise you could revisit whenever you needed it. “This could be that,” he added, glancing toward Ellie, who was crouched by a forgotten box in the corner, absorbed in its contents. “It feels like the right moment.”

You nodded faintly, eyes dropping back to the paper, to his neat signature at the bottom. The words finally clicked into place, reality slotting itself where disbelief had been. Your gaze lingered on the line beneath his name.

“This contract is wrong,” you said, folding it once and holding it out to him.

His heart plummeted. He took it immediately, scanning it frantically, panic flashing across his face as he reread every line. He knew this paper by heart, he’d checked it a dozen times. Signed it that same morning and brought the pen with him, just in case for the ink in your signatures to match. Everything was exactly as it should be. He looked back up at you, confused and bracing himself.

You shook your head. “You need one where it says we’re both owners, not just me.” you said firmly. “Or I’m not signing.” You took a breath, steadying yourself. “That forever rant I keep going on about? Includes…” You gestured toward him, blinking through fresh tears. “Pretty sure you said you’d stay.”

He stared at you, stunned. “I–I did,” he said quickly, nodding. “I can–I can arrange that.” His mind was already racing ahead to phone calls, revised documents and how carefully he’d sign this time so his name would sit neatly beside yours.

You nodded, relief and emotion crashing together. “Yeah?” A shaky laugh slipped out. “You… you picked well.” You inhaled deeply, chest tight. “I probably sounded really ungrateful a minute ago.”

He shook his head so hard it almost made you smile. Ungrateful had never crossed his mind, not once. If anything, he’d been afraid of the opposite: that he’d assumed too much, that he’d taken something sacred and moved it without asking. “There’s still a lot to do,” he said lightly, trying to ground himself. “Paperwork took forever.”

“Does this mean you’re going back to plaid shirts and jeans?” you asked suddenly, a small grin tugging at your lips, your voice tilting into something softer, almost playful.

He lifted a brow, glancing down at his rumpled suit, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. “I thought you liked the suits”

You frowned, your nose scrunching as you looked at him like he’d just accused you of something wildly untrue. “I never said I liked them,” you countered, then hesitated, words catching. “Or… didn’t, for that matter.”

“Honey,” Clark said gently, far too gently, “you forget I can hear things.” His tone stayed serious but the grin that tugged at his mouth gave him away completely. “And you do so very often. I’m still deciding how I feel about that, but you like the suits…in fact, you love them.”

That did it. Your shoulders tensed, nerves crawling up your spine. “You’re Clark,” you said quickly, as if grounding yourself in the name would make this less dangerous. “Just Clark. The same guy who helped me cheat on tests with your–” your eyes flicked instinctively to Ellie, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, deeply focused on a puzzle that was definitely missing pieces, “ –great vision and helped me move furniture…and did my chores when I pretended I was too tired. I don’t forget you’re…you know–”

“Then why are you lying?” he asked softly, smiling, not cruelly or accusingly, just observant. He heard the way your heart jumped, the sharp spike that followed and decided immediately he preferred your fake anger to any real hurt, because this moment was meant to be good, it had to be.

“I’m not lying,” you said, lifting one shoulder in a weak shrug. “I’m just…omitting things.”

Clark blinked, his head tilting slightly, curiosity replacing teasing. “What things?”

You blinked back at him. “Huh?”

“What things are you omitting,” he repeated, lifting his hand and making a vague swooping motion through the air, unmistakably Superman. “Besides that.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Then you looked away, heat creeping up your neck and changed direction entirely. “Ellie,” you said brightly, far too brightly, “guess who has a princess room now?”

Ellie finally looked up, eyes wide, then pushed herself to her feet. “Me!” she squealed, bouncing in place before running toward you both.

“Yes, you!” you laughed.

Clark scooped her up without thinking, hopping in place with her until her laughter filled the room, bright and unrestrained. You joined in, hands steadying her as the three of you moved together in a moment so easy it felt borrowed. When the excitement finally ebbed, Ellie wrapped her arms around both of you and Clark instinctively curved an arm around you pulling you in too. A small, imperfect family shape formed without discussion, without permission and your chest ached at how natural it felt.

You looked up at him in that close space, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Who else knows?”

Ellie had already tuned out again, now focused entirely on Clark’s tie, tugging and twisting it with the serious concentration of someone fixing a very important problem.

“Just you two,” he said quietly.

You smiled, something soft and disbelieving. “You really know how to keep a secret.” Then you squinted at him, suspicion creeping back in. “I would’ve told you the second I found something like this, which–” you paused, eyes narrowing, “how did you even find it?”

Clark inhaled deeply, the way he did when he was about to say something that mattered. “I get bored while I’m patrolling,” he started, almost dismissive but there was nothing casual about the way his voice settled. “Last year… there was a fire not very far. I saw it on my way to Smallville. A field caught fast and the wind was bad. I stopped to help evacuate.”

You listened, completely still.

“While I was here,” he continued, “I noticed the house…empty and quiet like it was waiting.” His gaze unfocused slightly, memory pulling him somewhere private. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the way the light hit it, the land…the distance from everything loud.” He exhaled. “So I looked into it. Didn’t tell anyone, didn’t ask anyone either. I knew what I was doing the second I stepped inside.”

You swallowed.

“It felt like–” he paused, searching, then gave up on finding the perfect word. “Like I’d stumbled onto something rare. Like gold and all I could think about was the way you talk about the future. The quiet, the space…all in a place that feels like breathing.” His arm tightened around you just slightly. “I didn’t care what it took to make that real.”

You didn’t miss what he didn’t say. The way his certainty didn’t hinge on himself being part of it.

“So,” you murmured, “you bought it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded simply. “It’s close enough to the city for work. Closer to Smallville than Metropolis but still far enough from danger.” His eyes dropped briefly to Ellie, now humming to herself. “For both of you, that part mattered most.”

You nodded slowly. “It seems…well thought through.”

“I had time,” he said softly. “I just hope it feels right to you.”

Clark had never built a future in steps or plans. He’d built it in moments, in instinct, in the unshakable pull of wanting you safe, whole and able to grow into the life you described so vividly. Whatever place he occupied in it was secondary to making sure it existed at all.

“It does,” you whispered.

You rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips and for a moment, everything, the house, the land and the quiet felt like it had been waiting for that too.

Neither of you moved officially until the house felt like it could finally inhale new air. Every surface was cleared, every corner arranged and yet, it wasn’t just about the placement of furniture, it was about feeling like a home. The late nights you spent together in each other’s apartments, surrounded by stacks of boxes and coffee cups, unpacking one sentimental thing at a time, now seemed like a distant, hurried dream. After work, you’d race around Metropolis to pick out pieces that somehow made sense in your vision, especially when it came to Ellie’s room. It wasn’t just about functionality, it was about magic. You wanted her eyes to widen every time she stepped inside, to feel a spark that said, this is mine.

You hadn’t asked for advice and you hadn’t consulted anyone about whether moving her here was too soon, too risky or too bold. Her mom’s face from the store visit flashed in your mind only once and even then, it didn’t stop you. There wasn’t time for investigation, not then. The only thing that mattered was Ellie’s laughter echoing from the backyard, free and unrestrained, a barometer of success you both couldn’t ignore. Every squeak of her boots on the grass, every giggle that floated over the fence, reassured you that you were doing it right.

Having Superman as a mover had its perks. Boxes and furniture, no matter how heavy or awkward, seemed to obey him and even when he wasn’t physically lifting, his presence made the day feel lighter. He split himself between reporter duties, saving lives and somehow, quiet nights in the house, assembling dressers and beds, setting up bookshelves and making sure every detail fit your vision for Ellie’s little kingdom. Less than a week later, you were packed and moved, carrying not just your belongings but the sense of a fresh start, an unspoken promise of stability and wonder. Tonight was the first night in your home, and it felt electric.

You stepped inside with the last box, a stack of letters tucked under your arm, the scent of cardboard and faint perfume from the last few weeks mixing into a strange but comforting blend. The chatter reached you before you even saw anyone.

“Helloooo? Is anyone home?” you called, setting the box down gently.

“In the kitchen!” Clark’s voice came back, warm and familiar.

Ellie hopped to the door like she’d been waiting her entire life for you to arrive. She wore her little helper apron, a miniature version of one you had found for yourself and her eyes sparkled like sunlight on water. Somewhere behind her, Clark’s suitcases stood near a wall and boxes were stacked haphazardly everywhere. The only room completed was her princess room, fully furnished and glowing in the soft lamplight, her kingdom complete.

“My little bunny turned into a chef,” you said, crouching down and pulling her into a tight hug. Her laughter rang out, the kind that made your chest ache with joy.

“We’re making lasaneea!” she announced, beaming.

“Lasagna?” you corrected, standing and kicking off your shoes, a smile tugging at your lips. “It smells like it.”

In the kitchen, Clark looked impossibly domestic. His dark blue shirt stretched across his biceps, his plaid pajama pants were impossibly cute, the Superman apron tied carefully around his waist and the bunny slippers completed the look. The steam from the oven curled around his glasses, fogging them slightly as he checked the lasagna.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly, voice low and almost intimate, as if noticing every detail of you in that small moment without even looking.

“What? No, I was talking,” you lied, the sound hollow even to your own ears.

“In your mind you were,” he noted, closing the oven. “And sorry to let down seven-year-old you, but I still cannot read minds.”

“You made me believe you could for a whole week,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “And it sometimes feels like you do. So really, it’s your fault.”

Clark grinned, not taking his eyes off his cooking. “You have to admit, it was hilarious. Still is…doesn’t change the fact that you were staring.”

You cleared your throat and glanced toward the oven. “Looks good,” you said, voice softening as you tried to focus on something besides him.

“Me or the lasagna?” he asked, mischief in his eyes.

Your eyebrows shot up. “You’re getting comfortable,” you accused.

“I am,” he replied evenly, checking on Ellie at the little dining corner. She was coloring fiercely, tongue poking out in concentration and he smiled, the way a dad does when caught between pride and amusement.

“I’m thinking, Clark,” you corrected, looking over the mountain of half-labeled boxes, “and since you can’t read minds, you’ll just have to not know.” You paused, thinking of what to do to occupy your mind, “Where did we put the plates and cutlery?”

“Second box from the top on your left,” he said with precision, walking toward you effortlessly. In a single motion, he lifted the top box, setting it aside and retrieved the correct one. You blinked, startled. There was something grounding, almost reverent, in watching him move like this, not as Superman or whatever you now were, but as someone who could somehow hold the weight of everything and still make it feel like it fit perfectly.

Ellie looked up at him, eyes wide. Clark ruffled her hair gently as he passed her and she giggled, wrapping her tiny arms around his arm to make him linger enough for a proper hug.

“We really need to get this sorted out next weekend,” you said, voice clipped but warm, already thinking about the piles of boxes and the lingering to-do list in your head and pulling out objects from the box, laying them gently on the counter, careful with each one as if even the smallest thing mattered..

“We will,” Clark replied without hesitation.

You glanced up at the refrigerator door, where a small whiteboard bore reminders and sticky notes and your eyes flicked between it and him. “Could you take Ellie to her ballet class after school tomorrow? I’ll be there…can’t miss her first class but I have a quick meeting and I don’t want her to be late,” you explained quickly, words spilling out in a rhythm that came from a week of orchestrating logistics for both of your lives.

Clark didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “Of course I can,” he said, voice calm, sure, like this wasn’t a favor but a part of life that he was happy to take on. “It’s at three, right?”

You nodded and his eyes lit up slightly. 

“I’ll be there. She was just talking about how princesses do ballet, right, Ells?”

Ellie spun around, arms flailing in delight. “And then I’ll twirl like one too, with my new dress!” She held out the little tutu she had picked out, eyes sparkling as though the mere thought of dancing made her entire body come alive.

You felt a warm flush at seeing Clark kneel slightly to her level. “Of course you will, princess,” he said softly, voice carrying a sort of pride that made your chest ache.

You couldn’t help but smile, thinking back to all the planning you had done quietly like checking with the school social worker, coordinating with Amy, the CPS case worker and making sure ballet wouldn’t overwhelm her, making sure every step was in Ellie’s best interest. At school she had been so quiet, isolated, a child learning to find her voice but now…now she was thriving. Between museums, libraries, grocery trips and spontaneous little adventures. She was no longer just a child of routines and empty hours, she was a kid discovering a life she could call her own. Ballet had been a note she had quietly pointed out in a book and that very night, while you were filling boxes and moving items, you had already found a studio she would love. 

Ellie bounced on her heels again, peering up at Clark. “Mommy, he’s gonna see me twirl like a real princess!”

Clark’s eyes softened, the corners crinkling as he smiled. “I can’t wait to see that, Ells. You better spin so fast I might need to hold onto my tie.”

You chuckled, feeling the weight of all that had led to this moment, the move, the planning, the careful balancing of lives and now the simple, ordinary miracle of a child’s joy shared between the people who loved her most. It was domestic, it was ordinary and yet it felt enormous, like the quiet triumph of building a life worth dancing through.

Dinner in the new house had gone smoothly, almost deceptively so and bedtime had followed the same quiet rhythm. You suspected a large part of it came from letting Ellie be involved in every step, like choosing where her bed would go, deciding which stickers lived on which drawer and arranging her books just so. Anticipation had carried her all the way through the evening and when it finally settled, it did so completely. You weren’t surprised at all when Clark came down the stairs barely five minutes later.

“I didn’t get a single sentence from the book in before she was snoring,” he said, voice low as if even now he didn’t want to risk waking her.

You smiled from your place on the rug, sitting cross-legged in front of two open moving boxes. The house smelled faintly of dinner and something woody, something warm and the lights were softer here than they had been in either of your apartments. You lifted your wine glass, swirling the last bit lazily. “Want some grapefruit juice?” you asked lightly, teasing. It was still, perhaps, the one thing you resented about him not being human, his inability to get drunk with you, to blur the edges the way you could.

Clark slipped his glasses off and set them on the couch with care before sitting on the coffee table. You hoped it was as sturdy as it looked. “Think I’ll pass tonight,” he said. His gaze drifted to the box in front of you as you pulled out picture frames, ones you recognized immediately, they were photos from his apartment, from years ago, from versions of the two of you that felt both distant and impossibly close.

“Like you’ll pass sleeping with me?” you said easily, too easily, alcohol lending you courage you hadn’t planned on using. You gestured toward the armchair where his pillow rested on top of a neatly folded blanket. The arrangement had been discussed more than once during the move, and yet the conversation had never truly ended. You had always run out of words before you ran out of feeling. Tonight felt like a narrowing point, like something you couldn’t step around anymore.

His eyes never left your face. “We’ve talked about this,” he said gently, carefully, like each word had weight.

You nodded, slow. “Then why are you ignoring the part where I said I don’t mind sharing a bed?”

“There’s… there’s steps to this,” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face once, a nervous habit you’d noticed more lately.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Steps to what? Clark, we live together now.”

“And we’ve accidentally skipped over some crucial ones,” he said, smiling despite himself. “You made me watch enough romance movies to know I’ve missed a few. There’s the flowers, and the letters…I want to take you out first before finding out you sleep-talk.”

“You know I sleep-talk,” you said softly, something in his words catching in your chest.

“I’ll pretend I don’t then,” he shrugged, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth. He cleared his throat, mistaking the shine in your eyes for embarrassment, or maybe telling himself he’d chosen the wrong moment entirely. “Did…uh, did everything go well with your apartment?” he asked instead. He’d left his apartment that very morning and he knew you were officially leaving yours behind that afternoon.

You nodded, taking another sip of wine. “Mhm. Gave the keys back and he didn’t see the dent in the wall from that time I tried to wrestle you in my living room…so I got my full caution deposit back.”

Clark smiled, memory flashing across his face. “I tried to stop you,” he reminded you softly.

“I was drunk,” you replied just as gently.

He studied you for a moment, really studied you, then pointed at your glass. “You might be now too. Should I expect round two?”

Your smile widened, slow and knowing. “What makes you say that?”

“Your pupils are dilated, your eyes are glossy, you’re flushed,” he listed calmly. “Your heart’s beating irregularly and you’re not avoiding eye contact.” He didn’t mention the subtle shift in your scent, the way it always changed when you were nervous, bold or both.

“Is that what you always tell yourself?” you asked quietly. “That it’s not you who’s causing it?” You paused, then added, “Clark, you just asked me out…or tried to.”

“I’ve asked you out before,” he said, almost casual.

You shrugged. “Yeah, when we were five and it was after I kissed you. I remember…I fell and scraped my knee and you were the only one who came to help me.”

“I kissed you,” he corrected softly. “It wasn’t the other way around.”

You waved him off with a chuckle. “I’m pretty sure it was. I was jealous and territorial because I saw you on the swings with Carrie.”

He laughed, surprised. “You were?”

“Yeah,” you said like it was obvious. “I had to do something about it, so I kissed you. I overthought it for a good three hours…which seemed like a lot back then.”

“I leaned in at the same time,” he said, eyes warm and voice steady. “A millisecond before, actually. I’ve always been pretty fast.”

“Pffft, whatever,” you said, smiling. “That’s cheating but I’ll allow it.”

The laughter faded into something quieter, heavier. The house seemed to settle around you, like it was listening. Clark rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting back to yours.

“I don’t want to rush this,” he said finally, slower now. “Not because I don’t want it, but because I do, I just…I want to do it right and give you the time to see it as you wish.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded, understanding more than you could put into words. The studying continued of small shifts of expression, the space between breaths a,d the way his shoulders eased when you didn’t pull away. 

“I’ll take the date,” you said softly, then added, almost shy despite everything, “and the cuddles too. Tonight.”

Clark’s eyes snapped to yours, surprise flashing through them before it softened into something warmer, steadier. He didn’t speak right away, just watched you, like he was making sure you were real and still there.

Silence settled again, heavier this time. Your thoughts drifted where they always did when things got too real, back to raised voices behind closed doors, to being tugged between parents who said they loved you but definitely didn’t know how to love each other, to learning early that love could disappear if you held it too tightly. You’d gone from needing it desperately to keeping it at arm’s length, convincing yourself that distance was safety.

“You know, I didn’t think you’d still care about steps after…so long,” you said finally, voice quiet. “So maybe I’m the one skipping over them.” You hesitated, fingers twisting together in your lap. “Do you ever resent me for–”

“No,” he cut in immediately. Not sharply or loudly, just undeniably certain. “Never.”

You tilted your head, searching his face. “C’mon, Clark. At some point you must’ve looked back and thought about all the time you wasted...waiting.”

“I can’t see what’s been wasted, because nothing was,” he replied, just as steady. “It led us here, didn’t it? I’m here and I want to be.”

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale. “I don’t know how to… hold this,” you admitted. “I want to. Gosh, I want to tell you everything but my brain can’t keep up with my heart. The thought of it is really scary.” You swallowed. “This is real now and all I can think about is how long I went without it. How cruel it was of me to take it away from you, then drop it on your desk like a deadline, with conditions.” Your voice cracked. “I’ve been thinking about talking to you for a week and I just...I don’t have the right words.”

You looked down, then back up. “Clark, I don’t know how to forgive myself for how long it took me to trust you with my heart…And when I see you with Ellie, I think… I should’ve trusted you to catch me if I fell.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said clearly, without hesitation. “And I’m only saying that because you think you need to ask for it. You don’t.”

He shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “I didn’t walk away when you scraped your knee. I didn’t walk away when things with your parents got worse and you shut down and I didn’t walk away when you went behind my back and asked my mom to lie for you and tell me you couldn’t sleep over on my twelfth birthday.”

You huffed out a watery laugh. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you I was grounded and wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.”

Clark nodded, understanding written all over his face. “What I’m trying to say,” he continued gently, “is that I love you intentionally. I love you with every bit of conscience I was born with. Every moment I’ve spent with you as friends was already more than I ever dreamed I’d get.” His voice softened. “Love is sharing something beautiful and I’ve had that all along.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You told me once, after the CPS worker came that she asked you about me and that it was the only question you didn’t answer truthfully. I didn’t ask you about it because I already knew…just like the heart knows. It doesn’t matter which way it leans, it matters that it does.”

His gaze held yours. “At five years old, you were already wondering where real love was. Honey…you are the love.”

Tears blurred your vision. You blinked them back but your voice wavered anyway. “I think at some point I started trying to punish myself without you. Get to some kind of epiphany where I’d finally admit I needed you and then force myself to let you go before I could fully grasp it.”

“You don’t ever have to let go of anything,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “Not even me.”

The words settled between you, soft and sure. He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed your lips, giving you time, always giving you time to decide. The kiss that followed was barely there, a promise more than a claim, warm, familiar and achingly gentle, like something you’d both been practicing for years without realizing it.

“And I do love you,” you whispered against him, like you couldn’t keep it inside anymore. “I wish it didn’t take me so long to see it.”

“I knew,” he murmured, thumb brushing away the tear that finally escaped. “Turns out I am a bit of a mind reader.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh. “They don’t call you Mr. Magic for nothing.”

For the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something you had to brace for. It felt like something you could lean into together.

That night taught you that no matter how hard you pushed your future away, it would stay close anyway, patient and waiting for the current to soften and carry it back to you. You’d been orbiting each other for so long that it didn’t feel like the end of something else at all, just the quiet clicking of things finally falling into place. The hours slipped by almost unfairly fast, the mattress on the floor creaking softly whenever one of you shifted, bed frame boxes stacked like a promise you hadn’t gotten around to opening yet. You didn’t need them, not that night because everything already felt settled in a way furniture never could.

Morning came abruptly. Two alarms rang almost in unison, unfamiliar yet grounding and for a split second you forgot where you were before reality rushed back in warm and undeniable. 

Clark was up first, careful even in the way he moved, like he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace of it all. You listened half-awake as he padded out of the room, drawers opening softly and cabinets closing with restraint. He was already in motion, already taking care of things. That, you realized, might’ve been the most surreal part, how natural it all felt.

You handled wake-up duty, easing Ellie out of sleep with gentle words and the promise of breakfast. By the time you got dressed and made it to the kitchen, she sat halfway curled into her chair, eyes heavy, hair still a little wild, spoon clutched loosely in her hand. You sat with her, sharing quiet bites and slower moments, letting the morning stretch without rushing it while Clarl also got ready.

Eventually, he came back in, hands full and expression soft in that way it always was when he looked at her. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned down and kissed Ellie’s cheek once, twice, five times, until she dissolved into giggles and tried to squirm away.

“Okay, okay! It tickles!” she giggled. “Too many!”

“Never,” he said simply, smiling.

Then he straightened and stepped toward you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder that lingered just long enough to feel intentional, familiar and earned.

“I have to go,” he murmured against your skin. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

You heard it immediately, the difference in his tone. This wasn’t about work, wasn’t about reporting or deadlines. You nodded without asking for details. “Be safe, alright? I’m still not sure where the first aid kit is.”

“Downstairs bathroom,” he replied easily. “Bottom box.” Of course he knew. “I’ll see you at three, Ells! I love you girls.”

Ellie waved enthusiastically, mouth full of cookies, crumbs dusting her pajamas. You smiled despite yourself.

“We love you too,” you said for the both of you.

Your gaze followed him to the back door, watching from the window as he stepped into the yard, just in time to see him take flight behind Ellie, where she couldn’t see. You exchanged a look with her, something unspoken she didn’t yet get, before her attention returned to her breakfast.

You hadn’t talked yet about if or when, you’d explain everything. About him, about the two of you, about what this all meant. There was time but for now, it felt enough to let things exist as they were.

You stood, clearing plates, wiping crumbs from the counter and moving through the motions of the morning while your heart stayed impossibly full.

“Mommy?” she called softly, like she wasn’t sure she should interrupt the quiet that had settled after Clark left.

“Yes, bunny?” you answered, turning back toward her. You were rinsing a plate in the sink when you noticed the way she was twisting the hem of her pajama top between her fingers, eyes fixed on a single crumb on the table like it held the secrets of the universe.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she slid off her chair and padded closer, socked feet whispering against the kitchen floor. She leaned her hip against your leg, familiar and warm, then looked up at you with that expression she got when she was trying to line her thoughts up just right.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

You smiled, setting the plate aside and drying your hands on a towel. “You can ask me anything, always.”

She nodded, taking that in, then frowned again. “It’s not bad,” she added quickly. “I think.”

Your chest tightened just a little. “Okay,” you said gently. “What is it?”

She rocked on her heels, eyes flicking toward the door where Clark had disappeared only minutes ago, then back to you. “...About Mr. Magic.”

You chuckled softly. “What about him?”

“Well…” she started, then stopped, scrunching up her nose. “I like how he reads me stories. Even when I’m not tired and he does the voices, even the silly ones.”

You reached for the mug beside you, fingers wrapping around it for something to do. “He does,” you agreed.

“And he cuts my apples the good way,” she continued, more confident now. “Not too small, not too big and he always takes the peel off but leaves the red part on one side because he says that’s the smile.”

Your throat tightened, completely unprepared for how small and specific her list was. You swallowed.

“And he stays until I fall asleep,” she added, quieter. “Even when he thinks I already am.”

Your hand slipped against the mug, ceramic clinking softly against the counter. You winced at the sound, setting it down before it could tip over entirely.

Ellie noticed immediately. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked, eyes widening.

“No,” you said quickly, crouching down so you were eye level with her. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m listening.”

She studied your face carefully, like she was checking for hidden rules she might’ve missed. Then she nodded once, decision made.

“I was just…thinking,” she said slowly, choosing each word like it mattered. “If he could be my daddy.”

The word landed between you, gentle and enormous all at once.

You didn’t answer right away, not because you didn’t want to, but because you wanted to do it right. You took a breath, steadying yourself  and reached out to brush her hair back from her face.

“Is that something that feels natural to you?” you asked softly. “Something you want to say?”

She nodded immediately, relief flickering across her face at not being shut down. “I don’t know why,” she admitted. “It just…comes out in my head sometimes and then I stop it.” She frowned. “But it feels squished when I do.”

Your eyes stung. You blinked, keeping your voice even. “You don’t have to squish feelings like that,” you told her. “Not if they want to come out.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t wanna make him sad or you.”

You shook your head gently. “You wouldn’t,” you said honestly. “And I wouldn’t ever want you to hold something back just because you’re scared of that.”

She thought about that for a long moment, then leaned forward and wrapped her arms around you, squeezing tight. You hugged her back immediately, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“He feels like that,” she murmured into your shoulder. “Like a daddy and you’re my mommy. So it just…matches.”

You laughed softly through the tears threatening to spill. “It does make sense when you put it that way.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her. “If that’s what you want to call him,” you said carefully, “then it’s okay. You don’t have to force it and you don’t have to rush it. You can say it when it feels right.”

Her face lit up, slow and bright. “Really?”

“Really,” you promised. “And if one day it feels different, that’s okay too. There’s no rules you have to follow except listening to yourself.”

She nodded solemnly, like she’d been entrusted with something important. Then she grinned. “Okay.” She bounced on her toes once, excitement bubbling over, then suddenly froze. “But maybe not today,” she added thoughtfully. “I wanna practice first.”

You smiled, brushing her cheek. “That sounds like a good plan.”

From the backyard, the wind stirred the trees and for the first time you noticed how the house didn’t feel so big anymore. It felt lived in, like it was learning your rhythms, your laughter, pauses and secrets, the quiet moments where something new took root.

Ellie slipped her hand into yours. “Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“When I do say it,” she said, squeezing your fingers, “can you be there?”

You squeezed back, heart full to bursting. “Always.”

The day at school wrapped itself up the way it had been lately, quietly and gently. The last of the kids had been picked up, chairs were pushed in and the classroom felt bigger without the noise to fill it. You gathered your things slowly, slipping papers into your bag while Ellie hopped between desks, humming to herself as she collected the last of her drawings.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, unhurried but familiar. You recognized them before they even stopped at your door. A soft knock followed.

Ellie’s head snapped up instantly. “Mr. Magic!” she gasped, already halfway across the room before you could even answer.

Clark opened the door just in time to brace himself as she launched into him, wrapping her arms around his legs. He laughed quietly, one hand automatically coming down to steady her, like it was muscle memory now.

You lifted your eyes and immediately broke into a grin. “Where did you get that?” you asked, laughter threading through your voice before you could stop it.

Clark glanced down at himself as if he’d momentarily forgotten what he was wearing. “Oh, this?” He straightened just a little, subtly squaring his shoulders like he was on a runway. Then he turned slightly so Ellie could see it too, pointing proudly.

The shirt read Team Ells in bold, cheerful letters, a bunny front and center, complete with a tiny princess crown and a pink ballet tutu.

Ellie gasped again, hands flying to her mouth. “That’s me!”

“Custom made,” Clark said, entirely too pleased with himself. “Only the best for my favorite ballerina.” He reached into his bag and stepped closer to your desk, setting down a neatly folded shirt. “Got you one too.”

You stared at it for a second, then up at him, shaking your head in disbelief that was quickly melting into fondness. “Of course you did.”

He had traded his usual briefcase for a pink sports bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed with Ellie’s ballet shoes, leotard, and the water bottle she insisted was “important dancer stuff.” The sight of him, standing there so naturally carrying pieces of her life made something warm bloom in your chest.

“Ready to go, Ellie?” you asked, as your eyes flicked to the backpack abandoned on her chair.

“Yes!” she chirped, darting back to grab it, nearly tripping over the strap in her excitement.

“I’ll head there when I’m done,” you reminded her gently, lowering yourself to her level and smoothing a hand over her hair. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. And I’ll get to show off my new shirt.”

She beamed. “You have to wear it.”

Clark nodded solemnly. “It’s basically mandatory.”

“I will, I will,” you promised, pressing a kiss to her forehead. You glanced back up at him, eyes sparkling. “What’s next? Custom caps?”

“They’re being delivered on Sunday,” he said without missing a beat. “I’m thinking water bottles after that.”

You laughed, shaking your head just as he stepped closer, careful and familiar and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. It was quick, almost shy but full of something steady and certain. Things were still new, still unfolding and there were pieces of truth Ellie didn’t know yet but moments like this felt like quiet proof that you were doing something right.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Ellie bounced, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door with all the urgency of a child who knew something wonderful was waiting. He followed easily, matching her pace, never once tightening his grip too much or pulling her along, just letting her lead.

“Bye, Mommy!” she called over her shoulder.

You waved from the doorway, watching them disappear down the hall together. You realized then without surprise or fear that Ellie had been right all along. He wasn’t just helping or filling in for the time being. He was a dad, her dad and he had stepped into it like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so.

You stood there for a moment longer, grinning to yourself, heart light and impossibly full.

Clark didn’t even pause to feel out of place as he stepped into the ballet studio, even though every other parent there had eyes that seemed to drill into him from the second he crossed the threshold, whispering silent judgments about the “single hot dad” with the serious, quiet aura or maybe just marveling at how effortlessly he carried himself but he didn’t care. Not for a second. 

His entire attention was on Ellie, tiny and bright in front of him, her small feet already trying to get the rhythm of her new shoes on the polished floor, the tulle skirt he had struggled to fluff just right swaying with her steps. In that moment, the usual thoughts about skipped steps, about what he had or hadn’t done right, about being careful with each move in life, they all melted into nothing. The only thing that mattered was her, walking a little cautiously, peeking around at the other girls, her eyes a mixture of excitement and uncertainty, her tiny hands clutching the sides of her tutu as though it gave her courage.

He knelt down beside her, careful not to startle her and adjusted the skirt one last time, smoothing the waistband with a gentleness that came naturally to him now, the softest kind of touch born from long years of waiting for this, for her. His thoughts were full of her little giggles, the way her eyes lit up when she felt proud of herself, the way she had come to trust him enough to let him guide her into new experiences without fear.

“I’m already so proud of you,” he said softly, making sure to meet her gaze. His voice had that low, steady warmth, the kind that made the room fade away around them, leaving only the two of them. “Just remember that. I’ll be right here and mommy is already on her way.”

Ellie’s lip quivered for the briefest second. “What if I fall?” she whispered, voice small, as though the thought itself was dangerous.

Clark reached out, gently pinching her cheek, in that way that always made her smile, feeling the warmth of her skin under his fingers and smiled softly. “It can happen, but it’s okay. You’re learning and that’s what matters most.” His words were steady, sure, each one carrying a quiet promise. She leaned forward instinctively, hugging him tight and in that instant Clark felt a pulse of emotion that he didn’t need words for. His chest swelled with a profound sense of belonging, of purpose he had never thought he could fully achieve and he whispered back into her hair, almost inaudibly, “Go play for a bit until class starts. I’ll be right here watching.”

Ellie nodded, finally letting go with a grin and trotted off to a group of girls forming a circle. Clark stood there, hands resting lightly on his hips, watching her integrate, her shyness melting as she started to chat and he felt an almost dizzying mix of pride and quiet awe. When one of the girls complimented her hair, Ellie’s face lit up.

“My daddy did it!” she said proudly, pointing to Clark with a wave.

Clark’s stomach lurched, a strange cocktail of joy, disbelief and overwhelming love. His hand went up reflexively to wave back, smile fixed in place, eyes glossy. He forced himself not to hyperventilate, not to cry, not to move too quickly, as if doing so would shatter the magic of the moment. Every fear, every thought about “missed steps” in their life together evaporated completely. He realized in a sudden, all-encompassing clarity that it didn’t matter, he was exactly where he was meant to be. 

He was fully and utterly a dad and it had happened so seamlessly and naturally, that he felt like he’d been preparing for this all his life without knowing it.

You walked in then, quietly stepping to the edge of the room, eyes immediately finding him. He froze the instant your gazes met, his posture was slightly rigid while tears threatened to spill over. Even the strongest man on Earth looked like he could crumble under the weight of how real this moment felt.

“Hi…what’s–what’s wrong with you?” you asked, tilting your head, concern flickering through your voice.

“Allergies,” he sniffled, a small, futile attempt to explain the glossy eyes and tight throat.

You raised a brow. “Clark, you were raised in Kansas. What allergies?”

He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if that would help. “What’s the correlation? I can’t develop allergies in adulthood?”

“Not when you come from outer space," you replied with a teasing tilt, though your tone held warmth.

Before he could answer, Ellie squealed with delight and ran to you, her little princess energy filling the room. You crouched down to her level, pulling out your phone to capture a photo. “Oh my…a real-life princess,” you said softly, smiling wide.

Ellie grinned and posed, then pointed proudly at Clark. “Daddy did this!” she announced, pointing to her perfectly done ballet bun. Then, without hesitation, she skipped back to her new friends.

You stood, brushing your hands together, laughing softly. “…Oh. That kind of allergies,” you murmured, glancing at Clark with an expression that blended amusement and tenderness.

He shrugged faintly, shaking his head as a tiny, dry laugh escaped him. “I overheard… I don’t think she meant it,” he admitted quietly, voice low and almost reverent.

“You know she did,” you whispered back, eyes lingering on him, the pride and joy in his expression mirroring your own. Ellie had chosen perfectly and Clark had stepped into her life, into this family, in a way that was complete, unwavering and entirely his own. It was exactly what she had been missing.

The night had felt like a soft cocoon. After Ellie’s ballet recital, after the giggles and clumsy spins in the living room and the way Clark had laughed until his chest ached while wearing a tiny princess crown, the three of you had slipped into a rhythm that made the house feel like it had always been yours. Even unpacking boxes could wait, the air was warm, the smells of dinner still lingering and every sound, from the soft rustle of Ellie’s tutu to the faint squeak of Clark’s slippers on the floor, felt comforting. You watched them from the couch, filming Ellie’s new moves while Clark followed along, his movements surprisingly fluid for someone not technically a dancer, his eyes always on her, careful, proud and gentle. Your heart had been so full it hurt with the simple, absolute presence of your little family.

After she’d gone to bed, the quiet settled over the house but it wasn’t the kind of quiet that brought relief, it was the kind that made you acutely aware of every creak in the floor, every faint hum of the refrigerator and the absence of laughter. 

Clark’s footsteps were slow, his body shifting almost imperceptibly as he moved toward the kitchen, then paused. You felt it before you saw anything, the subtle tensing of his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes and the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second.

Every fiber of him snapped into alert, his senses extending beyond human limits, probing for disturbances in the atmosphere he had learned to read like a map. It was as though the warmth, the soft laughter and the sanctuary of the night was being pierced by a sharp, foreign edge. You felt a flicker of instinctual dread, your own senses somehow catching the echo of his tension.

He moved toward the front door with a precision and quiet urgency that made your pulse catch. The way he handled the doorknob was almost mechanical, every motion exact, controlled and almost defensive. Even in the face of the unknown, he kept himself squarely in front of you, the house and everything you’d built together, ready to meet whatever it was with calm but unflinching focus. It wasn’t fear but readiness, the same steady resolve that had carried him through every impossible situation, only now applied to this fragile, perfect life you shared.

When the door opened, the man standing there was caught off guard. The envelope in his hand, coffee-stained yet professional, carried a weight that instantly settled into your chest. 

“I apologize for the late hour, I wasn’t aware of your change of address.”

The man’s voice carried the practiced calm of someone who lived in other people’s worst moments. It was steady, controlled, every word measured. He stood just far enough back from the threshold to be polite, coat buttoned, posture straight and eyes sharp without being openly unkind.

“I’m Steven McCarthy,” he continued, “public defender representing Mr. and Ms. Harper in the current ongoing investigation. They’ve tasked me with delivering this letter to you.” His gaze flicked briefly between the two of you, as if cataloging reactions. “I’ll ask that you contact me should you have any doubts or questions, personally or through an attorney.” He extended an envelope, followed by a business card. “My information is there.”

The words landed one by one, each syllable cutting cleanly through the warmth that had filled the house moments before. The smell of dinner still lingered faintly in the air, Ellie’s laughter from earlier echoing somewhere in your chest like a memory already being mourned.

Clark took the envelope without a word. His fingers closed around it a little too tightly, the paper crinkling softly under the pressure. You noticed it immediately, the way his shoulders squared and the way something in him shifted. It wasn’t fear or anger either, it was that careful stillness he slipped into when worlds collided and he had to decide which one demanded him most.

For a fraction of a second, you could almost see it: him standing at the crossroads of two lives. One where the night had been simple and kind, where Ellie’s socks were abandoned in the hallway and the dishwasher hummed in the background, where the future felt close enough to touch and the other, this one, cold-edged and inevitable, pressing its fingers into the cracks you’d spent months sealing shut.

The man gave a brief nod, clearly accustomed to silence being his cue. “Good night,” he said, already stepping away. The door closed with a soft click that felt far too loud.

Clark stood frozen for a beat, hands tightening slightly around the letter, the faintest tremor in his posture betraying the storm beneath the surface of calm. His jaw set and when he finally turned to you, his eyes held the same controlled intensity but now mixed with a trace of vulnerability. The letter could be everything, the confirmation of triumph and promise of freedom, or it could be the first crack in the delicate perfection of the life you’d been savoring all evening.

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his as he held the envelope, feeling the same tense energy you’d seen when he hovered over Ellie’s first ballet steps. He exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly, letting a fraction of himself settle again but only just enough to remind you both that the life inside this house, your family, was worth defending.

The envelope in his hands might contain upheaval but the house around you, the family inside it and the bond you shared, was untouchable and yet, even knowing that, the tension settled like a stone in the pit of your stomach, marking the night with a quiet sense of impending doom.

To be continued...

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Clark kicks the comforter off and hurries towards the door. He pushes it open and through the soreness enveloping his muscles, walks into the living room. He switches on the lamp beside the couch.

You’re tangled under the blankets on the couch. Sweat gathers and falls down your temple. Your eyes are closed but your brows are drawn tightly together. Tears sneak out the corners of your eyes, and your body shakes underneath the blankets.

Clark’s heart drops into his throat. He drops to his knees in front of you and hesitates for a brief moment. He doesn’t want to scare or startle you awake.

Clark gently runs his hand across your forehead, brushing away the sweat and hair away. He whispers your name softly, using his other hand to shake your arm.

Your eyes fly open and you gasp awake. Your eyes are wide and tears continue to paint your cheeks. Your forehead creases as the sleep falls away. Clark continues to move his fingers across your skin.

“Clark?” you croaked out, voice thick with sleep. “What happened? What is it?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Clark answered gently, taking the spot beside you as you sit up on the couch. “I heard you crying.”

You nod silently and your bottom lip trembles as you fight back more tears. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sniffed as you stared into your lap.

Clark’s heart clenches at your soft and broken apology. He resists the urge to grab you and pull you into his lap. You don’t know each other like that anymore. It’s different now. Instead, he turns his body towards you and rests his hand near yours, letting you take it if you want to. Clark treads carefully with what he says next.

“Sorry?” Clark asked. “Why are you saying sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You shake your head and turn to face him. Your throat bobbles and you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. Clark notices the words are caught in your throat as you gather the courage to speak.

You reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his. Clark’s heart skips at the feeling of your hand in his. Your skin is soft and gentle against the roughness of his palms. His fingers brush across your skin. You lean into his touch and Clark shivers.

“No, I do,” you replied, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry for how things ended… for how I ended things. You tried so hard to be there for me after the accident and I just pushed you away. I was so insecure and I didn’t want to burden you. You did nothing but love me and I broke your heart.”

Clark lets out a shaky breath and smiles tenderly at you. “You had a lot on your plate. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. It wasn’t about me, and I made it about me. I said things I shouldn’t have because I was hurt and confused. I’m sorry for the things I said and did, too. It was probably for the best, right? Or else we wouldn’t be sitting here together on your couch in Metropolis. Things kind of worked out in the end.”

A heavy silence falls over the room and Clark swallows hard, watching you carefully. You nod quietly and Clark sees the wheels turning in your eyes. You want to say something more, but something is stopping you. You hesitate, squeezing the blanket.

Clark’s eyes flicker down to your mouth. Your teeth catch your top lip and your eyes search his. The sound of your heart racing fills Clark’s ears. He smells your warm vanilla shampoo on your hair. He stares at your throat and feels your hand slide across the couch, over his hand, before resting on his bare chest.

Clark nearly jumps off the couch, feeling like his heart is beating outside his chest. He inches towards you and you move until you’re nearly in Clark’s lap. His nose brushes yours, his eyes following your every move, letting you take the lead.

“Not quite the way either of us hoped when we talked about Metropolis as kids though,” you whispered, meeting Clark’s gaze.

“No,” Clark agreed, breathing you in. He reaches for you and his fingers brush your waist. You shiver under his touch. “If I remember correctly, you wanted a floral themed living room. I don’t see any florals.”

Your laughter fills the space between you and Clark can nearly taste it with how close you are. The corners of your eyes crinkle at the edges. “My taste has evolved since we were 17. If I remember correctly, you wanted a bright blue sofa. Do you have a bright blue sofa at your apartment?”

A smile stretches across Clark’s face. His cheeks turn a light pink and he nods. “I do.”

You squeal in delight and clap your hands together. Your head falls back as you laugh. Clark pinches your sides and your shared laughter fills your apartment. It feels like old times.

“At least one of us got what we wanted in our dream apartment.”

Clark opens his mouth before thinking. He doesn’t know what it is about you, about this moment that makes him say it. It’s bold and so unlike him.

“Not quite,” Clark replied, “I always pictured you there.”

Your mouth falls open in surprise. Your eyes widen at his words, and his confession fills the space between you. You blink once, twice, three times. You don’t say anything. It makes Clark antsy and he might as well go big or go home.

“Even now.”

“Even now?” you asked in awe. “You can’t mean that.”

Clark’s brows push together and his hands slide to hold your face in his hands. His fingers caress your cheeks, and he presses his nose against yours. Your eyes search his.

“When have I ever said things I don’t mean?” he asked, whispering your name.

You shiver at the softness of your name on Clark’s lips. Tears threaten to spill over your cheeks. Clark hasn’t said it, and neither have you, but you both know what this moment means. Clark still loves you even after all this time. You still love Clark even after all this time.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, an alarm you’ve never heard goes off in your bedroom. Clark winces and whatever moment you just shared shatters into existence. He watches you come back to reality.

You slide out of his grasp, and you stand, hugging the blanket to your chest. Clark watches you close yourself off in front of him. He winces and watches you put as much space as you can.

“Is that your superhero phone or something?” you asked. “Duty calls?”

Clark swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he answered.

You nod and hurry over to the drying rack in front of the door to the washer and dryer. “Your suit should be all good to go. I washed, air dried, and stitched it up.”

You pass it over to him without another word. Your fingers brush and Clark reaches out for you. Your name is a plea on his lips. He wants nothing more than to tell Michael to ask someone else for help. He’s busy trying to mend his relationship with you and win you back. Besides, he’s still recovering from the blows he received just hours earlier.

“It’s fine. We can talk about this later,” you rationalized, faking a smile. “I’ll see you on Monday, Clark. Be safe.”

It isn’t fine! Clark wanted to yell back. He had you in his arms. Your hands were on his chest. Your nose was brushing his. He was seconds away from kissing you and telling you he still loved you.

But he had responsibilities, a city that counted on him, and you knew that. It’s why you’re so eager and ready to get rid of him, Clark thought bitterly. Things were getting too real too fast and Superman had to interrupt. He hates himself for it.

Clark dresses into his suit and tugs on his boots before hurrying into your bedroom to grab his phone. He doesn’t bother to look at it when he returns to the living room. He stands in front of the open sliding glass door. Your hand gripped the handle like your life depended on in. Despite the clear lack of sleep in your eyes, you still manage to take Clark’s breath away. He’s always been stunned at how beautiful when you wake up, like the weight of the world hasn’t found itself on your shoulders yet.

He reaches for your free hand, and you don’t pull away. Clark places a soft kiss to the back of your hand. His eyes finding yours over the top of your hand. His heart lurches inside his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, “for everything you did for me tonight and all the nights before. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Clark leaves before he could hear you say goodbye.

…

After you’re discharged from the hospital, your parents pack up the house for Central City four days later. You couldn’t do anything but sit and watch your parents pack 20 years’ worth of things into cardboard boxes and plastic bins. Instead, Clark forces you outside to see the grounds of the farm you’ve lived on while your parents and his pack everything into the cars and moving van.

Although it’s early December, it’s warmer than it has been over the last few weeks. Clark carries you across every inch of the farm, your arms wrapped securely around his neck. He walks you through the barn with all the equipment you used to climb around together as children. You pet and say goodbye to your horse and favorite cow.

The field was plowed only a few weeks into your hospital stay. Now, it was baren and covered in a light dusting of snow.

Clark carefully set out a blanket and lowered you down into his lap. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of the wind whistling in your ears. The smell of the dirt fills your nose. You could hear the chickens in their pen.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving the farm,” you mumbled as you watched your parents pack the last things into the moving van in the distance.

Clark kisses your temple, hugging you to his chest. “That was always the plan though, wasn’t it?” he asked against the shell of your ear. “It’s just happening earlier than either of us anticipated. Just think, this time next year we’ll both be in Metropolis.”

You stiffen in Clark’s embrace, his words curdling inside your chest. You frown and grit your teeth. Anger simmers beneath your skin.

“Clark, stop,” you bit out, moving out from under his touch. Your legs sit uselessly in front of you as you face him.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, his brows pulling together with concern. He reaches for your hand, and you angrily bat it away, ignoring the hurt look across Clark’s face.

“All of it!” you screamed in frustration. “Me. You. Us. Bringing up Metropolis is cruel, Clark.”

Clark sputters at your response. “I don’t understand. Going to Metropolis together was always our plan—”

“I know!” you shouted. “But that was before! I can’t walk. I can’t drive. I suck at moving around in my wheelchair. I get tired all the time. For Christ’s sake, Clark! You’re carrying me around the farm we used to run around as babies!”

“That’s why you’re going to Central City. They’ll teach you how to walk and drive again. You’ll get better using your wheelchair with time. You’ll build your strength back up to what it was before.”

You hear the desperation in Clark’s voice. He’s clinging on to your imploded future like a lifeline. You have to make it clear that future doesn’t exist anymore. Whatever plans you had together were gone. History. Kaput. Goodbye Metropolis.

“What if I don’t, Clark?” you yelled brokenly. Tears of frustration coat your cheeks. “What if I’m like this the rest of my life?” your confession filters through the air and you watch it settle on Clark’s shoulders.

Your body shakes as you cry, mourning your past and your future, whatever that means now. You mourn the town you’ve lived in your whole life that you’re leaving behind. You mourn the only boy you’ve ever loved, even if he’s sitting right next to you.

Clark’s eyes search yours and you watch him think carefully before speaking. He takes your hands in his and squeezes firmly. “Then you’ll figure it out. You’re the strongest person I know. If anyone could adapt to these challenges you face, it’s you.”

You want to fight and argue some more, but you don’t have it in you. You’ve tried picking a fight twice now in order to break up with Clark and set him free, and each time has failed more spectacularly than the last. Clark has been nothing but supportive and has taken your outbursts like a champ. It makes you hate how perfect he is. It just reminds you how much you don’t deserve him. It reminds you that Clark deserves better.

The distance will take care of what you’ve failed to accomplish over the last few days. Clark will get sick of you. He’ll get sick of the phone calls, the distance, and visiting you when you can’t visit him. He’ll get sick of the unanswered texts and missed calls. He’ll put on a brave face until he can’t anymore.

Clark pulls you into his lap and you rest your head on his shoulder. You close your eyes and sink into Clark’s warm embrace. He holds you tightly against him, brushing kisses into your temple. The short strands of your hair whisp in the wind.

“I know things will be hard, but it’ll be worth it, I promise,” Clark whispered against the shell of your ear. You blame the shivers down your spine on the biting wind instead of the warmth of his voice.

The sound of the moving van’s horn breaks moment between you. Your dad yells for you near the driveway and you watch your mom load the last items into the back of the SUV.

Clark tenses beside you and pulls away. His eyes search yours and he gently grasps your chin before fitting his mouth over yours in a heavy kiss. You let Clark lead you through the kiss, his lips pouring all the words and love he cannot say. It’s desperate and lingering. A tear slips past your eye and Clark is quick to brush it away with a gentle swipe of his thumb.

Clark tears himself away from you and moves quickly on his feet. He gathers you in his arms before pulling the blanket from the ground. You can’t help but stare at Clark as he walks the two of you through the field towards the cars in the driveway. He sets you down into your wheelchair momentarily, giving you the chance to say goodbye to Martha and Jonathan without him hovering.

You hug them both tightly and ignore the brick settling in your stomach as you inch towards the passenger side of the SUV. Clark is quick to help you into the car. You thread your fingers through his and lean towards him.

The kiss you share is soft and fleeting. You taste the saltiness of Clark’s tears. You want more, you want everything, but you can’t. Not anymore.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Clark murmured quietly, forcing a grin.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing the tears down as Clark shut the door. His hands grasp the lip of the passenger side window. It groans against his strength. You rest your hand atop his.

“I’ll see you soon,” you replied, knowing deep down it was a lie.

The car turns on and you watch Clark disappear through the side mirror as your mom drives away from the only place and person you’ve called home.

…

Now, Clark has kept his promise for the most part, but it has only been a month since you moved. He calls you every day. He asks how your rehabilitation is going and if you like Central City so far. You try to be enthusiastic about the city, but it’s so different from Smallville and you don’t have Clark to share it with.

Your doctors and therapists are amazing. They, like your previous medical team, are optimistic about your recovery. You have access to state-of-the-art facilities and spend nearly eight hours a day in various programs to help with your recovery.

It was almost like old times whenever you talked on the phone. Only now, he shares things you hadn’t thought to ask about before since you were always there beside him. He updates you on how the Smallville High Herald is doing. Every time he brings up an assignment he’s working on with Lola King, your heart twists a little.

Now that you’re no longer at Smallville, you can’t keep a watchful eye on the girls who always had their eyes on Clark. To them, he was a free man. It didn’t matter that he was clearly still committed to you.

As time goes by, Clark’s responsibilities and schedule grow. Plans of Clark visiting fall through. Instead, you have to settle for Facetimes, quick texts, and long phone calls when he can. You stare at your phone and wait for him to reach out. You hate yourself for it.

So, you busy yourself with prioritizing your health and wellbeing. Afterall, it was why your family uprooted you to Central City in the first place. Progress was slow, but measurable. You were getting the hang of using your wheelchair and could take a couple of assisted steps in physical therapy.

Although you had nightmares about the accident consistently, you didn’t keep them bottled up inside. Instead, you told your therapist, and she helped you face your trauma every day.

Now you’re the one missing calls and taking forever to respond to texts. It was an endless cycle. A cycle that could’ve been prevented if you weren’t so selfish when you moved. You haven’t even told Clark you withdrew your application from Metropolis University.

Clark

Hi, honey! Miss you so much. Please call when you can, I have great news!

Your heart drops into your throat and you let out a careful breath. You adjust on your bed before pressing Clark’s contact. You Facetime him and it rings twice before connecting. Clark’s beautiful smile brightens your screen. You haven’t seen him smile like that since before the accident.

“There’s my favorite girl,” he hummed with a grin. “How are you?”

You shrug. “I’m okay.”

You know if it were any other day, Clark would press you for more, but he’s too excited. He’s too happy and you can’t break up with him now. This would ruin whatever news he had to share with you.

“I got my acceptance letter from Metropolis University!” Clark blurted out. “I got in!”

Your mouth drops open in surprise. You feel like you’re about to pass out, puke, or both.

“W-wow!” you stuttered, forcing a smile. “That’s amazing, Clark. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, honey. Have you heard back?”

You blink once, twice, three times as you build up the courage to tell Clark the truth. You withdrew your application. You wouldn’t be going to Metropolis University with Clark in the fall.

“Clark, I’m not going to Metropolis University,” you confessed.

Clark’s eyes widen in surprise. “What? You didn’t get in? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you going to appeal it?”

“Clark, I withdrew my application when my parents told me we were moving to Central City.”

Even though it was through a screen, the silence between you is deafening. You watch a flurry of emotions cross over Clark’s face. Hurt. Betrayal. Tears threaten to spill over. His cheeks redden. Something shifts and settles over him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Clark’s voice is careful and measured.

“I tried!” you couldn’t help but yell. “Why do you think I started that fight on the day I left? I tried to tell you.”

Clark shakes his head at you. “No… no. That’s not true. You were just upset because you were moving.”

“Clark.”

“So you were never going to come to Metropolis? All those plans we had? They’re just gone? What about your future? Our future?” Clark asked desperately.

You couldn’t help the indignant scoff that ripped through your throat. “Our future?” you asked. “What future, Clark? You haven’t even come to visit me! I’ve been hanging on to these phone calls, and you promised you’d visit.”

“I’ve been busy!” Clark retorted petulantly. “Taking over the Herald has been a lot harder than I anticipated since you’re gone.”

“I know!” you yelled back. “You don’t have to tell me that. I would be there if I could. You know that.”

“Do I?” Clark bit back. “You’ve done nothing but push me away since the accident. It feels like you’re punishing me. You keep secrets from me. You tell me you’re not going to Metropolis, even though that’s your dream.”

Tears slide down your cheeks, and you angrily wipe them away. You shake your head. “That’s not fair, Clark. I have tried to tell you numerous times, but you wouldn’t hear it. You’re so focused on getting that version of me back you’re not even listening to this version of me. It’s like you don’t even know me anymore.”

You stare at your phone, watching Clark digest your words. His shoulders sag and he looks resigned. Defeated. Hurt.

“Maybe I don’t,” Clark whispered. “You’re right. Things are different. I haven’t been listening to you. I’m sorry.”

You sniff quietly and stare up at the wall, gathering the strength to do what you should’ve done before you left.

“Clark, I think we should break up.”

“What?” Clark asked, hurt laced in his voice. “I know things are rough right now, but I don’t think it’s breakup worthy. It’s just an adjustment period. We’ll figure things out. We always do.”

Your lip trembles and you let the tears fall. “I think I need to figure things out on my own for a little while. I need to learn to be independent again. I can’t always rely on you or my family. I have to rely on myself too. I need to learn what that feels like again. I have to process what happened to me without thinking about the future. If this accident has taught me anything, it’s that tomorrow is never guaranteed. Please understand that it has nothing to do with you, but everything to do with me.”

Clark wipes the tears out of his eyes and he nods slowly. His throat bobbles and his lip trembles. “Okay,” he whispered gently. “If that’s what you think is best in order to help you heal. I may not like it or agree with it, but it’s your healing journey. I respect it. Just know that when you’re ready to rely on someone other than yourself, I will be here. First in line.”

Wet laughter escapes your throat, and you nod, rubbing your face. “Duly noted. Goodbye, Clark. Take care of yourself for me.”

You hang up before you can hear Clark say, “Back at you. I love you.”  

....

Clark kicks the comforter off and hurries towards the door. He pushes it open and through the soreness enveloping his muscles, walks into the living room. He switches on the lamp beside the couch.

You’re tangled under the blankets on the couch. Sweat gathers and falls down your temple. Your eyes are closed but your brows are drawn tightly together. Tears sneak out the corners of your eyes, and your body shakes underneath the blankets.

Clark’s heart drops into his throat. He drops to his knees in front of you and hesitates for a brief moment. He doesn’t want to scare or startle you awake.

Clark gently runs his hand across your forehead, brushing away the sweat and hair away. He whispers your name softly, using his other hand to shake your arm.

Your eyes fly open and you gasp awake. Your eyes are wide and tears continue to paint your cheeks. Your forehead creases as the sleep falls away. Clark continues to move his fingers across your skin.

“Clark?” you croaked out, voice thick with sleep. “What happened? What is it?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Clark answered gently, taking the spot beside you as you sit up on the couch. “I heard you crying.”

You nod silently and your bottom lip trembles as you fight back more tears. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” you sniffed as you stared into your lap.

Clark’s heart clenches at your soft and broken apology. He resists the urge to grab you and pull you into his lap. You don’t know each other like that anymore. It’s different now. Instead, he turns his body towards you and rests his hand near yours, letting you take it if you want to. Clark treads carefully with what he says next.

“Sorry?” Clark asked. “Why are you saying sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You shake your head and turn to face him. Your throat bobbles and you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. Clark notices the words are caught in your throat as you gather the courage to speak.

You reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his. Clark’s heart skips at the feeling of your hand in his. Your skin is soft and gentle against the roughness of his palms. His fingers brush across your skin. You lean into his touch and Clark shivers.

“No, I do,” you replied, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry for how things ended… for how I ended things. You tried so hard to be there for me after the accident and I just pushed you away. I was so insecure and I didn’t want to burden you. You did nothing but love me and I broke your heart.”

Clark lets out a shaky breath and smiles tenderly at you. “You had a lot on your plate. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. It wasn’t about me, and I made it about me. I said things I shouldn’t have because I was hurt and confused. I’m sorry for the things I said and did, too. It was probably for the best, right? Or else we wouldn’t be sitting here together on your couch in Metropolis. Things kind of worked out in the end.”

A heavy silence falls over the room and Clark swallows hard, watching you carefully. You nod quietly and Clark sees the wheels turning in your eyes. You want to say something more, but something is stopping you. You hesitate, squeezing the blanket.

Clark’s eyes flicker down to your mouth. Your teeth catch your top lip and your eyes search his. The sound of your heart racing fills Clark’s ears. He smells your warm vanilla shampoo on your hair. He stares at your throat and feels your hand slide across the couch, over his hand, before resting on his bare chest.

Clark nearly jumps off the couch, feeling like his heart is beating outside his chest. He inches towards you and you move until you’re nearly in Clark’s lap. His nose brushes yours, his eyes following your every move, letting you take the lead.

“Not quite the way either of us hoped when we talked about Metropolis as kids though,” you whispered, meeting Clark’s gaze.

“No,” Clark agreed, breathing you in. He reaches for you and his fingers brush your waist. You shiver under his touch. “If I remember correctly, you wanted a floral themed living room. I don’t see any florals.”

Your laughter fills the space between you and Clark can nearly taste it with how close you are. The corners of your eyes crinkle at the edges. “My taste has evolved since we were 17. If I remember correctly, you wanted a bright blue sofa. Do you have a bright blue sofa at your apartment?”

A smile stretches across Clark’s face. His cheeks turn a light pink and he nods. “I do.”

You squeal in delight and clap your hands together. Your head falls back as you laugh. Clark pinches your sides and your shared laughter fills your apartment. It feels like old times.

“At least one of us got what we wanted in our dream apartment.”

Clark opens his mouth before thinking. He doesn’t know what it is about you, about this moment that makes him say it. It’s bold and so unlike him.

“Not quite,” Clark replied, “I always pictured you there.”

Your mouth falls open in surprise. Your eyes widen at his words, and his confession fills the space between you. You blink once, twice, three times. You don’t say anything. It makes Clark antsy and he might as well go big or go home.

“Even now.”

“Even now?” you asked in awe. “You can’t mean that.”

Clark’s brows push together and his hands slide to hold your face in his hands. His fingers caress your cheeks, and he presses his nose against yours. Your eyes search his.

“When have I ever said things I don’t mean?” he asked, whispering your name.

You shiver at the softness of your name on Clark’s lips. Tears threaten to spill over your cheeks. Clark hasn’t said it, and neither have you, but you both know what this moment means. Clark still loves you even after all this time. You still love Clark even after all this time.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, an alarm you’ve never heard goes off in your bedroom. Clark winces and whatever moment you just shared shatters into existence. He watches you come back to reality.

You slide out of his grasp, and you stand, hugging the blanket to your chest. Clark watches you close yourself off in front of him. He winces and watches you put as much space as you can.

“Is that your superhero phone or something?” you asked. “Duty calls?”

Clark swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he answered.

You nod and hurry over to the drying rack in front of the door to the washer and dryer. “Your suit should be all good to go. I washed, air dried, and stitched it up.”

You pass it over to him without another word. Your fingers brush and Clark reaches out for you. Your name is a plea on his lips. He wants nothing more than to tell Michael to ask someone else for help. He’s busy trying to mend his relationship with you and win you back. Besides, he’s still recovering from the blows he received just hours earlier.

“It’s fine. We can talk about this later,” you rationalized, faking a smile. “I’ll see you on Monday, Clark. Be safe.”

It isn’t fine! Clark wanted to yell back. He had you in his arms. Your hands were on his chest. Your nose was brushing his. He was seconds away from kissing you and telling you he still loved you.

But he had responsibilities, a city that counted on him, and you knew that. It’s why you’re so eager and ready to get rid of him, Clark thought bitterly. Things were getting too real too fast and Superman had to interrupt. He hates himself for it.

Clark dresses into his suit and tugs on his boots before hurrying into your bedroom to grab his phone. He doesn’t bother to look at it when he returns to the living room. He stands in front of the open sliding glass door. Your hand gripped the handle like your life depended on in. Despite the clear lack of sleep in your eyes, you still manage to take Clark’s breath away. He’s always been stunned at how beautiful when you wake up, like the weight of the world hasn’t found itself on your shoulders yet.

He reaches for your free hand, and you don’t pull away. Clark places a soft kiss to the back of your hand. His eyes finding yours over the top of your hand. His heart lurches inside his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, “for everything you did for me tonight and all the nights before. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Clark leaves before he could hear you say goodbye.

…

After you’re discharged from the hospital, your parents pack up the house for Central City four days later. You couldn’t do anything but sit and watch your parents pack 20 years’ worth of things into cardboard boxes and plastic bins. Instead, Clark forces you outside to see the grounds of the farm you’ve lived on while your parents and his pack everything into the cars and moving van.

Although it’s early December, it’s warmer than it has been over the last few weeks. Clark carries you across every inch of the farm, your arms wrapped securely around his neck. He walks you through the barn with all the equipment you used to climb around together as children. You pet and say goodbye to your horse and favorite cow.

The field was plowed only a few weeks into your hospital stay. Now, it was baren and covered in a light dusting of snow.

Clark carefully set out a blanket and lowered you down into his lap. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of the wind whistling in your ears. The smell of the dirt fills your nose. You could hear the chickens in their pen.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving the farm,” you mumbled as you watched your parents pack the last things into the moving van in the distance.

Clark kisses your temple, hugging you to his chest. “That was always the plan though, wasn’t it?” he asked against the shell of your ear. “It’s just happening earlier than either of us anticipated. Just think, this time next year we’ll both be in Metropolis.”

You stiffen in Clark’s embrace, his words curdling inside your chest. You frown and grit your teeth. Anger simmers beneath your skin.

“Clark, stop,” you bit out, moving out from under his touch. Your legs sit uselessly in front of you as you face him.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, his brows pulling together with concern. He reaches for your hand, and you angrily bat it away, ignoring the hurt look across Clark’s face.

“All of it!” you screamed in frustration. “Me. You. Us. Bringing up Metropolis is cruel, Clark.”

Clark sputters at your response. “I don’t understand. Going to Metropolis together was always our plan—”

“I know!” you shouted. “But that was before! I can’t walk. I can’t drive. I suck at moving around in my wheelchair. I get tired all the time. For Christ’s sake, Clark! You’re carrying me around the farm we used to run around as babies!”

“That’s why you’re going to Central City. They’ll teach you how to walk and drive again. You’ll get better using your wheelchair with time. You’ll build your strength back up to what it was before.”

You hear the desperation in Clark’s voice. He’s clinging on to your imploded future like a lifeline. You have to make it clear that future doesn’t exist anymore. Whatever plans you had together were gone. History. Kaput. Goodbye Metropolis.

“What if I don’t, Clark?” you yelled brokenly. Tears of frustration coat your cheeks. “What if I’m like this the rest of my life?” your confession filters through the air and you watch it settle on Clark’s shoulders.

Your body shakes as you cry, mourning your past and your future, whatever that means now. You mourn the town you’ve lived in your whole life that you’re leaving behind. You mourn the only boy you’ve ever loved, even if he’s sitting right next to you.

Clark’s eyes search yours and you watch him think carefully before speaking. He takes your hands in his and squeezes firmly. “Then you’ll figure it out. You’re the strongest person I know. If anyone could adapt to these challenges you face, it’s you.”

You want to fight and argue some more, but you don’t have it in you. You’ve tried picking a fight twice now in order to break up with Clark and set him free, and each time has failed more spectacularly than the last. Clark has been nothing but supportive and has taken your outbursts like a champ. It makes you hate how perfect he is. It just reminds you how much you don’t deserve him. It reminds you that Clark deserves better.

The distance will take care of what you’ve failed to accomplish over the last few days. Clark will get sick of you. He’ll get sick of the phone calls, the distance, and visiting you when you can’t visit him. He’ll get sick of the unanswered texts and missed calls. He’ll put on a brave face until he can’t anymore.

Clark pulls you into his lap and you rest your head on his shoulder. You close your eyes and sink into Clark’s warm embrace. He holds you tightly against him, brushing kisses into your temple. The short strands of your hair whisp in the wind.

“I know things will be hard, but it’ll be worth it, I promise,” Clark whispered against the shell of your ear. You blame the shivers down your spine on the biting wind instead of the warmth of his voice.

The sound of the moving van’s horn breaks moment between you. Your dad yells for you near the driveway and you watch your mom load the last items into the back of the SUV.

Clark tenses beside you and pulls away. His eyes search yours and he gently grasps your chin before fitting his mouth over yours in a heavy kiss. You let Clark lead you through the kiss, his lips pouring all the words and love he cannot say. It’s desperate and lingering. A tear slips past your eye and Clark is quick to brush it away with a gentle swipe of his thumb.

Clark tears himself away from you and moves quickly on his feet. He gathers you in his arms before pulling the blanket from the ground. You can’t help but stare at Clark as he walks the two of you through the field towards the cars in the driveway. He sets you down into your wheelchair momentarily, giving you the chance to say goodbye to Martha and Jonathan without him hovering.

You hug them both tightly and ignore the brick settling in your stomach as you inch towards the passenger side of the SUV. Clark is quick to help you into the car. You thread your fingers through his and lean towards him.

The kiss you share is soft and fleeting. You taste the saltiness of Clark’s tears. You want more, you want everything, but you can’t. Not anymore.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Clark murmured quietly, forcing a grin.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing the tears down as Clark shut the door. His hands grasp the lip of the passenger side window. It groans against his strength. You rest your hand atop his.

“I’ll see you soon,” you replied, knowing deep down it was a lie.

The car turns on and you watch Clark disappear through the side mirror as your mom drives away from the only place and person you’ve called home.

…

Now, Clark has kept his promise for the most part, but it has only been a month since you moved. He calls you every day. He asks how your rehabilitation is going and if you like Central City so far. You try to be enthusiastic about the city, but it’s so different from Smallville and you don’t have Clark to share it with.

Your doctors and therapists are amazing. They, like your previous medical team, are optimistic about your recovery. You have access to state-of-the-art facilities and spend nearly eight hours a day in various programs to help with your recovery.

It was almost like old times whenever you talked on the phone. Only now, he shares things you hadn’t thought to ask about before since you were always there beside him. He updates you on how the Smallville High Herald is doing. Every time he brings up an assignment he’s working on with Lola King, your heart twists a little.

Now that you’re no longer at Smallville, you can’t keep a watchful eye on the girls who always had their eyes on Clark. To them, he was a free man. It didn’t matter that he was clearly still committed to you.

As time goes by, Clark’s responsibilities and schedule grow. Plans of Clark visiting fall through. Instead, you have to settle for Facetimes, quick texts, and long phone calls when he can. You stare at your phone and wait for him to reach out. You hate yourself for it.

So, you busy yourself with prioritizing your health and wellbeing. Afterall, it was why your family uprooted you to Central City in the first place. Progress was slow, but measurable. You were getting the hang of using your wheelchair and could take a couple of assisted steps in physical therapy.

Although you had nightmares about the accident consistently, you didn’t keep them bottled up inside. Instead, you told your therapist, and she helped you face your trauma every day.

Now you’re the one missing calls and taking forever to respond to texts. It was an endless cycle. A cycle that could’ve been prevented if you weren’t so selfish when you moved. You haven’t even told Clark you withdrew your application from Metropolis University.

Clark

Hi, honey! Miss you so much. Please call when you can, I have great news!

Your heart drops into your throat and you let out a careful breath. You adjust on your bed before pressing Clark’s contact. You Facetime him and it rings twice before connecting. Clark’s beautiful smile brightens your screen. You haven’t seen him smile like that since before the accident.

“There’s my favorite girl,” he hummed with a grin. “How are you?”

You shrug. “I’m okay.”

You know if it were any other day, Clark would press you for more, but he’s too excited. He’s too happy and you can’t break up with him now. This would ruin whatever news he had to share with you.

“I got my acceptance letter from Metropolis University!” Clark blurted out. “I got in!”

Your mouth drops open in surprise. You feel like you’re about to pass out, puke, or both.

“W-wow!” you stuttered, forcing a smile. “That’s amazing, Clark. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, honey. Have you heard back?”

You blink once, twice, three times as you build up the courage to tell Clark the truth. You withdrew your application. You wouldn’t be going to Metropolis University with Clark in the fall.

“Clark, I’m not going to Metropolis University,” you confessed.

Clark’s eyes widen in surprise. “What? You didn’t get in? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you going to appeal it?”

“Clark, I withdrew my application when my parents told me we were moving to Central City.”

Even though it was through a screen, the silence between you is deafening. You watch a flurry of emotions cross over Clark’s face. Hurt. Betrayal. Tears threaten to spill over. His cheeks redden. Something shifts and settles over him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Clark’s voice is careful and measured.

“I tried!” you couldn’t help but yell. “Why do you think I started that fight on the day I left? I tried to tell you.”

Clark shakes his head at you. “No… no. That’s not true. You were just upset because you were moving.”

“Clark.”

“So you were never going to come to Metropolis? All those plans we had? They’re just gone? What about your future? Our future?” Clark asked desperately.

You couldn’t help the indignant scoff that ripped through your throat. “Our future?” you asked. “What future, Clark? You haven’t even come to visit me! I’ve been hanging on to these phone calls, and you promised you’d visit.”

“I’ve been busy!” Clark retorted petulantly. “Taking over the Herald has been a lot harder than I anticipated since you’re gone.”

“I know!” you yelled back. “You don’t have to tell me that. I would be there if I could. You know that.”

“Do I?” Clark bit back. “You’ve done nothing but push me away since the accident. It feels like you’re punishing me. You keep secrets from me. You tell me you’re not going to Metropolis, even though that’s your dream.”

Tears slide down your cheeks, and you angrily wipe them away. You shake your head. “That’s not fair, Clark. I have tried to tell you numerous times, but you wouldn’t hear it. You’re so focused on getting that version of me back you’re not even listening to this version of me. It’s like you don’t even know me anymore.”

You stare at your phone, watching Clark digest your words. His shoulders sag and he looks resigned. Defeated. Hurt.

“Maybe I don’t,” Clark whispered. “You’re right. Things are different. I haven’t been listening to you. I’m sorry.”

You sniff quietly and stare up at the wall, gathering the strength to do what you should’ve done before you left.

“Clark, I think we should break up.”

“What?” Clark asked, hurt laced in his voice. “I know things are rough right now, but I don’t think it’s breakup worthy. It’s just an adjustment period. We’ll figure things out. We always do.”

Your lip trembles and you let the tears fall. “I think I need to figure things out on my own for a little while. I need to learn to be independent again. I can’t always rely on you or my family. I have to rely on myself too. I need to learn what that feels like again. I have to process what happened to me without thinking about the future. If this accident has taught me anything, it’s that tomorrow is never guaranteed. Please understand that it has nothing to do with you, but everything to do with me.”

Clark wipes the tears out of his eyes and he nods slowly. His throat bobbles and his lip trembles. “Okay,” he whispered gently. “If that’s what you think is best in order to help you heal. I may not like it or agree with it, but it’s your healing journey. I respect it. Just know that when you’re ready to rely on someone other than yourself, I will be here. First in line.”

Wet laughter escapes your throat, and you nod, rubbing your face. “Duly noted. Goodbye, Clark. Take care of yourself for me.”

You hang up before you can hear Clark say, “Back at you. I love you.”  

....