coffee with cal

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

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"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.

your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.

"…"

his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.

clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.

"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.

you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.

the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."

"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"

you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."

he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.

"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.

before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.

you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.

“I- uh. Yes.”

“Clark, at least have the balls to look at me.” You demanded, letting go of his hand and crossing your arms defensively. You looked particularly pretty today, so he rather not look up as he was saying it. Also, you could probably see in his face how awful he felt. He looked up, glancing at you once before his eyes drifted away to the window as if there was something interesting going on.

“And may I ask why?”

“Uh- I don’t think things are working out.”

“What things?”

“Y’know… things. Like you snore when you sleep sometimes.”

“You’re going to dump me because I snore sometimes?” You continued your inquiry because you didn’t believe for a second this was actually what he wanted. You knew Clark; he wasn’t a blabbering idiot. If he wanted to talk or had a problem, he’d come right out and say it. This wasn’t a sure Clark, this nervous and unserious man in front of you seemed like he had a gun pressed to his temple and was forcing him to do this.

“Among other things-“

“What other things? Clark, Jesus Christ, look at me. Look me in the eyes and repeat the words and I’ll believe you.” You put both of your hands on the table, smacking them down and making him look at you. He tried to focus on your eyes, a deep breath and instead of saying what he meant, his eyes started to fill with tears.

“I just think you deserve better.”

“Better? What are you talking about?” Clark looked up and blinked away the tears pricking his eyes as he looked up to the ceiling now.

“I- I’m an alien, for god’s sake! And I can’t be there for you all the time, I have so many things to do. You deserve someone who’s there for you.” Clark’s words were more rushed and seemed like he had been holding them in for a long time, like they had been hammering into the back of his brain since he thought them.

“Clark, you’re there for me! Where did this come from? You’re pissing me off now. You think I’m some sort of weak woman that can’t decide what she wants? What she needs?” You sounded angry, offended and confused as to the conversation you were having. You were supposed to go out for sushi and then come home and pretend to watch a movie while you fucked. How did it turn into this?

“No, I don’t think that. I think you’re amazing, as are all woman - not the point- but I don’t want you to settle.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m settling for Superman? Do you hear yourself? You’re a fucking catch, Clark. Do you not see what everyone thinks of you? How much they love you? I’m so lucky to have you. Don’t tell me what I want.” You whispered the last part, as if your anger was fading into sadness. The last thing he wanted. Clark’s mind had been somehow relaxed as he heard what you actually thought of him and let his fears and insecurities quiet down somewhat to listen to you. How there was no stutter in your breath, no doubt in your words. You were mad he had a considered doing this.

“I- fucking love you, Clark. I don’t want anything more, I don’t need it. I need you. Can you just- listen to me? To yourself?” Clark nodded, standing and taking you into his arms with a tight hug, mumbling sorry’s and I love you’s into your mouth as he finally convinced himself to push all those negative thoughts.

“Don’t do this, don’t sabotage yourself. Scared me to death, you idiot.” You said and finally took his kiss, the anger seemingly melting away from your mind as you felt how desperate and sorrowful he was against you. This had probably been eating at him, his stupid brain baiting him into thinking he was noble and kind to try and force you to find someone better. The tears kept falling from his eyes, and they were on the verge of falling once again half an hour later while you took a break from riding him with force of a knight in battle and were drawing small circles with your hips.

“Trying to leave me, huh? You want some other girl? Is that it?” You asked as you held his head back, pulling on his hair. His hands were steady and brushing on your hips, trying to get you to go faster again but with no increase. You were calling the shots and he was so into it.

“No, no, baby. I want you.” Clark shook his head, what a preposterous accusation to think you hadn’t ruined him for everyone else. There was nothing better, no one better.

“That’s right. How could you ever think I’d allow anyone else but me to have this cock? This is mine.” Clark groaned at your words, nodding his head eagerly.

“I’m yours. Everything is yours.” He was pretty sure your pussy had been molded to fit him too. It always felt like the perfect fit, the perfect press. You nodded with a smirk and went back to riding him with harder movements, hips grinding back and forth, up and down, feeling the perfect kiss of his dick onto your cervix.

Your hips rolled as you continued to ride him, still holding his hair back with your hand to force him to keep his head up looking at you. Looking at what he wanted to give away.

“You’re- you feel so good. Taking me so deep.” Clark whispered basically, eyes midway shut like he couldn’t keep them open with his dick receiving the tide of his life but he still wanted to look at you, not only because you wanted him to, but because he wanted to. You were a sight for sore eyes, sweaty and hot and your mouth hung slightly open to help you breathe. Your lips were plumped from the kissing and the necklace he got you for your sixth month anniversary hung from your neck. He was such a fucking idiot.

“What were you gonna do without me? Huh? Be alone? Find some Smallville girl? Some alien? Think they’d make you happy?” Clark shook his head, your grip getting harder and hips getting rougher as you even entertained the idea of Clark being without you. You could feel him twitching inside you, his palpitations on his tip making your pussy squeeze; Clark moaned at the feeling and pressed the fingertips of his hands harder into your hips. You knew he was close, you could tell all the signs by now. Idiot.

“No fucking way, baby. I’m it.” His moan was whiny and absurd as he unloaded inside you, a ridiculous amount of cum filling you up as you still fucked yourself on him, slower and with longer jumps. You pushed his head to look down; letting him see how his cum poured out of you with every slight movement. It wasn’t about finishing yourself off, you knew Clark wouldn’t let you go without making you finish; but about letting him see how much you knew him. What he liked; how to get him to spill his heart from his dick in copious amounts.

“I love you, honey. I love you to death. Forever, you and me. Right?” Clark spoke as he looked back into your eyes when your hand finally let go of his hair. You smiled, nodding as he kissed your whole face. You could tell he was sorry. You closed your eyes as you felt his mouth wander around your face, so it took you off guard when he grabbed harder onto your hips and lifted you off, gasp escaping your mouth. He placed you onto his face, holding you up by your ass as he looked at your pussy still gushing and swollen.

“I’m gonna spend forever between these legs.” He said and kissed the tip of your clit, looking at the mess of white he had created inside you, marked you his. He sucked your clit into his mouth, making your laugh get lost between a whine.

“How’s my favorite granddaughter?” Martha asked over the phone, her voice warm and bright, carrying easily through the speaker. 

You smiled to yourself as you stood in front of the swing, a hand wrapped loosely around the chains as you gave your daughter another gentle push. The park was chaotic in its usual way with sunlight spilling across the grass and children darting in uneven paths, their laughter loud and unrestrained. Somewhere off to the side, a group of kids had decided that screaming was a game in itself, no rules or purpose beyond the sound of their own voices. Your daughter, thankfully, had no interest in joining them. She sat content in her swing, small hands gripping the chains, legs kicking forward with uneven enthusiasm as the motion carried her back and forth.

“You know, Martha,” you said, a soft laugh slipping into your tone, “I don’t think you should go around saying that in case she’s not the only grandchild you end up having.”

There was a beat of silence just long enough for you to register that you had made a mistake and then…

“Well I’ll be–Johnathan! John, come here this instant, we’re gonna be grandparents again!”

Your eyes widened immediately, your grip tightening slightly on the swing as your daughter let out a pleased little sound at the sudden increase in momentum. “No, no, no, that’s not what I–”

“Y/n’s pregnant!” Martha called out, her voice pulling away from the phone as she clearly turned toward wherever Jonathan was. “Come congratulate ‘er!”

“Martha, I’m not–” you tried again, a little louder this time, though you had a sinking feeling it would not make a difference.

“Hold on a second, sweetheart,” she said quickly, her breath a little uneven with excitement. “He’s been outside paintin’ some sort of mural for the baby, that’s why I asked ya what kind of flowers she liked. Hurry up, John, by the time you get ‘ere she’ll be in labor!”

“Martha,” you pressed, trying not to laugh and failing at the same time, “I’m not pregnant.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “You’re not?” she asked, her voice dropping back into the phone, confusion settling in where excitement had been just seconds ago.

You shook your head instinctively before remembering she could not see you. “Nope. Not currently, no.”

“She’s not pregnant, John! Keep workin’!” she called out, her tone changing back to something far more casual, as if she had not just announced a life-changing event to the entire farm.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you said, a small smile lingering as you gave the swing another push. “It’s not that we don’t want to. We’ve talked about it…Clark’s definitely talked about it. Our hands are just a little too full right now.”

“Oh, honey,” Martha said softly, more attentively. “How are you doin’? Is everything alrigh’ over there?”

You let out a quiet breath, watching your daughter’s hair catch the sunlight as she swung forward again. “Yes. Yeah, everything’s fine. Nothing out of the ordinary…just Clark and I and our…totally normal, nothing even slightly extraordinary daughter.” You let out a nervous laugh. It was not entirely untrue, especially if you chose your perspective carefully enough.

Every word was chosen when you spoke like this, they were filtered through the decision you and Clark had made together. For now, his parents didn’t need to know about the powers or about the way they had appeared and disappeared like they were testing the boundaries of your understanding. There had also been an agreement between you both that your daughter’s abilities might just be temporary during her childhood, that it might also never stabilize into anything permanent…unlike science suggested.

Yours had settled into something harmless, just small, inconsistent bursts that barely counted as control, like buttons popping open on Clark’s shirts when your focus slipped, lights flickering on without you touching a switch or appliances humming to life before you reached for them. They were moments that felt more like coincidences than anything else and they made busy mornings easier which you found great the more you learned to control it. The controlled telekinesis, though…that part refused to cooperate…

“Sweetheart, could you pass me the pepper, please?” Clark had asked one night over dinner.

You glanced at it, then fixed your gaze more intensely, your eyes narrowing slightly as you focused. The pepper grinder sat there, unmoving and you willed it forward with everything you could gather, shoulders tensing as if the effort alone might be enough to push it across the table. “Give it a second,” you muttered, barely sparing him a glance. “It’s there, it’s just–I need a second.”

“Baby?” he prompted again, softer this time.

Clark’s attention moved between you and your daughter, who sat in her highchair, completely content as she gnawed on a piece of steak with more determination than grace. She watched you with vague curiosity but offering no assistance whatsoever. Not that she could, at least not in any way she had shown you yet. Clark, on the other hand, had stayed entirely still.

“Are you trying to move it with your…magic?” he asked carefully.

He didn’t sound worried. If anything, there was patience in his voice and some caution. Ever since that dream, the one that hadn’t quite been a dream, he had been watching more closely. Watching you, watching her, noticing every small change and inconsistency. He had seen what illness had done to you, how little control you had over any of it and while he never said it outright, you knew it unsettled him.

“It’s not magic,” you corrected, your tone firm despite the strain in your focus. You had settled on that distinction early because magic implied something unpredictable, something detached from logic. This wasn’t that…scientifically speaking. “Just give me a second, I can do it.”

“I know you can,” he said gently, leaning back slightly in his chair, giving you space without making it obvious. “It’s just not required right now.” He paused before a small smile tugged at his mouth. “You do look very cute, though.”

Your concentration broke just enough for you to glance up at him, brows pulling together faintly. “Are you flirting with me?”

In that exact moment, the pepper grinder tipped over and your eyes followed the movement instantly. Clark’s did too, his expression lighting up with immediate excitement, his mouth already parting–

“Your daughter’s kicking the table,” you cut in flatly.

He blinked, then looked down at his glass of water, where the surface trembled with each small, insistent kick from her feet against the underside of the table.

“My comment still stands,” he said, completely unfazed. “You looked like ‘Baby of Steel' when we ask her if she’s pooping and she says ‘no’ when she clearly is…and visibly struggling too.”

You blinked at him. “You did not just compare my attempt at being an average mutant to our daughter’s gastrointestinal issues.”

He grinned, entirely pleased with himself. “You didn’t say the other word! That’s great, it means we’re making progress.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the increasingly large swear jar sitting off to the side, already holding more than it reasonably should.

“What word?” you asked, frowning as you looked between him and your daughter. “Shit? Because I can redo the sentence if that’s what you want to hear.”

“Sheet!” she chirped proudly, lifting her head just enough to contribute before immediately reaching for her water bottle with messy hands.

Clark groaned, his head tipping back as if the weight of it all had finally caught up to him. “At this rate, we’ll have saved enough for her college tuition, her first car and a house by the time she’s ten,” he muttered. Then he looked between the two of you, entirely serious despite the faint smile still lingering. “I am begging both of you to slow down.”

The memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving you blinking back into the present as the swing slowed slightly in front of you.

“Yes, I’m doing great,” you repeated, picking up the thread of the conversation again, your voice a touch brighter than necessary. “Totally normal too…just like before your son got me pregnant.” You winced slightly at your own phrasing. “Not that I didn’t want it, I mean–Clark, you know.” You let out a nervous laugh. “You raised a very…convincing man, could’ve been a lawyer.” You cleared your throat. “Anyway, I should probably let you get back to it.”

“Sweetheart,” Martha started gently, “if you want me to talk to him about another baby–”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “I don’t think your son needs any more encouragement in that department, but thank you.” You paused, watching your daughter twist in her seat, already losing interest in the swing. “He’s really good at it, Martha…At being a dad, a husband…and whatever the world needs him to be.” Your voice softened. “I’m sure he can handle that on his own too. Me, on the other hand–”

“He is good at all of that,” Martha agreed warmly, “and so are you. Don’t let me hear you doubting that again. I’m sure your daughter would have plenty to say about it if she could and if she’s anything like her daddy, you’ll be hearin’ it sooner rather than later.”

You laughed, glancing down at your daughter just as she started twisting more insistently, her patience officially gone. “Speaking of your granddaughter, I think she’s demanding a change of activity. I’m going to see if I’m brave enough to let her try the slide today.”

“Oh, yes. You go do that, she’ll love the speed,” Martha said immediately, complete confidence in her voice.

“Yeah,” you murmured, watching your daughter carefully as you slowed the swing to a stop. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

“Well, you call me later and tell me how it goes, alrigh’?”

“I will.” You smiled. “Take care of yourselves, Martha and kiss John for us.”

You stayed on the line through her long, affectionate goodbye, only ending the call once she had fully exhausted every variation of it. Then you slipped your phone back into your pocket, your attention returning fully to your daughter as she reached for you, ready for whatever came next.

"Hello, totally normal daughter," you said softly, your voice carrying the lightness you always reached for when you wanted the world to feel simpler than it was. 

The park noise continued around you without pause, distant shouting from children chasing each other in uneven loops across the grass, a dog barking twice before being pulled sharply away by its owner, the ordinary noise of a place that never stopped moving, but none of it seemed to reach her. 

She didn’t turn toward it, did not follow anything passing through the periphery of her vision either, not even when a group of kids ran close enough for their laughter to rise and fall right beside her. Her attention stayed fixed on you with an intensity that made your smile hesitate at the edges before it could fully settle.

Something in your chest tightened as you crouched down in front of her, lowering yourself until you were at her eye level, while the rest of her face remained still, almost unnervingly composed for a child her age. 

A faint shiver ran through you that you couldn’t immediately place, one that came without warning and left you briefly unsure of the ground beneath you. You forced a gentler expression onto your face, brushing it off as nothing more than tired imagination or coincidence, though the feeling did not quite leave. 

"Okay," you said carefully, forcing an easy tone you no longer felt, your brows pulling together as you studied her. "You know, I would really appreciate it if you started speaking in full sentences right about now." You paused, tilting your head slightly. "No pressure, obviously. Though I do want you to know we can absolutely make Harvard tuition work. MIT too, if that's what's holding you back."

Your attempt at humor landed in the silence between you. And because you knew your daughter, because by now you had learned not to dismiss the things that seemed strange when they involved her, you actually waited for a response.

Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again, her brows pulling together as though she were searching through something just out of reach. When she finally spoke, it came out fractured and uncertain, her small voice stretching around the word like it did not quite belong to her yet. "P-p…payne."

Your brows drew together instinctively. "Pane?" you repeated slowly, giving her room to correct you.

Her attention shifted upward without hesitation, one small hand lifting to point toward the sky above the park. You followed the direction of her finger immediately, scanning through the open blue expanse, searching for movement, for anything out of place, half expecting the familiar blur of red and blue to cut across the horizon. Nothing passed overhead, only the slow drift of clouds and the distant hum of the city beyond the trees.

"Oh," you said after a moment, lowering your gaze back to her as the pieces clicked softly into place. "Plane?"

As soon as you confirmed it, her hand dropped from the sky and went briefly to her mouth, her fingers pressing lightly against her lips as though trying to shape the sound more carefully, forcing it into something closer to what she meant. "Desh," she affirmed, nodding faintly as though that settled it and you understood she meant yes.

You rose slowly to your feet and lifted her into your arms, her weight settling against you. "No planes right now, baby," you murmured, adjusting her against your hip as you turned to scan the sky again, more out of instinct than expectation. "No flying daddies either." You kissed the side of her head absentmindedly as you started toward the stroller, trying to let the thought go. "I still think you're a genius. And honestly, I'm fairly certain you'd learn more from Uncle T in one weekend than you would in four years at MIT, assuming he ever agrees to babysit you unsupervised." 

You paused, considering it longer than you intended. Maybe aviation was her thing, maybe this was simply your first glimpse into some inevitable fascination with flight and if that was the case you had already lost. There would be no keeping her grounded with Clark for a father. "Though he might agree faster," you added as you settled her into the stroller, "if you stop drooling on all of his belongings."

"Payne." She repeated, her small finger lifting once more toward the sky, her face tightening with visible frustration but when you looked at her, she was not just pointing at the sky anymore. She was looking directly at you, as though willing you to understand something she had not yet found the words to reach.

You had always told yourself not to overinterpret the way children insisted on things, the way they circled back to words and sounds with  persistence that did not always match meaning. But there was something different in the way she looked at you now. She was not distracted or curious in the usual wandering sense and she was not excited either, she wasn’t fascinated or caught on some passing detail. Her expression had hardened into something closer to distress, tiny brows pinched, mouth tense, her whole body subtly rigid. Cold awareness swept through you so quickly it made your stomach drop.

"I don't understand, honey," you admitted quietly, straightening slowly as your pulse began to quicken.

Around you, the park remained unchanged but it suddenly felt louder, layered in a way that made it harder to isolate anything meaningful. You tried what you had seen Clark do without thinking, that quiet narrowing of attention, that filtering of sound and detail until only what mattered remained but instead of clarity, everything pressed in at once. Conversations overlapping conversations, the distant wail of sirens somewhere beyond the trees, the scrape of shoes against pavement, laughter that rose too sharply and broke too quickly, wind pushing through the leaves with more volume than it should have had. Your breath tightened. You blinked, trying to separate one thread from the rest but the edges of things refused to settle and none of it resolved the way it should have.

Then your attention snapped back to her face and your stomach dropped all over again. She was still watching you, still pointing and waiting, as though the answer should have already arrived and you were simply the last one to catch up.

That’s when you decided to go home, to pry her out of the environment you were not sure you could protect her from and even hours later you were still trying to figure her out. 

You sat cross-legged on the living room rug in front of her while she worked through her toys with the focused seriousness of someone conducting a very important audit, picking each one up and examining it before setting it aside. You had been watching her long enough that you had stopped registering the sounds of the building around you, which was probably why the front door opening startled you. You heard it open, then close, then the familiar pattern of his steps slowing as he reached the doorway and still you did not look up.

"What's with the staring contest?" Clark asked.

Your daughter turned at the sound of his voice and immediately abandoned all professional objectivity, throwing her current toy sideways without looking where it landed and crawling toward him at a speed that suggested the distance was motivating her. She repeated "dada" the entire way there, like an announcement. 

Only then did you look up at him. He had loosened his tie somewhere between the elevator and the door, his jacket was folded over his forearm and his bag had already been dropped by his feet with the particular exhaustion of someone who had been holding it for one floor too many. He smiled at her before she even reached him, crouching to meet her as she grabbed two fistfuls of his slacks and hauled herself upright with great determination and very little grace.

"Sweetheart, you just lost," he told her, scooping her up.

"Nothing I say can logically sound crazy to you anymore, right?" you asked, meeting his eyes once he straightened.

"I don't think so," he said. You watched him scan both of you in the same breath, like he always did when he walked in, quick and subtle enough that he clearly believed you had never noticed. After this many years together, you always did.

"I'm sure all parents think their kids are geniuses," you started, "but something weird happened at the park today."

He kicked off his shoes and crossed the room, lowering himself and your daughter to the floor in front of you, settling into a mirror of your position. She immediately returned to her toys as though the reunion had already been processed and filed away. "Okay," he said, which was his way of telling you to continue.

"We were on the swings and she started saying ‘plane’. Over and over."

His brows lifted with the particular pride of a man who had been waiting for vocabulary milestones. "That clearly?"

You almost rolled your eyes at his growing grin. "Obviously not, Kent, but clear enough that I understood her. I still think she's a genius, for the record."

"Did you let her know we can afford college?"

"Yes, of course." You nodded. "She needs to grow up knowing we will support her until we are d-e-a-d," you spelled carefully, on the reasonable chance her genius brain was already ahead of you on that one.

"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "That's responsible parenting."

"Anyway." You pulled yourself back on track. "She seemed worried about a plane. So I looked up and there was nothing there, no plane, no you flying past, nothing, but she was still pointing and still worried and I had this feeling like she was trying to tell me something I couldn't see." You watched him take whatever toy she was handing him, hold it with complete sincerity and hand it back when she decided she wanted it again. He did this without complaint or interruption, which was either very good parenting or evidence that she had already trained him. "We left and on the walk home, maybe twenty minutes later, a couple of fast aircrafts went overhead, the loud ones and I don't know what to do with that."

"So you think she's psychic." He assumed.

"I think there's something she's still trying to tell me and I can't figure out what it is." You paused. "Maybe she heard them coming, the way you do." You shook your head before he could respond. "But I'd expect her to be overwhelmed by the level of noise and maybe cry too. Not just stare at me like I'm the one failing the test."

Clark nodded slowly, looking down at her. "It’s not that. You would have known for sure. It was very loud the first time it happened to me, even more because you have no control over it."

"Okay," you breathed. "Then we leave it at ‘she's a genius’ until something else happens." You did not move as she abandoned the toys entirely and began using your thighs as a personal climbing structure, stepping on you with full confidence that you would simply allow this, which you did.

"I should probably stay home tonight, just in case." Clark decided, already carrying the weight of the calculation before the words were even out, the city on one side and the two of you on the other, and the permanent difficulty of knowing which side needed him more on any given night.

You shook your head. "It's patrol night. We'll be fine and I'm sure she'll find a way to get it through to me eventually." You looked at her, now standing beside you with one hand twisted into the fabric of your shirt as though you were a very convenient piece of furniture. "Right?"

She looked up at you. "Mama," she said and pointed at you, which settled nothing but somehow felt like agreement.

"I'll check in every hour," Clark added.

You pressed your lips into a smile that you knew he would read correctly. "And I won't answer."

His face fell, head tilting at you with the expression of a man genuinely wounded by your confidence and you held his gaze and smiled pleasantly until he accepted it.

The three of you had dinner together like you usually did, then Clark got her ready for bed while you cleaned up, the sound of her sleepy giggles drifting down the hallway every now and then. Afterward, you both put her down together, the same way you always did when he was home in time and lingered a little too long by her door to make sure she was alright. 

He kissed you before he left, one hand warm against your jaw even as he was already halfway back into the version of himself the city needed and finally it was just the two of you and the quiet.

It had been over two hours since Clark left and you knew your daughter had not fallen asleep because you could still hear her babbling softly to herself in the dark of her room. The monitor on your nightstand confirmed it, the small screen showing her lying on her back, eyes open, apparently unbothered by the concept of bedtime but you couldn’t blame her because you weren’t doing much better.

You had been reading for the better part of that time, propped up against your pillows with your phone held above your face, the screen the only light in the room. You had found the article not long after Clark left, buried under the usual evening headlines and you had read it three times now without fully deciding what to do with it. A military aircraft had experienced a partial failure somewhere over Metropolis at approximately 3:57 pm. Onboard systems had flickered before the crew regained control. Everyone had landed safely and the report was careful to use words like routine malfunction and isolated incident, the type of language designed to keep the paragraph short and the comments section manageable.

You had seen those planes with your daughter, their engines splitting the air overhead while she sat strapped into the stroller below them, finally quiet and done pointing at the sky.

You set the phone down on your chest and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then you picked it back up and read the article a fourth time.

She had known and she had spent the entire afternoon trying to get it through to you.

How? You didn’t know. You were still working out the mechanics of your own limitations on a good day, still figuring out the difference between what you could do and what you could do under the right conditions, which were not always the same thing but the question that sat heavier than the ‘how’ was the ‘what if’. Had that plane dropped out of the sky over the streets you had walked with her that afternoon, over the exact route you had taken home with the stroller, could you have done anything at all to help? Or were you still strictly in the category of tipping the diaper bag across the room when your hands were full? Those bursts of power were small and entirely dependent on circumstance and you wanted, needed, to believe there was more in you than that. 

You were still turning that over when the notifications came in, Clark's name appearing at the top of your screen and the glow of the messages pulled you back into the room.

11:15pm: Is she asleep yet?

You had missed the first one because you had been too busy living in hypotheticals.

11:29pm: Are you?

You smiled despite yourself. Yes. I'm texting you with my mind, you replied and watched the typing bubble appear on his end almost immediately.

11:32pm: And you're dreaming of me? That's so sweet. I'll have to ask you about it when you're awake.

That made you laugh quietly with a short exhale through your nose.

11:33pm: You're exceptional.

11:33pm: You've always been.

You read those twice. Set the phone down on your chest for a second, looked at the ceiling, picked it back up. He often made you feel like a teenager in love.

11:35pm: Are you messing with me?

You could picture him exactly, somewhere above the city, squinting at the screen with that particular expression he got when he suspected you were having fun at his expense and could not quite decide if he minded.

11:46pm: Yes. Stop texting while flying. We're okay.

You watched the bubble appear, then disappear, then appear again. Then:

11:47pm: Yes ma’am, I’ll be back soon but don’t wait up. I love you both.

You looked at it for a moment, the phone warm in your hand and the monitor glowing softly on the nightstand beside you, your daughter's quiet babble still drifting faintly through it.

We love you too, you typed. Go back to work.

You set the phone down, pushed the covers off, felt around for your slippers in the dark and found one immediately and the other after a brief and undignified search, then padded through the apartment to the kitchen. You stood at the sink for a moment with your hands braced against the counter, breathing slowly, before you reached for a glass and filled it with cold water. The window above the sink framed the city, the lights steady and indifferent, the glass thick enough to swallow most of the noise from below. You drank slowly, looking out at nothing in particular, letting your shoulders drop as the stillness of the apartment settled over you properly for the first time since you had walked back through the door that afternoon.

You were almost convinced you might actually sleep if you tried hard enough when your daughter’s babbling changed slightly, carrying a strange note that pulled your attention toward the hallway but when you listened, all you found was silence, so you turned back to the window.

The sound that came next was not really a sound so much as pressure. It arrived before you could question it, a sharp, thin screech blooming somewhere behind your eyes and splitting outward instantly. Then came the layers, crashing over each other before the first had even settled, louder and sharper each time, impossible to separate into anything coherent. Your hand immediately went slack and you heard the glass hit the floor, shattering a split second before your knees followed, slamming into the tile as the pain in your ears folded you forward all at once, sudden and absolute.

You pressed both hands flat against the floor and tried to breathe through it but the sounds kept coming. Somewhere inside the overwhelming wall of noise were things you could almost identify, something low and structural that you felt more than heard, a rhythmic rushing beneath everything else, the percussion of a hundred small things you couldn’t locate or name. None of it stayed still long enough to make sense as your vision swam at the edges. Glass from the broken cup bit into your palm and you registered it only dimly and distantly, the same way you registered everything that wasn’t the noise.

The window above the sink cracked down the center with a sharp snap that managed to cut through the chaos for exactly one second before the rest swallowed it whole again.

You started crawling.

The hallway wasn’t long, you had walked it a thousand times without thinking but now every inch of it seemed to push back against you, the floor groaning beneath your hands and knees with a volume so disproportionate it made your teeth clench. Each creak amplified until it landed somewhere behind your sternum. The framed photograph on the wall, the one Clark had hung slightly crooked and you had never bothered fixing, shattered as you passed and the smaller frame beside it followed a second later but you didn’t stop crawling even as you flinched hard at the noise.

The small ceramic dish on the entryway table, one that had spent years collecting coins and forgotten receipts, slid sideways before tipping off the edge. The crash when it shattered sounded enormous, wrong somehow and you pressed your forehead briefly against the floor before forcing yourself forward again.

The dishes in the drying rack went next. You heard them from the hallway, one tipping into another in a cascading burst of noise that rose sharply before dissolving back into the larger sound swallowing everything else. The old crack above the bathroom door, one the landlord had dismissed as cosmetic and harmless, stretched another few inches toward the ceiling with a low groan you felt in your back teeth as something else fell inside the kitchen cupboards, pushed them open and fell heavily to the floor but you didn’t go back.

You reached your daughter’s door, got your hand around the knob and pushed it open.

She was already looking at you through the crib bars when you crawled inside, her plushie tucked tightly against her chest, her expression unnervingly calm in the same way it had been at the park at first. Her eyes followed you across the floor without alarm, without the tears or fear any other child would have shown watching their parent drag themselves forward in obvious distress. She simply watched you and you watched her back.

You managed to pull yourself upright enough to brace against the side of the crib, knees drawn to your chest, both hands clamped hard over your ears but it didn’t help. The sound didn’t exist outside of you anymore.

You forced your eyes open and stared at the ceiling, trying desperately to isolate something singular within the chaos, one thread or recognizable thing. You focused on breathing instead, slowly and deeply, the same way you had practiced before panic attacks during your childhood, in and out, steady enough to survive it but again, it did nothing.

Beneath the unbearable flood of noise was something that wasn’t mechanical and wasn’t human either, a low electrical crackling that pulsed in and out of existence before returning louder each time. Layered over it were footsteps, too many of them, moving too fast and in impossible directions, above you and below, through walls that should not have carried sound that clearly. Doors slammed one after another in rapid succession. Voices rose and collided in tones too distorted to separate into language. Somewhere far away or maybe impossibly close, an alarm began screeching, sharp enough to carve straight through you and the sheer volume of it felt physical, tearing loose inside your chest.

You couldn’t tell if you were crying because you simply couldn’t hear yourself anymore.

Your shaking hand lifted instinctively toward the baby mobile hanging above the crib, fingers stopping short of touching it. For a second nothing happened and then, with a faint uneven wobble, the butterflies began to turn on their own, circling gently above her head.

Your daughter’s attention followed them immediately, her gaze lifting away from you and settling on the soft movement overhead with fascination and relief hit you so hard it almost hurt.

You made yourself stand.

Using the crib rail, you dragged yourself upright and looked down at your daughter again just to confirm she was still there and safe. You swallowed against the nausea rising in your throat and started toward the apartment’s front door because the noise was louder there, pressing through the hallway outside in crushing waves.

Some distant, rational part of you understood that it meant something. The direction mattered, even if you couldn’t yet understand why.

The knocking, when it finally registered, didn’t sound like knocking at first. It folded into the rest of the noise as just another violent layer until the rhythm of it became impossible to ignore, it was urgent and repetitive, a fist pounding against your door, against your skull, already splintering inside you.

You reached the door and pulled it open. Your neighbor stood in the hallway, eyes wide, mouth already moving. She was older than you by at least fifteen years, a woman who had lived on your floor long enough to know everyone’s business without ever weaponizing it, the same woman who had once smiled warmly at your pregnant stomach in the elevator like motherhood was something sacred instead of terrifying.

You could see her speaking but the sound of it reached you shredded apart, swallowed instantly by the avalanche of everything else.

“What!?” You were fairly sure you said it more than once, louder each time, until the word stopped feeling like language. Your hands came up to the sides of your head on instinct, pressing in hard enough that it bordered on pain, as if pressure alone could reestablish control. Your neighbor’s expression changed immediately at the sight of it, concern sharpening into urgency.

She stepped closer again, speaking and the moment her hand caught your forearm something in the noise changed, a layer peeling back rather than disappearing. It didn’t fully stop but it thinned just enough for her voice to cut through in broken, usable pieces. “Are you okay?” she asked, eyes searching your face as if she might find an answer there. “There’s a fire in the apartment below you. We need to evacuate.” Each word was careful, as though she was speaking to someone she wasn’t sure could follow. Her gaze flicked past you toward the hallway. “Where’s your baby?” And then she was already moving, as if the answer mattered less than getting there in time.

“Her room,” you managed or thought you did. Your voice felt slightly out of sync, belonging a step behind your body.

She stopped in front of the nursery and looked inside briefly before the door swung shut in her face with  force that had nothing to do with any draft in the hallway. The sound of it landing in its frame hit somewhere behind your eyes and you winced. Her hand went straight to the doorknob, pushed, put her shoulder into it, tried again with her full weight behind it and got nowhere.

"It's locked," she said and pushed once more as though the door might reconsider.

Tightness rose in your chest before you even moved, crossing the hallway with rushed steps. "Let me try," you said and she stepped aside but before your hand had fully closed around the knob, the door swung open on its own as though it had simply been waiting for you, as if nothing had ever held it shut.

Behind you, she hesitated. “I was pushing as hard as I could,” she said, unsettled, glancing between you and the frame.

“It’s okay, it’s fine.” you assured, already crossing to the crib as urgency finally replaced all of the noise.

Your daughter watched you approach without distress, her attention still steady making everything else feel far away. You lifted her out, blanket and all and she settled against your chest without resistance, as if she had been waiting for it.

“Your husband isn’t home?” your neighbor asked, scanning the space as if confirming it.

You shook your head as the three of you left the apartment together. Firefighters were already inside the building when you reached the lower floors, moving upward past you in full gear, radios clipped to their shoulders and faces set. 

Outside, the air changed sharply. Cold, smoke-laced wind hit your face as you stepped through the lobby doors. The street was already crowded with residents gathered in uneven clusters, some barefoot, others half-dressed but all of them staring upward. You followed their gaze once and immediately wished you hadn’t.

The apartment below yours was venting smoke in thick, rolling sheets that curled out of the windows and along the façade. The glow from emergency lights below turned it dull orange at the edges. Another unit beside it was beginning to darken in the same way. Even more firefighters pushed past the gathered crowd toward the entrance, dragging hoses and speaking into radios that crackled and cut out mid-sentence.

The street was saturated with movement, from trucks angling across lanes and lights strobing without pause, to officers holding the line back as people leaned forward anyway. Someone was crying openly near the curb, while others kept asking questions no one could answer. The noise of it layered over itself until it became indistinct again, just like inside so you kept walking past the clusters of neighbors and the line of police who registered you only briefly before returning to their focus. No one stopped you as you moved through them, your daughter held tight against your chest, one hand steady at the back of her head. 

The smoke thinned as you crossed another block, the flashing lights fading behind you until they became intermittent color rather than force.

Eventually, the sound dropped away enough that it no longer pressed against you from all sides. What remained was uneven but familiar as your breathing finally began to settle in uneven stages, no longer competing with everything else.

Clark had been on his way back when he heard the end of it.

He was still far out, working his way through the last stretch of his grid, pulling inward toward home as the night wound down and the alarms reached him before the smoke did. He recognized the street immediately and did not let himself think past that.

He came in fast and dropped low over the building, taking in the scene below in the space of a second. Flames pushing through the windows of one unit, already spreading laterally into the one beside it, smoke thick and black against the night sky. Firefighters were on the ground and moving but the fire had gotten ahead of them and Clark couldn’t wait. He pulled in a breath and let it go in a sustained, sweeping arc across the face of the building, the temperature dropping sharply as the flames pulled back and then died, unit by unit, until the smoke was all that remained. The crowd gathered on the street and pressed against the police line broke into applause but he didn’t hear it because his attention was already moving through the building, floor by floor, room by room.

He came down to street level and moved through the remaining work without stopping, helping firefighters carry equipment, clearing a section of debris that had collapsed in the stairwell, making sure the building was empty. 

When the scene was stable enough to hand back, he found the firefighter who looked most in charge and stopped beside him.

"Do we know what caused it?"

The man pulled his helmet back, wiping his forearm across his face. "Electrical wiring in the wall of one of the lower units. Probably been faulty for a while. Dry conditions didn't help, so it spread faster than it should have." He shook his head. "Nothing anybody could have done to prevent it."

"Casualties? Is everyone accounted for?"

The firefighter turned to look at the building, then back at him. "We're still securing the scene before we can confirm but from what we can tell–" He turned again, reaching for his radio and when he looked back Clark was already gone.

He was up and moving before the man finished his sentence, cutting low over the street, over the crowd, scanning faces and finding none of the ones he was looking for. He widened his search outward from the building in expanding rings, checking side streets and the clusters of displaced residents still gathered on nearby blocks wrapped in coats but you weren’t there. He climbed higher, tilting his head and reached for the sound he knew better than almost any other sound in the world.

Two heartbeats, beating together as one.

He found it four blocks over, coming from the direction of the park and he was already descending before he had fully consciously registered it.

The park was dark and still. The gate stood open behind you or rather, the broken lock lay somewhere on the ground beside it and you hadn’t thought too hard about how that had happened. Your fingers hadn’t even touched it, you had simply wanted it open.

You sat on the swings, moving in a slow, barely-there arc, one foot dragging lightly against the packed dirt beneath you. Your daughter was asleep against your chest, her blanket tucked around her, her cheek warm against your collarbone. Her breathing was even and deep as you kept your arms locked around her with steadiness you didn’t entirely feel.

From this far into the park you could still hear it all, though mercifully at a distance now and a normal volume, one your ears were actually built for. The fire trucks idled somewhere on your street, their engines a low, continuous rumble that carried through the cold air. Blue and red light pulsed faintly against the buildings visible above the tree line.

You were cold. You had left in pajamas and without a coat, without anything except your daughter and her blanket. Your shoulders were tight with it as your free hand curled into the sleeve of your shirt for warmth and you pressed your sleeping daughter closer to your chest. 

Your head ached but not like it had inside the apartment with that obliterating, sourceless pressure that had pulled you down to the floor and shattered everything within reach. This was the residue of it, sitting behind your eyes and at the base of your skull like the memory of something that had already passed. You breathed through it slowly and kept swinging, kept your cheek resting lightly against the top of your daughter's head, kept listening to her breathe.

She hadn’t stirred once since you sat down.

You heard Clark before you saw him, the sound of footsteps on the path with the rhythm of someone trying not to startle you. The cape was the first thing you registered when you looked up, then the set of his jaw, scanning you before he had fully closed the distance, already taking inventory.

He unclipped his cape and draped it over your shoulders without asking, before lowering himself slightly in front of you. One hand came up to your face, tilting it gently to the side as if he needed a clearer look to make sense of what he was seeing. His thumb hovered, then stopped just below your ear where the skin was already beginning to feel tender.

The sight of the blood, no longer flowing and drying at the edges, made his breath catch, heart reacting before he could stop it. He heard your heartbeat quicken in response to his realization and beneath it, your daughter’s followed suit, rising in tandem in a way that made his attention snap outward at once. He pulled back slightly, breath held and went still, listening as both rhythms eased again. 

He didn’t speak or moved closer, careful now not to push anything higher than it already was, as if even his presence might be enough to disturb the quiet he was trying to preserve.

"People might see," you reminded him quietly, because it was the first thing that came to mind and also because if you said anything else first you weren’t sure you could keep your voice level.

He glanced briefly at the empty park then back at you. "I need to make sure you're okay."

"I'm okay," you told him gently. “We both are.”

"Can you hear me okay?" His brows pulled together as he moved, adjusting the blanket around your daughter just enough to check her ears too, his hands careful and unhurried. "What happened?"

You watched him the way he was watching you, taking him in, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes moved, the effort he was making to stay gentle and calm when you knew, because you had known him long enough to know, that he was nowhere near as calm as he was presenting himself. A thousand things moved through your mind at once, everything you had worked out on the walk here, everything you had been sitting with in the cold and the dark while the city made noise around you.

"How do you do it?" you asked, voice trembling at the edges.

He looked up from your daughter and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"

“Being you,” you paused, trying to find the shape of it in your mouth. “Being able to do what you do.” Your eyes started to sting and you blinked hard against it, dropping your gaze to your daughter instead. “It hurt.” The word broke cleanly. “I could hear everything and I couldn’t sort it out and I… I couldn’t hear the fire alarm. I couldn’t hear it, Clark and she was in danger. There was so much noise and I couldn’t–”

“Hey.” He was already on his knees in front of you before you finished, one hand finding yours where it was wrapped around your daughter. “Everybody got out and you’re both safe. That’s what matters right now.”

You shook your head as tears slipped down anyway, catching your breath in a small, uneven sound. “I should have known.”

“You couldn’t have.” His hand moved and his thumb now brushed lightly beneath your eye as he spoke, wiping carefully at the tears before they could fall further before settling back on you hand.

You hesitated for a long moment, deciding whether to keep it inside or hand it over. Then you exhaled and it came out anyway, selfishly so. “Three military aircrafts flew over Metropolis today...the same ones we saw. One of them had a partial failure…they’re saying it was a common malfunction but it could’ve–” You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “It could’ve dropped from the sky, right over our daughter–”

“Stop.” His voice was immediate as he shook his head.

“And I couldn’t have done anything to stop it,” you finished anyway, a tear slipping free as you tightened your hold on her. “That’s what she was worried about.”

“Sweetheart–”

“I don’t know how to do this, Clark.” You shook your head, breath catching. “I’m not…I’m not you and I’m sure she knows that.” You looked down at your daughter again, voice thinning. “Tonight she was calm the whole time…she wasn’t even crying. She was just watching me…waiting and hoping I’d catch up.” You swallowed. “She needed someone like you, so she made it happen. There’s no other explanation.”

“She doesn’t need you to be anything but her mom,” he said softly, reaching toward your face again before stopping just short, not sure if touching you would ground you or break you further. “And you are an amazing one. You’re doing so good, my love and I’m sorry I couldn’t–I’m just sorry.”

You shook your head, gaze meeting his as your voice fell to a whisper. “I think we compensate for each other.” Your hand hovered near her cheek, almost touching but careful, suddenly aware of how fragile everything felt. “She’s trying to teach me how to use what she gave me…she tried to tell me about the planes because I should’ve known somehow...and she made me hear the fire starting. It was there, somewhere in all of that noise.”

This scene was its own kind of undoing…the two of you in a cold, quiet and dark park, your sleeping daughter pressed against your chest and him kneeling in front of you with his hands hovering near your face like he was trying to hold you steady without taking anything from you. 

“Everything was so loud,” you managed, “and I couldn’t find her inside it.”

“I know.” His thumbs brushed carefully at the corners of your eyes again. “I know but you did. She’s here and she knows you’ll always save her.”

You nodded faintly, trying to believe it on repeat. You bent and pressed a soft kiss to your daughter’s head. “Mommy will figure it out.”

Clark followed your gaze for a moment, silent. Then he stood, leaning down just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. “We need to get your ears checked. Tonight.”

You glanced back toward your building, then at him, a tired, crooked smile forming. “You can’t exactly go back in there dressed like that and change into Clark.”

He looked down at his attire and considered. “I can try.”

You looked at him properly then, at the suit without the cape, the shape of him slightly off in a manner that was almost funny now that the worst of it had passed. “And you look silly without the cape,” you said, then spoke again. “...Slightly.”

His eyes dropped to you immediately.

His expression, caught between offended and fond, broke something loose in your chest that fear, noise or shock hadn’t managed to touch. A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, tired and unsteady at the edges. The moment he heard it, his face softened completely, as though he’d been waiting for that exact sound to pull you back.

It made it worse, in the best way possible.

Your eyes filled again, faster this time and you covered your mouth with your free hand as the laugh dissolved into giggles that didn’t hold their shape for long. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding…I meant 'handsome'."

“No, you didn’t,” he said, already shaking his head. “Stay put. I’ll be quick.”

He moved as if he might leave, then hesitated and that pause alone made you giggle again, which only made him stop fully and turn back.

“I’m sorry,” you added quickly, still laughing. “Are we sure you can fly like that? Do you need your cape back?”

He gave you a long look, then finally shook his head and lifted off.

You sat there on the swing, still sniffling and smiling in uneven little breaths, your daughter asleep against your chest as the night settled back into something more ordinary than the last hour had been.

You lifted your feet slowly from the ground and focused on the swing with everything you had left in you. For a second nothing happened except the cold night air moving softly through the trees, until the chains gave the faintest creak. The swing moved forward almost shyly, your daughter still tucked safely against your chest, the both of you wrapped in Clark’s cape, and you felt it catch beneath your concentration like a current finding its path. You pushed again without touching it, gentler this time and the motion caught into a slow even rhythm, rocking the two of you beneath the stars as you tried to hold the impossible without letting it hurt you.

You took the envelope from Clark’s hands and stepped away, instinctively putting distance between yourself and the door, between the place where the knock had come from and the fragile, hopeful thing beating inside your chest. The house suddenly felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath along with you.

“Honey?” he called softly after you.

He didn’t follow at first. He stayed rooted where he was, as if moving too quickly might shatter something delicate, as if proximity itself might make this new reality fall harder on you. He knew that posture in your shoulders, the way your spine had gone rigid, the way your hands trembled despite your best effort to steady them. It was the look of someone bracing for impact.

You shook your head in a small, stubborn motion and hummed under your breath like you used to when you were trying to convince yourself everything was fine. Tears welled so fast they burned, blurring the edges of the room as you focused on breathing in slow and careful inhales that barely worked.

“Mm-mm,” you said quietly. “We’re not doing this.”

Clark felt dizzy where he stood, lightheaded and powerless in a way that made his chest ache. He watched you pull open a drawer, your movements sharp and measured and shove the envelope inside like it was something alive, something dangerous. You closed the drawer gently afterward, too gently considering the anger and fear roiling through you and that contrast hurt him more than anything else because that was you. Always careful, even when breaking.

He took a tentative step toward you, then another. Each step felt heavy, like wading through something thick and unseen. With every inch of space he closed, your eyes grew glassier, your breathing shakier, until it looked like holding yourself together was taking every ounce of strength you had left.

“I can’t…” you started, your voice cracking before the words could fully form. Your head dipped forward, shoulders caving in on themselves. When he finally reached you, you whispered, “I can’t do this. I thought I was doing everything right.”

Clark didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest, shielding you from the world as you broke quietly against him. Your sobs were muffled, desperate, the kind that came from somewhere deep and old, from places that had never fully healed. He held you tighter, his own heart racing as his mind spiraled through possibilities, through solutions, through ways to fix something that suddenly felt too big even for him.

He kept his eyes intentionally away from the drawer for he knew he could see through it if he let himself. He knew one glance would reveal the words inside, would force knowledge into his mind whether he was ready or not and he couldn’t do that to you, not yet…not ever if he could help it.

“I know you did,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, his voice low and unsteady. “And you are doing everything right.” He swallowed hard. “Facing it doesn’t mean you failed. It doesn’t, but…it could be important. It seems important.”

“Mmm…no,” you refused immediately, shaking your head against his chest. You tried to pull away, panic flaring but his arms tightened instinctively, refusing to let you slip into that place alone. “No,” you repeated, your voice breaking. “What’s important is that she’s asleep. That she’s fed and loved and safe…by us. We just…we just got here, Clark. We just got a home and now this?”

He felt the weight of your words like a blow. “We can’t ignore it either,” he said softly, lifting your trembling chin until he could see your face. Your tears tracked down your cheeks unchecked, your eyes wide and terrified. “This isn’t something we can outrun. We have to finish what you started..to the very end. Because that’s what’s right for her and we said–”

“That we’d fight for it,” you finished for him, your voice barely audible.

You turned toward the drawer then, staring at the wood like you could burn through it by sheer will alone. For a moment, Clark thought you might open it anyway, might force yourself to face the thing you were so clearly not ready for but instead, your gaze lifted to his.

He wasn’t looking at the drawer, he couldn’t, and seeing that, seeing him look away and the restraint it took, the pain he was swallowing for your sake, broke something open inside you. Tears spilled freely now, hot and relentless.

“I need a day,” you whispered. Then, smaller, more fragile, “Or two.”

The plea wasn’t just for yourself but for him too. Permission for him not to be the strongest one in the room for once and permission not to shoulder catastrophe alone.

He exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to rest against yours as a tear slid down his cheek unchecked. “I would give you eternity if I could,” he said, his voice fracturing.

“Then give me two days,” you begged softly. “Give us…two days.” Your hands fisted in his shirt like he might vanish if you let go. “Let’s go home. Let’s give her a family, properly for as long as we…” Your voice caught, the word refusing to come. “…have her.”

“I don’t like that this feels like the end,” he confessed, the admission raw and unguarded. “That I can’t save us from this.”

Those simple, honest and devastating words undid you completely. The strongest man you knew, the one who carried worlds on his shoulders, was breaking right in front of you.

“The earth will keep spinning even if you’re not pushing it, Clark,” you sobbed, clutching him like an anchor. “So please…let’s go back. Don’t let this be our grave.” Your voice dropped to a whisper, desperate and vulnerable. “I’m asking you to run away with me.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, just like he had all those years ago, hidden in his parents’ barn while your world was falling apart. Back then, he had been the one with the proposal and despite your fears, you had accepted. He would do it all over again and this moment was proof of it.

Somewhere beneath the ache the envelope had carved into your hearts, Smallville rose in both of your minds like a sanctuary, with its sun-warmed fields, clean air and the quiet safety of a place that had once saved you when you were too young to save yourself. You clung to the belief that it could do it again, that it could hold Ellie the way it had once held you.

Leaving felt like fleeing but this time, you didn’t pretend otherwise.

You were ready to leave the house half-unpacked, its pristine floors untouched by the grief waiting to spill out, wanting to abandon it before it could abandon you first. That night, the ticking clock echoed loudly in Clark’s ears as you lay beside him, sleepless, your quiet crying shaking the bed in barely-there movements. He knew you were counting time even as you tried not to, measuring and dreading it while refusing to name it.

Somewhere between denial and hope, you made an unspoken pact.

You would not turn your life into a countdown and you would not let every moment be haunted by an ending you didn’t yet know.

You vowed to live in time for the little you had left.

The next morning came far too quickly, dawn barely brushing the edges of the sky before the two of you were already awake, moving through the house with a quiet urgency that felt both careful and frantic. There was no alarm this time, no harsh sound pulling you from sleep, just the shared understanding that time was moving whether you were ready or not. You packed a few bags for the night, hands brushing past each other in drawers and closets, both of you instinctively choosing the softest clothes, the familiar ones, as if comfort could be packed alongside essentials. The kitchen filled with the smell of waffles and toasted bread, cream cheese smeared just right, sandwiches wrapped tightly for the road ahead like small promises of normalcy.

And inevitably, selflessly, you both put on faces for Ellie. Or maybe those were the only faces that existed when she was around, the only versions of yourselves that could still breathe easily. She woke up happy, chattering immediately about a bird she’d seen perched on her windowsill, insisting it had looked right at her before flying away. She dressed herself with only minimal help, humming off-key and after breakfast, she waited patiently on the porch swing, legs kicking back and forth as you loaded the car.

Clark came out last and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

He looked different. He wasn’t Superman or the reporter, just some old version of him in jeans worn soft with age, a plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves and hair still a little messy from sleep. Something about it twisted your heart painfully yet made your lips curl into a small, fond smile you didn’t even realize you were wearing. His expression mirrored yours when Ellie started singing to herself, doing that little dance she did when she was entertained by her own thoughts.

He walked over to her, scooped her up effortlessly and slung her over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. He sang along to her giggles, exaggerated and silly, carrying her to the car while you stood frozen for a second too long. You pulled out your phone without thinking, snapping a picture just as he buckled her in, your chest aching at the sight of him leaning close, making sure the straps weren’t too tight and pressing a kiss to her forehead when he was done.

In the car, you sat in the passenger seat beside him, listening to Ellie narrate an entire story about butterflies, where they lived, what colors they liked and what names she might give them if she ever caught one. You wondered, distantly, if life had always sounded like this and you’d just never noticed. There was a soft hum beneath everything, a rhythm that matched your heartbeat. It felt warm and golden, like sunlight through a windshield but with blurred edges, as if you were afraid to focus too hard in case it disappeared.

Your attention narrowed instinctively to what mattered most. To the road stretching ahead toward something that felt like salvation, the tiny excited voice behind you still tripping over certain syllables, the way it made you reach for the radio just to sing with her, only to pause mid-chorus because she suddenly needed to know what birds might eat for breakfast and beneath it all, there was Clark’s voice, deeper and far steadier, answering every question with the same seriousness he used in interviews, grounding you whenever your thoughts drifted too far ahead.

He drove slower than usual. You noticed it immediately but you didn’t comment. Instead, you let him pull over at scenic viewpoints just to let Ellie run around and look at things, to point out clouds, trees and animals in the distance. You let yourself imagine bringing her here again someday, letting this become routine, bringing her home to his parents so she could run through fields and talk to cows the same way she’d spoken to horses on the drive over.

Passing the Smallville sign felt like stepping through a portal. The town wasn’t always tied to good memories for you but whatever pain lingered there was quickly eclipsed by what remained good. The past reshaped itself quietly, old memories losing their sharpness, replaced by something gentler, something that didn’t need to be measured by importance because it simply was.

No matter how slow Clark took the back roads, no matter how many stops you made, his parents’ house eventually came into view. 

Stepping out of the car felt like finally touching solid ground after a long freefall. Martha was already coming down the porch steps, arms open, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost stole the air from your lungs. The kind of hug that made you wonder if love could be infinite, if it could spill endlessly from one person without ever running dry.

Clark got out then, offering a quick and soft “Hey, Ma,” before circling the car to open Ellie’s door. You were still wrapped in Martha’s arms when another door creaked open behind her. Jonathan Kent stepped out, stopping short at the sight before him just as Ellie’s little shoes crunched against the gravel.

You pulled back just enough to watch their reactions unfold, Martha’s eyes flicking from Clark to you to Ellie, Jonathan’s gaze fixed and searching, trying to understand everything all at once.

“My bunny!” Ellie exclaimed suddenly, spinning back toward the car. Clark found it instantly and handed it to her, watching with a fond smile as her eyes widened at the fields around her. “Cows!” she gasped, already running toward the fence, clutching her bunny tight.

Jonathan stepped closer, his hand settling on Clark’s shoulder with a weight that carried years of quiet understanding. “Son,” he said gently, “we need to talk about you visiting more often.”

Clark smiled softly and called Ellie back. When she reached him, he lifted her easily into his arms. “This is my dad,” he said softly, then turned as Martha stepped closer. “And this is my mom.”

Ellie studied them carefully, eyes moving between faces like she was piecing together a puzzle. Then she pointed at Jonathan and declared, “You look like Santa.”

Laughter broke the tension immediately, light and genuine. Clark tickled her belly gently, grounding her and above all making sure she felt safe. “How about you tell them your name?” he suggested, his voice warm and encouraging, steady with the kind of care that came from knowing exactly where he belonged.

Ellie looked around some more, eyes wide and curious, taking everything in as if she were memorizing it for later. When her gaze finally found yours behind Clark, there was a pause, a quiet moment of checking in. You gave her a small nod, the kind that said you’re safe, you’re allowed, you’re doing just fine.

“Can I see the cows?” she asked, already wiggling in Clark’s arms, legs swinging with impatience.

“I can take her,” Jonathan offered, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made it sound like an honor rather than a task. He glanced between you and Clark, as if asking permission not just from parents but from fate itself.

Martha bent down then, lowering herself just enough to be eye-level with Ellie, speaking in that soft tone reserved for children who were treated like people rather than something fragile. “Would you like something to eat after you come back from seeing the cows? You might be hungry then.”

Ellie considered this seriously, brows furrowing. “I don’t wanna eat what the cows eat because I’m a person,” she said firmly, pointing back at herself. Then, as an afterthought, “But I like apples.”

Martha’s smile softened into something almost reverent. “Mmm, apples,” she hummed. “I might have some apple pie. Would that be okay?”

Ellie nodded enthusiastically, then patted Clark’s leg to get his attention, though it had never left her for a second. She had this way of calling him without looking, already trusting that he’d be there when she spoke. “Can I go with summer Santa over there?” she asked, pointing toward the fence and the cows beyond it.

Clark laughed quietly, the sound catching in his chest before escaping. “Go have fun,” he said gently. “We’ll be inside.”

She was already halfway gone, half skipping, half walking, Jonathan keeping pace beside her. “How many are there!?” she asked him, craning her neck. “I can count real high.”

“There’s a lot,” he replied fondly. “They like walking quite far so not all of them are here now.”

“This is my bunny,” she announced, holding it out proudly. “I only have one.” Jonathan took it carefully, large hands cradling the plush as if it were something precious. “I’m Ellie…are you the real Santa?”

Jonathan chuckled, glancing down at her expectant face. “No, sweetheart. I might just look like him…my beard’s shorter.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” she shrugged easily. “I haven’t met Santa but I’ve talked to Mister Superman.” She leaned in conspiratorially, then stage-whispered far too loudly, “I can’t say though, ’cause it’s a secret.”

The confession carried back to the driveway, making you glance at Clark softly and hold back a smile.

Jonathan nodded solemnly. “Then I won’t say either.”

Martha let out a soft, almost disbelieving sigh beside Clark. “I thought this would never happen.”

“Ma–” Clark started but his words dissolved when he heard you laugh softly and saw you already moving toward the trunk.

“Come inside, come inside,” Martha rushed, suddenly bustling with purpose. “Is she allergic to something?” she added, already halfway to the front door. “Clark, I need you to reach the upper shelves in the closet for your old nightlight.”

“No allergies,” you answered with a small smile, grabbing a bag just before Clark gently took it from your hands. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than needed, checking in and reassuring, before he followed his mom inside.

“Ma, slow down,” he asked kindly as he stepped into a house that hadn’t changed in any way that mattered. The furniture, the smell, the creak of the floors, it was all exactly as it had been. That sameness wrapped around him like a blanket, comforting, safe and devastating, all at once at being the one to have changed.

“Put her bags in your old room,” Martha instructed, already moving through the house. “You two can sleep in the guest bedroom. Does she like ice cream with her pie?”

Clark stopped at the threshold of his childhood room, bags clutched in his hands. It looked untouched, if not cleaner than he remembered. The same bedspread, same shelves and the same quiet evidence of a boy who had once believed the world was simple. This was retreat, sanctuary but it also felt like borrowing time he couldn’t promise to repay.

“Clark?” his mom called from down the hallway.

He blinked, forcing himself back into the present. “Just one scoop,” he said, voice light. “Or she’ll turn into a little sugar-fueled tornado.”

“I’m sure it won’t be worse than you were,” Martha replied fondly. “Without sugar, that is.” She brightened when you entered the house. “Oh, you came right in time to see the meteor shower.”

You laughed softly, memories tugging at your chest. “It’s been a lie for decades, Martha.” You followed her into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. “I’m pretty sure the last good thing granted by the sky was your son.”

Martha paused and really looked at you then. At the way your eyes shone when you said it, at the love you weren’t even trying to hide anymore. She nudged you gently with her elbow. “Why didn’t you call when…” she started, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway, lowering her voice. “We would’ve loved hearing about it.”

Heat climbed up your spine, familiar but heavy in a way that wasn’t. Clark’s feelings for you had never been a secret here, neither had their hope for it.

“It just…” you began, eyes flicking toward the doorway as you heard Clark’s attempt to move quietly. “It just happened…along with some other things and we…” You finally met his eyes as he gave up pretending not to listen, finally coming into view. “We kinda lost track of time.”

For the first time since the knock at the door the night before, it felt like the world paused, just long enough to allow this sincerity, to let something fragile and true exist without fear.

“What brings you two here?” Martha asked gently, finally turning to her son as if she’d felt his presence before she’d seen him. Her eyes searched his face with the kind of quiet precision only a mother could manage. “Something happened in the city?”

Clark’s gaze flicked to yours, a silent question and an answer all at once. You caught the almost imperceptible shake of his head, the one he used when the truth was too heavy to be spoken aloud but too important to deny entirely.

“Just…we just wanted a weekend away,” you lied softly, carefully shaping each word so it wouldn’t crack under its own weight. “To show Ellie something other than traffic and tall buildings.”

Martha hummed, nodding as if that explanation fit neatly into a place she’d already made for it. “We were wondering when you’d need a break,” she said, turning back to the counter. “You can stay as long as you want. Your truck keys are in the drawer under the TV. It might take a while to start, but it’s still there.” She began cutting into the pie she’d baked earlier that morning, movements practiced and almost ceremonial. You couldn’t help but think it had been made not long before you arrived, guided by the same instinct that had always told her when something was wrong, even from miles away.

“Well,” she continued, voice softening as she looked at both of you, “we’ll have you as long as you wish to stay. For anything you need.” There was a pause, meaningful. “Even if it’s just to talk.”

Before either of you could respond, the front door opened and the sound of boots and excited chatter filled the house. Jonathan stepped in with Ellie beside him, mid-conversation, her voice animated and thoughtful.

“But what about strawberry milk?” she asked again, twirling a small wildflower between her fingers. Her bunny lay forgotten but carefully held in Jonathan’s hand. “Does that come from a cow? One with pink spots!”

Jonathan shook his head, amused, having already had the same questions asked about chocolate milk. “Still not from a cow.”

“But if you give one cow a strawberry, it might work,” she reasoned seriously. “Maybe two strawberries…big ones.” She wandered into the kitchen, coming to stand right beside you, still studying the flower as if it held the secret to the universe.

“I think they might prefer grass, Ellie,” Clark added gently.

She wrinkled her nose. “But I don’t want grass milk.”

Martha smiled and reached for a small glass. “What about normal milk?” she offered, setting it in front of Ellie.

Ellie’s face lit up immediately. She handed Martha the flower as if it were payment, then grabbed the glass with both hands. “Thank you!” she said brightly, her voice echoing inside it. She took a big gulp and sighed in contentment. “My mommy puts flowers in water and they live really long,” she added earnestly, glancing between the glass and Martha.

“I’ll put it in water right away,” Martha promised, doing just that. “Why don’t we go sit at the dining table to eat the pie?”

Ellie nodded, carefully following her, concentrating hard on not spilling the milk. “Do you want to color with me later? I have lots of pages to share...but I’m starting with the pink crayon first, you can have the red one.”

“I would love to,” Martha replied, pulling out a chair and helping her climb up.

Watching it all unfold felt surreal, like stepping into a painting you didn’t know you’d been longing for. Ellie sat in a chair far too big for her, feet kicking under the table as she ate pie and wiggled her shoulders happily. Jonathan sat beside her with his own slice, listening intently as she spoke. Martha moved between plates and smiles as Clark stood next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without touching.

You hesitated, knowing there would never be a good moment for what you needed to ask. Still, you also knew that the day, no matter how gentle it felt now, would end and the longer you waited, the harder it would be.

“Have you…” you began, then stopped, your voice catching as you looked at Ellie laughing mid-bite. “Um…seen my parents around?”

Clark turned to you instantly, concern etched into his features. Martha met your eyes as she handed him his slice of pie.

“Last week, I believe,” she said carefully. “Wasn’t it, John?”

Jonathan nodded. “Saw your father in town. They’re doing good…asked about you.”

You didn’t ask anything more. You simply nodded and sat down, Clark following suit, your knees nearly touching beneath the table. Breakfast stretched on, far too sugary and far too comforting. Ellie talked about school, about friends, about how she was a ballerina now and would definitely show them her dance later. You watched her come alive with each sentence, watched how easily Clark and his parents leaned into her world.

Some time later, when Martha mentioned photo albums, you excused yourself almost immediately, heart swelling too painfully to stay. Behind you, you heard the soft thump of albums hitting the coffee table, Ellie wedged happily between Jonathan and Martha on the couch.

You fled the room not because it hurt to see but because it hurt too much to feel how much it already meant.

You could hear their explanations and the little stories they told her drifting down the hallway from Clark’s childhood bedroom, Jonathan’s steady voice punctuated by Ellie’s bright interruptions, Martha’s laughter soft and full. The sounds carried easily through the house, settling into the quiet space you’d claimed for yourself like a borrowed comfort you weren’t sure you were allowed to keep.

You sat on the edge of the bed, Ellie’s small duffel open beside you. One by one, you pulled out her clothes, smoothing each piece before folding it, lining them up with intention rather than necessity. You placed them where she could see them clearly, where she’d remember what she owned and what choices she could make in the morning. She loved dressing herself, loved the autonomy of it, the tiny independence stitched into every mismatched outfit. Your hands moved automatically, methodically, as if order could be coaxed into existence if you were careful enough.

You felt Clark before you saw him. It was the same way you always did, like a shift in the air, a quiet gravity settling at your back. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you without speaking, taking in the careful way you folded a shirt that didn’t need that much care at all. When he finally stepped inside, the floor barely creaked beneath him. 

“I didn’t think you’d want to see your parents,” he started carefully.

It took you a beat too long to respond, your fingers lingering on the hem of Ellie’s shirt as if it might offer you the right words if you held it long enough.

“There’s a few things I left there that Ellie might like or need,” you started, choosing the easier truth first, letting it lead the way. “I’ve been thinking about…Ellie–” you continued, lifting your gaze just as he reached for the door and pushed it closed as though committing to being present, almost like he already knew what was coming. “About how I could still help her…even if I’m just her teacher.”

“You’ll never be just that,” he interrupted.

You swallowed and looked back down, focusing on your hands, on the fabric beneath them. You folded the shirt again, slower this time, more carefully than necessary, as if precision could keep the rest of you from unraveling.

“I feel like I need to close one door to know how to hold this one open…to even have enough strength to try.”

“I should be going with you,” Clark reasoned. The memory rose unbidden for him, sharp and unresolved of the last altercation. How long ago it had been didn’t matter, the way it had left you afterward did. He had no place there, not really and yet he couldn’t shake the fear that without him they’d find some way to undo what you’d built, to reach in and pull at old wounds that had never healed cleanly. He couldn’t stand the thought of you facing that alone.

Your eyes lifted to his and when you spoke, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Don’t you think you’ve saved me enough times?” It wasn’t an accusation, it wasn’t even a plea. It hovered somewhere close to gratitude, heavy with everything you hadn’t said. “I need to do this…alone. I need to understand how they let it go so far so I can…walk the same path and avoid the cracks on the floor…can’t let it end like that. It has to be perfect.” Your gaze dropped, your breath catching as you fought the sting behind your eyes. “Irreproachable in every way and I need to make it right to make up for the fact that once again…I couldn’t save myself and I couldn’t save her.”

“‘Trying’ changes things…more than you think,” he believed quietly.

His eyes followed you as you crossed the room, as you opened his dresser drawer and placed Ellie’s clothes inside, choosing the lowest one, the one she could reach without help. The act felt symbolic, whether you meant it to or not.

“Then why does it feel like it did back then?” you asked, finally turning to face him. The tears came faster now, spilling despite your efforts to wipe them away. “I need to keep my hands busy or they’ll start shaking and I feel like it’s past my curfew and they’ll be waiting on the porch asking for explanations I don’t necessarily have.” You tilted your head up, as if looking higher might stop the tears from falling. “Because I’ve spent the past decade focusing on moving forward and away from the memory of it… that the anger turned into pity before it turned into self-compassion and then acceptance they don’t deserve…what if the wrong thing comes out when I get the chance to speak?”

Clark crossed the space between you in two steps. His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears as they fell faster than he could stop them.

“I remember well a conversation we had here–” he started, voice low but sure, “that turned around you thinking you were a terrible daughter for wanting to be loved and appreciated by your parents…and I also remember how wrong you were. The body keeps the score in a way memory doesn’t, like that time you were certain you loved Root Beer when you were younger but you spat it out when you had it again at graduation–”

You laughed despite yourself, a broken, breathless sound that surprised you both.

“I doubt there’s anything wrong you could say to them, because just like you’re fighting for Ellie, you’re fighting for the little girl you once were. I don’t think there’s anything you need to make up for, not when you’ve already stripped your heart bare to make space for better things to come in, not when you’ve stayed true to who you and I both know you are to do so, honey.” He paused, resting his forehead against yours. “You are far from what your history tells you and you know more than anyone that you cannot tell children that there’s no hope. So go in there and make it right for you then, for you now and for you tomorrow, because you know how…some part of you does.”

You sobbed openly now, carefully registering his words as he spoke them, as if each one needed to be placed somewhere safe inside you before it could be lost forever. Clark’s arms came around you without urgency, without expectation, holding you close while you cried the way you hadn’t allowed yourself to in a long time. He didn’t shush or rush you, didn’t try to steady your breathing until it found its own rhythm again. He just stayed, like he’d always promised, until the space between your shakes shortened and your heart slowly relearned a familiar cadence, one that existed before fear learned how to interrupt it.

It wasn’t until several minutes later, when your eyes burned less and your chest no longer felt like it might collapse inward, that you joined the living room again. You wiped your cheeks one last time and forced a careful, practiced smile as you crossed the threshold, offering it to Clark’s parents first before your gaze found Ellie. She was curled into the couch cushions, picture albums spread across her lap, her small fingers tracing faces frozen in time she didn’t yet understand.

“Ellie, I’m gonna go run some errands, okay? I’ll be back soon,” you told her gently, crouching right in front of her so she didn’t have to look up at you.

She lifted her head immediately, abandoning the pictures without hesitation. She slid the album aside and scooted to the edge of the couch, her hands reaching for your face with a softness that felt far too wise for someone her age. Despite having dried your tears, you knew your eyes still gave you away. She studied you for a second longer than necessary, as if committing you to memory.

After holding your face, her arms wrapped around your neck, hugging you tightly before she pulled back and grabbed her bunny from beside her, pressing it firmly into your chest. “Bunny helps when I’m sad. You can take him out today.”

Your breath hitched as you looked down at the plush in your hands, your fingers tracing the familiar worn but still soft fur. “Are you sure?” you asked quietly. You knew it didn’t just help with sadness. It helped with fear, with loneliness and with the dark moments that came in the middle of the night. “What about your nap? You won’t need it?”

“I can’t get scared during the daytime, silly,” she giggled, as if that logic was undeniable, as if fear followed rules she had already mastered. Inevitably, it made you smile too.

“I’ll take great care of him,” you promised, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But I’ll still bring him back before your nap just in case.”

“What if I skip it?” she tried hopefully, already preparing her case about how cows didn’t take naps.

Both you and Clark answered at the exact same time. “Absolutely not.”

“Good try though,” you said softly, booping her nose before standing and heading toward the door, leaving her behind with a funny little pout you knew wouldn’t last.

“Do you need me to drive you?” Clark asked, following after you and stopping just out of sight from the living room.

You shook your head. “The walk will give me some time to think,” you reasoned. “Just make sure she doesn’t eat more sugar and get any more smart ideas.” You tried to joke, tried to lighten the weight in his eyes, but your voice softened when you saw the worry there. “I’ll be okay… you’ll know when to come get me.”

Clark pulled you into his arms, his chin resting on the top of your head as he did so.

“You always do,” you added quietly, before pulling away and finally leaving.

Despite the early noon sun beating down on you, its warmth clinging to your skin, you couldn’t ignore the chills running up your spine as you walked away from the Kent house. Your feet carried you through familiar shortcuts, paths you once took to escape the very house you were now walking toward. Every turn held a memory you hadn’t asked for, every stretch of dirt and cracked pavement whispering questions you no longer spoke out loud.

Your steps weren’t automatic, not really. If you let yourself think too hard about where you were going, your feet would slow, then stop, as if waiting for permission to turn back. If you paused too long, your mind would seize the moment and make the decision for you, the same one it had made so many times before, to abandon this place before it could abandon you again.

The front lawn of your childhood house looked exactly as you remembered it. Broken toys rusted into the earth like forgotten relics, tall grass that appeared barely tended to, an uneven path leading to an empty porch with rotten floorboards. The front door stood open, wide and unguarded, almost inviting if you didn’t know better. Once, it had felt like freedom but now, you understood how little it had ever meant.

Each step up the stairs was measured, careful in the same way you’d once learned to walk through this house, quietly and cautiously, hoping not to draw attention. When you reached the porch and peered inside toward the back of the house, your body betrayed you and you couldn’t move. You stared down at your feet, silently commanding them forward but they refused. You closed your eyes and breathed in, then out, searching for the calm you’d learned to cultivate, hoping courage might surface alongside it.

“Are you gonna stand there long?” a rough voice called from behind you.

You turned slowly. Your father stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking you up and down like you were a disappointment freshly rediscovered, like you’d just come home with something unforgivable written across your skin.

You stepped aside without apology, watching him brush past you carrying boxes inside. “Patricia, your daughter’s outside,” he called, not bothering to lower his voice or make it softer.

“Why hasn’t she come in?” your mother drawled back.

“Who knows? Might be what they do in that city of hers,” he yelled from somewhere deeper in the house.

Your mother eventually appeared in the doorway, her eyes meeting yours from a distance that felt intentional as if she knew better than stepping closer.

“Is that righ’?” she asked, arms crossed, posture guarded.

“I was gonna knock,” you explained.

“Ain’t no knocking needed when the door’s wide open,” she said, chewing loudly on her gum, cigarette still between her fingers. The smell hit you instantly, sharp and familiar, pulling memories to the surface you’d buried deep.

You cleared your throat and finally stepped inside.

Unlike the Kent house, everything here had changed just enough to unsettle you. New furniture, shifted walls, rearranged spaces that still felt hostile. You scanned the rooms the same way your mother scanned you, both of you silently searching for where things had gone wrong, each convinced the fault lay somewhere across the room.

Your fingers tightened around Bunny, grounding yourself in the softness of him, clinging to the thought of Ellie, of warmth, safety and laughter. You held onto that small piece of love like a lifeline, hoping it would keep you from sinking back into a place that had never learned how to hold you gently.

You felt like a kid again, a tormented one, the kind who learned early how to make herself small, who memorized the sound of footsteps and the weight of doors closing, who knew when to speak and when silence was safer. Your shoulders were tight, your spine rigid, Bunny tucked carefully against your chest as if he were something breakable, something innocent you were protecting from what was about to spill out of you.

“I, um…I was wondering if you kept the box I left in my room?” you asked. Your voice was quiet, almost polite, the way you’d learned to be to avoid consequences. You didn’t look directly at either of them but you still felt the way they exchanged looks, the old silent language that never included you.

“Drove all the way here for a box?” your dad asked. When you finally looked up, your eyes landed on the glass in his hand first, the amber liquid catching the light as he swirled it lazily, like nothing in this moment deserved urgency.

“Not exactly. Just a…’since I’m here’ kind of thing,” you replied, fingers worrying Bunny’s ears, twisting and smoothing the worn fur again and again just to keep your hands from shaking more than they already were.

Your father glanced at your mother for another wordless exchange, another decision made without you.

“You can go look but we got rid of a lot,” your mother said dismissively, already turning away as if the conversation bored her.

Something in that sentence armed you. It pushed you forward, down the hallway, toward the room that had once been the only place you felt was even remotely yours, which that too, was another lie you told yourself. You stopped at the threshold, your breath catching hard in your chest because it was nothing like you’d left it.

Clark’s room had been a time capsule, frozen in place, a testament to being wanted. This was the opposite, this room had been swallowed whole by other people’s lives and their mess. Useless things were stacked everywhere, from boxes to bags and furniture that didn’t belong to you. There wasn’t a single trace of who you’d been, not even the faint illusion that you had once existed here.

It felt intentional, like they’d waited for you to grow up just so they could erase you whole. You couldn’t even see the whole floor, just a narrow path carved through clutter, a passage you were clearly never meant to walk again.

“You got rid of my things?” you asked, voice hollow and disbelieving. “The stuff that I paid for? With my money?”

It wasn’t about the objects, you knew that, it was more so about the message, the proof that you’d never been worth saving space for.

“Kid, it’s been years,” your dad said from the other side of the hallway. “We didn’t know if you’d ever be back. Hell, even now…you stayin’ at the Kent’s?”

“Tell her this ain’t a storage room,” your mother snapped, her voice sharpening as she stepped closer. “We told you when you left.”

“Patricia–” your dad started.

“No,” she cut him off. “I’m not letting her walk back in here with all that entitlement. She knows why she left.”

“Oh, I know,” you agreed quietly, stepping into the room and trying to open the closet, only to find it blocked by piles of their belongings.

“Careful with that,” your dad muttered. “Tryin’ to salvage the wood.”

Something snapped in you at that. “Go fuck yourself, Dad,” you said flatly as you kicked his things out of the way harder even now.

He froze, brow lifting at the sudden outburst. “Excuse me?”

“Is that what you did?” you continued, your voice rising despite yourself. “With every single thing I paid for? Sold it? For what, cigarettes? Alcohol? Whatever the hell else you needed to not look at each other?” You shoved drawers open and closed, movements sharp and careless, unrecognizable even to yourself. There was no room for gentleness here, you’d left that version of yourself miles away.

Your mother scoffed behind him. “All that higher education and for what? This is real mature, Honey.”

You spun on them, pointing at yourself. “Higher education that I paid for. Me, alone with no help from either of you. Just like the bedframe and nightstands you probably sold the second I left.”

You pushed past them, opening more cupboards and rifling through drawers in rooms you remembered too well, every memory flaring like a bruise. Bunny stayed clutched in your hand, protected even as your anger grew claws.

“You weren’t coming back,” your dad stated with a careless shrug. “We knew it before it happened.”

“And whose fault is that?” you shot back. “This place is a prison. You know it and you’ve always known it. No amount of paint or new furniture changes that and if you believe so, you’re fooling yourself.”

You found a tote bag and began stuffing it with whatever scraps of yourself you could find. Old books with fragile spines, bent picture frames wedged behind drawers, dust-coated memories hidden like contraband. Your head spun and your chest burned as you remembered love didn’t exist here, it never had.

Your feet carried you toward the front door automatically, eyes locked on the sunlight outside, on escape. You were almost there when your father’s voice stopped you cold.

“It’s our home,” he believed and you turned slowly.

“Is it?” you asked, voice trembling but steady. “Then why couldn’t you fight for the concept of it when I begged you to?” You looked past him to your mother. She was watching you with something sharp in her eyes, something bitter. “You both look at me like I abandoned you,” you said, tears finally spilling. “But you did that first. You did it when I was still a kid, when I came home alone with homework I didn’t understand, and needed help you couldn’t provide–” You pointed at your dad. “You were drunk on the couch.”

Then your gaze shifted to your mother, your voice breaking. “And you… don’t know what I did to make you hate me so much.”

The words had barely left your mouth before the room seemed to shrink around them, walls leaning in as if they too wanted to hear what came next. You stood there with Bunny in your hand, thumb still absentmindedly smoothing his fur the way Ellie always did when her body remembered danger before her mind could catch up. Even now, even angry and burning, you were careful not to hurt something innocent.

Your mother laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that cut through the air. It wasn’t loud but it was cruel in its restraint. “Hate you?” she repeated, brows lifting. “Don’t flatter yourself. You always thought everything was about you.”

Your jaw tightened, the familiar ache settling in your teeth and temples. You felt it then, that old instinct to make yourself smaller, quieter, easier to swallow but something in you had already snapped, clean and irreversible.

“You made it about me,” you said slowly, your voice trembling but steady enough to hold its ground, “because I was the one listening to you two scream at each other through the walls. I was the one counting beers in the trash. I was the one memorizing the sound of your truck door closing so I knew if it was safe to come out.” You laughed then, breathless and broken. “Kids do that when no one’s parenting them.”

Your father shifted, the glass in his hand clinking softly as his grip tightened. “We did the best we could with what we had,” he muttered, eyes darting away, landing anywhere but on you.

“That’s the lie you tell yourselves so you can sleep at night, same lie I swallowed before you ever settled on it,” you shot back immediately, words spilling faster now, sharper. “Because if you admit you failed me, then you’d have to admit you failed each other too.”

Your mother stepped forward then, arms crossed tighter, chin lifted defensively. “You think you’re so much better than us now, don’t you? City job, education, your little perfect life–”

“I never said that,” you interrupted, voice breaking despite yourself. “But you did, every single  time you looked at me like I was a reminder of everything you never became.”

Her eyes flashed. “You walked out on this family.”

“I ran,” you corrected, the word tasting bitter but honest. “Because staying meant disappearing, because every time I tried to be good, to be quiet, to be easy to love, you resented me more, because I was proof that something better was possible and you hated me for it.”

Your father slammed the glass down on the counter, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge. “Watch your mouth.”

“Not today,” you shook your head, taking a step closer, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. “You don’t get to police my mouth after ignoring my voice my entire childhood.”

You gestured wildly around the room, at the clutter, the half-finished projects, the things bought, sold and replaced. “You blamed me for your fights, for your unhappiness. For staying together when neither of you wanted to and for falling apart when you couldn’t stand each other anymore. You used me like glue and then got angry when it didn’t hold.”

Your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glossy but hard. “You think raising you was easy?”

“I think loving me was optional for you,” you shot back. “And you opted out of both.” Silence fell heavy and suffocating as your chest rose and fell rapidly, breath coming too fast and too shallow. Bunny was clutched so tightly now his fur was bunched beneath your fingers but you softened your grip instinctively, reminding yourself you were here, you were grown and most importantly, that you were not trapped.

“I didn’t come back for forgiveness,” you continued. “And I didn’t come back to punish you. I came back because I needed to know if there was anything left of me in this house and now I see there isn’t.” You glanced around once more, taking in the stripped walls, the erased corners, the space where you’d once existed reduced to nothing. “You didn’t just get rid of my things,” you said softly. “You got rid of me, long before I ever left and it’s time you heard it.”

Your father scoffed but it sounded weak and unsure as he ran both hands down his tired face. “Alright kid, that’s enough, you’re being unfair.”

You smiled sadly, tears slipping free as you shrugged. “Sounds like honesty to me…and I think that’s the part you can’t stand…can you, dad? Does my anger sound too much like yours? Or maybe it’s mom’s voice you hear when I speak?”

She took a long drag of her cigarette, slow and practiced like she had all the time in the world and you were the one inconveniencing her by bleeding in her living room floors. Smoke curled from her mouth as she exhaled, eyes never leaving yours. “You could always hold a grudge like it’s a hand,” she said coolly, “dig your nails into it again and again until the other person begs you to let go.”

Your body flinched despite yourself, a reflex so old it lived in your spine. Still, you didn’t move your feet. 

“Who do you think I learned that from?” you asked quietly. Your voice didn’t rise anymore. “I didn’t know there was an in-between until I left this house. I existed only in extremities.” You swallowed hard. “I loved so much I choked on it, or I starved of it and you did that.” You pointed, without apology. “It started with you and I’m ending it.”

Her mouth tightened.

“I had to unlearn it alone,” you continued, words coming faster now, rawer. “I let good things rot in my hands because I believed I didn’t deserve them. I sabotaged myself before anyone else could because that’s what you taught me survival looked like. You taught me love was conditional, temporary, something that could be withdrawn without warning.” Your breath hitched. “There wasn’t a single room in this house where I belonged, not even mine.”

Your father shifted beside her, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. You didn’t look at him.

“So I went down the road,” you went on, voice breaking just slightly, “and I found a place where I could stay. A place I could leave and come back to without it being shoved down my throat, without it being used against me later.” Tears blurred your vision but you didn’t wipe them away. “You two were too busy hating each other to notice I was standing right in the middle, taking the worst of it.”

“We asked you to stay,” your father said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

“No,” you said immediately, shaking your head. “You wanted control and obedience. You wanted me small enough to fit between your arguments and quiet enough not to make either of you feel guilty for it and I outgrew that space.” Your chuckle was sharp and humorless. “I wanted distance and I provided it for myself, just like I provided everything else.”

Your mother scoffed under her breath. “It’s hardly abandonment when we begged.”

“No, we’re not doing that,” you snapped, finally letting the anger show in your face. “You don’t get to do that. When someone tells you that you hurt them, you don’t get to decide you didn’t.” Your chest heaved. “I waited. God, I waited longer than I ever should have. I stayed when I should’ve left at the first sign of withdrawal, because I thought love meant endurance.” Your eyes burned as you looked at her. “You’re angry because I outlasted you, because I survived you.”

Her face twisted then, something ugly and desperate breaking through. “There’s another version of this story you tell yourself,” she hissed. “The one where you stopped needing us. Where you went and found some other mom.” The word dripped with venom. “Do you know how it feels to be in town and hear from strangers how your daughter’s doing? Even when you were a child. I didn’t know my own little girl anymore.” Her voice cracked, suddenly loud, suddenly raw. “Even when I had her, I missed her!”

You stared at her, tears spilling freely but your expression was resolute. “I’m as far from you as you pushed me,” you said softly. “I’m not the kid you left behind. There is no one to miss here and back then…I was just across the hall…waiting for you to want me back.”

A bitter laugh tore out of you at the realization. “I lost sleep over this for years, wondering what I did wrong, wondering how to be easier, quieter and better.” You shook your head. “But I'm done.”

Your fingers tightened around Bunny, lifting him slightly without thinking almost like a judge casting a sentence. “None of this is in my blood like I believed and if it is, I’ll flush it out.” Your voice trembled now but you didn’t stop. “I was terrified of turning into you. So terrified of losing something I loved, because I believed you did, that I refused to love anything at all.”

You inhaled shakily. “I know what it means to hold it now, to be the mom I cried for and now that I don't have to be perfect, I can be good…you’d be surprised by how easy that is.”

You looked at them both one last time, eyes hollow but clear. “Whatever’s wrong with me, you did it. So congratulations, that’s the last of me you’ll ever get.” You stepped backward toward the door, a much deserved retreat. “And even that,” you whispered, “I’m taking with me.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, the sound sharp and final. Some places were not meant to be revisited and some prisoners didn’t deserve parole, this was your final act of love.

You didn’t stop walking until the land under your feet no longer belonged to them. Not on paper, not in memory and not in the quiet ways your body still braced itself when doors closed too hard. Beyond the last fence post, beyond the sagging mailbox and the gravel that still knew your childhood footsteps by heart, you finally slowed.

And you breathed in. Air filled your lungs the way it only did after something ended, clean, sharp and almost startling in its kindness. The kind of breath people took when they realized they were still alive. You had walked through the grave of your childhood and come out the other side, dirt on your shoes, heart still beating.

Your shoulders dropped at the realization, not all at once but enough to make you notice. When you started walking again, it felt different and lighter. The sun warmed your skin instead of pressing down on it and the tears on your cheeks dried without leaving that familiar sting behind. Even your frown softened, easing into something like relief. This, you realized, was what you had been fighting for all along, not just for Ellie but for the version of you who had learned too early how to disappear.

Clark had been right. Somehow, impossibly so, some part of you had always known what to say.

You took the main road this time. No cutting through fields to stay unseen, no ducking behind trees or hedges to avoid neighbors’ eyes. You stopped when you wanted to, called horses over and laughed softly when they leaned into your hands. You weren’t running anymore and this road didn’t ask you to hide. It stretched out openly, patiently, as if it had been waiting for you to choose it.

The world sounded different now that your head wasn’t screaming at you to escape just to survive, the sound of birds, wind through tall grass and the low hum of life moving forward without urgency had become louder, clearer. You realized then that life had always carried this warm hue, this quiet invitation, you just hadn’t been able to see it from where you stood before. 

Now that you didn’t have to chase it, you could walk through it and finally stay.

Near the crossroads, you spotted a familiar red truck pulled off to the side.

You lifted a hand to shield your eyes from the sun and your mouth curved into a smile that felt like muscle memory rediscovered. Your steps quickened before you consciously decided to move.

“Mommy!” Ellie’s voice rang out, bright and triumphant. She was standing in the truck bed, bouncing on her heels. “You were right! You were right! That’s Mommy!” She waved so hard her whole body joined in.

Clark leaned against the side of the truck beside her, sun bathing the scene, looking about as far from a reporter as humanly possible. There were engine oil smudges on his white shirt, dark streaks on his abdomen and collar and if you weren’t imagining it, he was wearing cowboy boots. He looked like someone who’d been put to work by his parents and didn’t mind one bit.

Ellie, though. Ellie stole the air from your lungs.

She wore the cutest little overalls you’d ever seen, a straw hat far too big for her head slipping down over her eyes, her skin dotted with sunscreen like constellations. She looked happy in that loose-limbed, unguarded way children only did when they felt safe.

“Oh, what did Mister Magic do?” you teased once you reached them, smiling wide as you tilted her hat back and tried to rub in the remaining sunscreen on her face. She squealed with laughter, wriggling away.

“This sun is no joke,” Clark said, smiling despite himself, eyes flicking over you with quiet concern. “She wouldn’t stay still for me.”

“It tickles!” Ellie giggled.

“You look adorable,” you said, pinching her sides gently and letting yourself really see her, this joy you meant to protect with everything you had. “What are you two doing out here?”

“Exploring!” she announced, bouncing again. Then she turned, rummaged behind her and produced a lopsided bouquet of wildflowers, stems crooked and colors clashing beautifully. “And we got this!”

You gasped dramatically as you accepted it. The flowers reminded you painfully, sweetly of the bouquet Clark had brought you that first morning after you took Ellie in. Only this one was messier, braver.

“The weeds were her idea,” Clark added, amused. “She said it needed more green.”

“And she was right,” you grinned, pressing a kiss to Ellie’s cheek before opening your tote bag and pulling out Bunny. “And this is for you, as promised before your nap. He helped me a lot today, so thank you.”

“He has superpowers,” Ellie explained solemnly as she took Bunny, carefully brushing the fur away from his eyes so he could see.

You turned to Clark then, to find him already looking at you.

For a moment, it felt like seeing him for the first time, as someone steadier and beautifully strong, wrapped in gentleness. He patiently stood there, like he had always known you would come back out whole from the flames.

“Bunny?” you called softly, without breaking eye contact with Clark, “can you close your eyes for a second?”

Ellie gasped and covered one eye with her hand, the other with Bunny. “Is it a surprise?”

“Not quite,” you murmured, rising onto your toes and kissing Clark.

It was unguarded, the kind of kiss that carried relief, gratitude and choice all at once. He made a small sound of surprise before his arms came around you, palms flat against your back as if holding you there was the most natural thing in the world.

You felt then that there was no fear of loving and with that, no dread of loss but the certainty that whatever had been wrong before no longer owned you. That you had walked out of one life and into another and that this, sun-warmed skin, wildflowers, a laughing child and a man who held you like you were something precious, wasn’t something you had to earn.

It had found you anyway, through your darkest moments.

The kiss felt like something outside of time, as though it could have replaced the very first one you ever shared without losing any of its meaning, heartbreakingly soft yet grounded in a solidity that made your chest ache in the best way. It wasn’t rushed or searching, it didn’t try to prove anything, it simply existed outside of time and you breathed him in the same way he breathed you, like air rediscovered after a long deprivation.

Clark’s hand came up almost absentmindedly, sliding his glasses up and off his face so he could deepen the kiss, if that was even possible, the both of you humming softly into it like you were instinctively reassuring each other that this was real, that this was happening. Whatever worries lingered behind his ribs, whatever questions still waited to be asked, he let them step aside without resistance, because something in you needed this moment unbroken and quietly, so did he.

“Can I open them now?” Ellie asked, her voice floating in from somewhere nearby, careful and conspiratorial.

You both murmured a gentle no at the same time, lips still moving together, smiling into the kiss without breaking it.

Clark’s hands slid more securely around you then and with an ease that felt almost unfair, he lifted you off the ground, slowly and smoothly enough that your body barely registered the motion at all, like gravity itself had simply agreed to give you a break. You didn’t tense and didn’t panic, you simply let it happen and just as you felt ready, as though you might actually take flight without fear for the first time in your life, a small, sharp gasp cut through the moment.

Clark set you back down immediately.

You turned, breath still uneven and saw Ellie staring at the two of you with her mouth parted in awe, eyes impossibly wide. When Clark finally managed to tear his gaze away from you and looked at her too, she gasped again, louder this time, like the realization had just fully landed.

“Superman!” she exclaimed.

“What?” you asked, your mind scrambling to catch up as you followed her line of sight back to Clark. For a second too long, nothing looked different and then your eyes landed on his face. You snorted before you could stop yourself, clapping a hand over your mouth in a failed attempt to contain the laugh. This was absolutely not how you’d imagined either of you telling her.

“It’s Superman!” Ellie bounced in place. “Daddy’s Superman!” Her hat slipped off as she jumped, tumbling into the dust.

Clark hurriedly slid his glasses back on, glancing around as if someone might have heard, though this was Smallville and the road was empty as ever. “Okay, okay, Ellie, settle down,” he said, trying and failing to sound serious, the grin tugging too hard at his mouth, especially at the word ‘daddy’ said so easily and so confidently to him.

“I knew I was sun-pincious of you!” Ellie declared proudly, mangling the word as she launched herself off the truck bed. Clark caught her without effort, arms closing around her securely as she wrapped herself around his neck and squeezed with everything she had. “I knew you’d save me again,” she whispered, quiet enough that it felt meant only for him.

Your eyes met Clark’s over her head, both of you going still for half a second, the weight of that confession settling softly but firmly between you.

Ellie pulled back almost immediately, peering up at his face with renewed curiosity. “Do my sunglasses do that too?” she asked eagerly.

“Um…not really, but–” you started.

“How long have you been kissing in secret on the lips?” she interrupted, clearly prioritizing the important things. “I know grownups can do that.”

Clark laughed under his breath, surrendering. “We were going to tell you soon,” he said gently. “Everything. We just…couldn’t find the right words.”

Ellie nodded seriously as she pulled his glasses off, nearly poking him in the eye in the process. “Words are hard sometimes,” she agreed. “Like sus…sun… su–”

“Suspicious?” you offered with a smile you couldn’t tame.

“Yes!” she said triumphantly. “That one.”

Clark looked over at you then, lifting an eyebrow in a silent ‘I told you so’ and you laughed, remembering the day he’d mentioned her suspicion and how you’d never quite been able to picture it until now.

“That’s a really cool secret,” Ellie whispered to herself, awed. Then she looked up at Clark again. “Can we share?” she asked, holding the glasses like they were part of the magic, even though what she really meant was the truth itself.

“I think we can,” Clark said after a moment, nodding.

She placed the glasses back on his face carefully, like it was a sacred ritual. “Magic,” she breathed. “Real magic.”

You both laughed softly at how simple it was, at how effortlessly joy existed in children, how easily wonder bloomed when it was met with honesty instead of fear.

Soon enough, you were all back in the truck, Ellie wedged happily between the two of you, feet kicking against Clark’s forearm as he shifted gears, questions tumbling out of her faster than either of you could answer them. As the road stretched back toward the Kent house, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much and you realized, almost absently, just how long you had been carrying an ache you’d forgotten was even there.

“Do you need the glasses to read?” Ellie asked, swinging her legs.

“Nope,” Clark replied, already bracing himself.

“How high can you fly?”

“Very high,” he said with a nod.

She barely waited half a second for the next question, already smiling as hope bloomed. “Can I go?”

“Absolutely not,” you both said in perfect unison as seriously as you could manage but unable to stop smiling anyway. Ellie groaned dramatically then laughed and so did you, the sound filling the truck as it carried you home.

Because that was what it had always been to you, even before you had words sturdy enough to hold it and now it could be that for Ellie too for as long as time decided to be kind and let it. During her nap and after a surprisingly awkward, stilted conversation with Clark’s parents that danced around labels and intentions until everyone pretended to be satisfied with the vague understanding of something serious, you found yourself sitting in the grass beneath the late noon sun, watching Clark work the fields like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to belong there, broad shoulders moving steadily, hands sure and practiced, dust clinging to his jeans and skin catching light like gold.

You stared without shame, without that old instinct to look away before being noticed and allowed yourself this small, radical indulgence, wondering for the first time if staying didn’t have to feel like a failure or a trap, if this could be the place where you finally stopped running from whatever life kept throwing at you just to see if you’d dodge it again. Somewhere in Clark’s mind, you suspected, the same conversation was unfolding because he kept glancing over at you like he was memorizing the shape of you against the land, like he needed to know you were still there and that you’d stay.

What good was Superman to the rest of the world if he couldn’t save himself from the slow, terrifying realization that the biggest heartbreak of his life might still be ahead of him? waiting patiently for the moment he admitted how much he had to lose. He didn’t feel like a coward in that moment, just deeply and painfully human, especially when he caught you watching him with that look, lost not in grief but in possibility and he wondered if this was what hope felt like when it was finally allowed to breathe.

After Ellie’s nap, she joined him out by the cows, chattering endlessly and asking questions he answered with exaggerated seriousness and eventually you were all called in for dinner, the kitchen warm and smelling like something familiar. 

At the table, Clark’s parents told Ellie the story of how he came to be their son, voices softening around the edges of the memory and Ellie listened with wide eyes, marveling at the love threaded through it, how much it sounded like her own story now, how love could arrive without warning and stay anyway.

That happiness hurt more than either you or Clark were willing to admit, gratitude and grief tangled so tightly it was impossible to separate them and you were the only two at the table who knew the truth of it, who noticed how the clock seemed to fade into irrelevance, its ticking swallowed by something larger. You wondered if it was because the countdown had finally ended or because everything else had grown so loud and important that there was simply no room left to hear it.

It wasn’t until stars began to pepper the sky, scattered generously like someone had gone overboard, that any of you got up. Later, you lay out in a field close to the house on an old blanket, the same one where so many secrets had once been shared between you and Clark, its fabric worn thin in places but faithful. You looked up at the sky, not hoping for another miracle or some grand, superpowered intervention, just for mercy to fall quietly into your hands and stay.

Ellie sat beside you, carefully cutting tall grass and piling it onto your stomach like it was her job. “Daddy was worried about you today,” she said suddenly. You pulled your gaze from the stars to look at her as she continued her task, focused and thoughtful. “He told ‘Summer Santa’ that it was loud in his head.”

You thought for a long moment about what that must have felt like, to be so close to someone you loved and yet so helplessly far, to hear their pain without being able to fix it and you remembered the way your own heart had raced earlier, how every word had felt like glass in your mouth and you wondered how that kind of noise might echo inside someone like him.

“When I was about your age,” you began carefully, “I needed help too.” You chose your words slowly, like stepping stones. “I remember thinking my parents were kind but knowing they were mean, and I grew up really fast trying to fix things that weren’t mine to fix.” You paused, swallowing. “I used to come here a lot, looking for whatever was missing.”

“It’s nice here,” Ellie said softly. “Happy.”

“It is,” you smiled, memories blooming sharp and warm all at once. “It’s where I learned it from.” You cleared your throat. “I wanted to understand what happened back then now that I’m older, to see if I missed something.”

“Did you?” she asked.

You shook your head slowly in the dark. “I learned that love doesn’t have to hurt and that asking for more of it isn’t wrong.” Your voice softened. “I was just asking the wrong person.”

“Did you find the right one?” she asked then, eyes bright with curiosity.

You nodded, unable to stop the grin that spread across your face. “Yeah. I didn’t even have to look very hard.” You looked back up at the sky. “It feels like being in the sun,” you continued, forgetting her age entirely. “Warm, tingly and a little dizzy sometimes, like a comforting hum. Like a hug that lasts a really long time, like coming home to a place that always expects you back.” You laughed softly. “You let him know you’re scared of looking down from the top of the stairs, and that you don’t like how Carrie looks at him when the two of you are on the swings, and how much you like the sandwich his mom makes so he brings you one every day until you leave for university, and then he tries to make it himself and fails terribly, so he just invites you to lunch and never lets you pay.” You blinked, surprised at your honest ramble. “Sorry, I don’t know why I–”

“Who’s Carrie?” Ellie questioned with as much seriousness as she could muster, as if she were missing pieces of the puzzle.

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing across the field. “Just an old friend.”

“Well, I like sandwiches too,” she declared. “And so does Daddy. He got really red earlier when we were looking at pictures.”

“What pictures?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

“I don’t remember but you were in it, little like me,” she shrugged. “Nana was talking about you and then she asked when he will ask you to–” She stopped suddenly. “Oh.”

You turned to her, waiting. “‘Oh’ what?”

“I can’t say,” she giggled, suddenly too shy to speak.

“Oh, you can’t say?” you teased, scooping her up and tickling her sides until her laughter rang out into the night, breathless and bright, the stars above you bearing quiet witness.

“Too late to join the fun?” Clark asked, his voice careful, like he was stepping into something fragile. You hadn’t heard him exit the house, nor had you seen him trying very hard not to interrupt this very moment.

You looked up at him as he looked down at you, his silhouette cut softly against the star-thick sky, familiar in a way that still startled you. “Not at all,” you said, breathless with laughter as you finally stopped tickling Ellie, who lay gasping dramatically over you, her giggles dissolving into happy little sighs.

Clark eased himself down beside you, his movements unhurried and together you laid Ellie in the middle, her small body fitting perfectly into the space the two of you seemed to naturally leave for her. She copied both of you immediately, crossing her arms over her chest and stretching her legs out, though her attempt was far less coordinated, earning a quiet huff of concentration.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked impatiently, eyes fixed on the sky as Clark shifted and put one leg over the other, Ellie mirroring him a beat later.

“Been asking myself the same thing for decades,” you murmured, eyes slipping closed.

Every year you had waited for meteor shower night, bundled up on this same patch of earth, only for nothing to happen and every year you and Clark had eventually given in to sleep instead, bodies worn down by anticipation and comforted by proximity. Your body remembered it all vividly now, the ground beneath you, the smell of grass and night air, the way exhaustion always came softly out here, like permission. Sleep crept in at the edges of your mind, quieting it, weighing down your bones with a familiar heaviness.

Except Clark didn’t sleep, he looked at you instead.

He always had, for years, whether from a careful distance or standing far too close for it to matter, because even now, even with you here beside him, he didn’t know how to do it any less. He traced the line of your profile with his eyes, the slow rise and fall of your chest, the peace on your face and felt something in him finally unclench.

“The sky’s really pretty,” Ellie said softly, almost to herself.

“The prettiest it’s been,” Clark replied, his voice quieter still, meant more for his own thoughts than as an answer, even though neither of them were talking about the same thing.

Minutes passed in a gentle silence, broken only by the sounds of night settling around you, until Ellie suddenly gasped, sharp and loud. “Mommy, look! Mommy!”

Your eyes flew open just as Clark’s face turned skyward, following the frantic stretch of Ellie’s arm. Your hearts sped up in unison, a familiar ache blooming as recognition set in. You had been waiting for this moment for as long as you could remember, showing up year after year even after believing it might never happen and now, impossibly so, it was real.

“No way…” you breathed, awe catching in your throat as your eyes found the streak of light cutting through the darkness.

“Ellie, make a wish!” Clark urged, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice.

“But there’s no candles to blow,” she protested, disappointment creeping in.

“This is a special one,” he said gently. “You don’t need candles. Just make a wish.”

All three of you closed your eyes instinctively as the single meteor burned its way across the sky, the only one it would offer, the first since the earth’s hero had landed on these very fields so many years ago.

It was the kind of moment that made belief feel easy, that made it impossible not to trust in something larger than coincidence or chance, something watching quietly and choosing its timing carefully. You put your whole heart into that wish, not begging for something new, not daring to ask for more than you had already been given but hoping for mercy instead of a miracle, for the final settling of something you had spent your life working toward.

You weren’t asking to be saved, you were asking to be allowed to stay.

All three of you were.

This newfound clarity made you resent the life you’d lived before this one, like it had spent years trying to exhaust you on purpose, determined to dull you down before you ever had the chance to arrive here. You waited for another shooting star that never came, the sky settling back into stillness and somewhere along the way Ellie fell asleep between you, her breathing evening out until it became the quiet anchor holding you both in place. It took nearly another hour before the two of you finally decided to go inside, neither wanting to be the first to say it out loud, neither quite ready to end something that felt too gentle to interrupt.

The house was quiet when you entered, the kind of quiet that carried history in it. Clark lifted Ellie easily, holding her close with an intimacy that made it obvious he would struggle to let her go even for the night. You lingered in the doorway of her room, not stepping in, afraid that moving too much might fracture the moment, committing every detail to memory with the desperation of someone who already knew they’d need it later, from the way he pulled back the blankets and fluffed her pillow just right, to the way he made sure Bunny was tucked securely into her arms before setting her down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead that lingered half a second longer than necessary.

You didn’t know when you’d started crying. Honestly, it felt like that was all you did now, tears arriving without ceremony or warning, as if your body was finally letting itself feel everything it had held at bay for too long.

Clark’s eyes found you immediately at the first quiet sniffle, concern sharpening his expression, though the question was already answered before he could ask it.

“I just don’t know what to do with it,” you whispered.

It wasn’t really a plea for help, more the repetitive and sudden, terrifying realization that if this didn’t work out, if this slipped through your fingers somehow, you didn’t think you had it in you to survive anything after it. The thought felt absurd when you said it out loud, considering how different your life had been just a month and a half ago but that almost made it worse. The contrast was unbearable.

Clark straightened slowly and stepped toward you, careful not to disturb Ellie, her steady heartbeat humming softly in the back of his mind. He wished you could hear it too, wished it could reach you the way it reached him, calming him and tapping out reassurance like a language he wanted to learn fluently just so he could translate it for you, hand it to you, let you hold it and rest.

“With what, baby?” he asked quietly, not asking you to look at him when he knew how hard it was to pull your eyes away from her.

“With all the love I have for her,” you said at last, lifting your gaze to meet his.

Clark liked to believe he had all the answers, that there were things in this world he understood well enough to protect them but this wasn’t one of them because he didn’t know what to do with it either. He only knew he couldn’t put it down, couldn’t imagine setting it aside and he didn’t know if he was allowed to carry it with him for the rest of his life. The fear of that uncertainty settled deep in his chest, tangled tightly with the dread of what that envelope might say, the one answer he hadn’t been brave enough to look for yet.

It was somewhere in the house, hidden away and untouched but not forgotten.

So since that morning, since salvation had wrapped its arms around you and refused to let go, he had lived on the surface of things, clinging to what was immediate and solid, to facts he could touch and moments he could feel. 

Maybe that was why you had spent so little time inside today, both of you acutely aware of where it was hidden, both of you knowing that being too close to it would make everything unbearably heavy and impossible to ignore.

Without really meaning to, the night slipped through your fingers in the quietest, gentlest way, dissolving into morning despite how hard you had tried to stay awake, as if time itself had decided to be kind for once and carry you forward while you weren’t looking. Maybe it was the exhaustion finally catching up with you, settling deep into your bones after weeks of holding yourself together by sheer will or maybe it was the way your mind, after running endlessly in tight, anxious circles, finally allowed itself a break, turning the volume down on all the thoughts it had kept simmering on the back burner just to survive long enough to say the things you hadn’t known how to voice until then.

Morning arrived softly. The sun crept in through the uncovered windows, pale at first and then insistently warm, painting the walls in shades of gold and honey, dust motes floating lazily through the air like they had nowhere else to be. You stirred beneath the covers, blinking slowly as the light found your face, having completely forgotten to close the blinds the night before. Life here moved slower, breathed deeper, forgave more easily and yet you still woke at the same hour you always had, the rhythm of the farm etched into you so deeply it felt like muscle memory rather than habit.

Clark was already up, of course and before you knew it you were outside with him, sleeves rolled up, boots dusty, helping with chores the same way you used to when you were younger. Back then, it had felt like repayment, like you owed his parents for their kindness and stability and the way they had quietly taken you in without ever making you feel like a burden. Now, even if that feeling still flickered sometimes, it was layered with something warmer and steadier, the quiet understanding that you belonged here, that contributing wasn’t a debt but a shared life unfolding one small task at a time.

You came back inside just as Ellie began to wake, though it had nothing to do with maternal intuition and everything to do with Clark pausing mid-step, head tilting as he caught the soft hitch in her breathing that told him she was surfacing from sleep. The house was alive with morning by then, windows thrown open wide, curtains stirring in the breeze, sunlight spilling across wooden floors until everything glowed, as if the house itself were exhaling.

You helped Ellie start her day, standing beside her at the sink while she brushed her teeth and enthusiastically narrated the dream she’d had, words tumbling over each other, half-mumbled through toothpaste foam, while you smiled, nodded and tried your best to piece it all together. Back in her room, she continued telling stories as she got dressed, changing her mind twice, then three times, deciding socks absolutely did not need to match, that cowboy boots with stars on the sides were essential and that maybe, she also needed her overalls with the little Superman S stitched onto the front pocket. You packed the rest of her things quietly, a weight settling in your chest as the reality lingered.

You’d be leaving soon. That much had already been decided.

Ellie wandered over to a small bookshelf then, hands clasped behind her back like a tiny old woman inspecting a collection in a museum, eyes scanning rows of books and CDs, little trophies catching the light. They were small things, unimpressive to anyone else but you knew better than most how heavy they were with memory.

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing to a plaque.

You didn’t need to step closer to read it because you’d been there when Clark had won it. “The spelling bee plaque,” you smiled softly. “He messed up on purpose so I could win first place.”

Her eyes widened. “Because you like bees?” she asked, stretching up on her tiptoes to touch it.

You laughed quietly. “He said it was because I was sweet as honey. He’s always been a bit of a flirt.”

As she reached again, her elbow caught the shelf and a few trophies wobbled but only one clattered to the floor, it was the spelling bee plaque,and with it a small box that popped open as it hit the ground. Ellie gasped.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” she blurted out, panic filling her voice as you hurried over. The closer you got, the more the sunlight pouring through the window caught something inside the box, a sharp and unmistakable glint.

“It’s okay, Ellie,” you said gently, crouching down. “Nothing broke. It was an accident”

You picked up the box and for a split second the world tilted. A diamond caught the light, set into a band etched with delicate carvings, the sunlight dancing across it until your breath caught painfully in your chest. Your heart raced faster than your mind could follow, the room suddenly too bright and full of possibilities.

“No, you can’t know yet!” Ellie cried, realization dawning as she snapped the box shut in your hand.

You blinked hard, pulling yourself back, the echo of last night’s almost-confession from her ringing in your ears. Carefully, you set the plaque and the box behind it, back where they belonged, then stood.

“Go to Nana when you’re done getting dressed,” you said softly, already turning away toward the guest room.

Ellie trailed after you, feet pattering fast. “But mommy, you can’t know yet!”

You smiled at her, lifting the mattress and sliding out the envelope hidden beneath it, your smile steady even as your hands trembled. You set the mattress back down and scooped Ellie into your arms, holding her tight, sunlight catching in your eyes.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” you asked.

She considered this seriously. “I don’t know all the big numbers yet.”

That alone cracked something open inside you, love spilling over, warm and overwhelming, as you covered her cheeks in kisses until her laughter filled the room and she squirmed in your arms. You set her down carefully.

“Nana needs the chief of bubbles,” you told her and she brightened immediately. “I gotta find your dad.” You rushed out of the room, across the golden house, nearly colliding with Jonathan in the hallway. “I’m sorry!” you laughed breathlessly, already moving past him and out the door, the sunlight blinding and brilliant as you stepped back into it.

Jonathan glanced from you to Ellie, who was skipping toward the kitchen after offering a shrug and a bright, carefree smile. “These kids…c’mon, little summer elf,” he called after her, waving her over. “Have you ever squeezed fresh orange juice?”

“I’m chief of bubbles!” she announced proudly, hopping along with such energy it almost seemed she could lift herself off the floor.

“Well, congratulations,” Jonathan said, chuckling at her excitement, “you’ve been promoted.”

Without thinking or waiting, you ran. You ran full tilt across the sun-soaked fields, legs pumping as if you could outrun years of doubt, lungs heaving, each breath shallow but fierce, air tasting of earth, warm grass and freedom. Tall blades whipped at your ankles, brushing against your skin but you didn’t care because somewhere deep inside, your heart had already taken the lead, beating so loudly you could almost hear it over the whisper of the wind through the pasture.

In the distance, framed by the golden light of late morning and surrounded by horses grazing lazily, next to the familiar red truck, Clark stood unloading blocks of hay with that effortless strength that seemed to bend reality slightly in his favor. He turned the instant your heartbeat thundered into his mind, the tension of worry dissipating like smoke in a breeze, replaced entirely by the radiant shock of seeing your smile. Every careful thought, every lingering anxiety he’d carried about what this moment might mean, evaporated instantly as he watched you approach.

You slowed as you reached him, finally allowing your racing legs to find rest, hands dropping to your knees to catch your breath and thrust the envelope straight into his chest, letting the weight of it press between you both. Your fingers trembled as they dug into your knees, lungs burning, heart thrumming like a drum. 

“I remember it… being much closer,” you gasped pointing back at the house then straightened, gathering the courage to speak the words that had been building inside you for years, pointing to the envelope as your hands shook slightly. “Let’s finish it…” Your voice cracked with emotion but your eyes stayed locked on his, pleading for understanding as you continued, “I’ve realized there are years that ask questions and years that answer them. This year… this year is the latter, and that–” You jabbed a finger at the envelope, heart still hammering. “Is the answer to the last one I have.” You exhaled sharply, gasping for air between each syllable. “You said you can’t tell children there’s no hope and I know you also can’t lie to them, so I need to believe it myself first.” Your hands fluttered toward the house and then back to the letter. “It’s back there, it’s on the road here and it’s back at home… so I’m choosing to believe it’s in there too.”

Clark lowered his gaze, fingertips brushing over the envelope as if he could feel the years of meaning pressed into it. “And the answer is yes…by the way,” you blurted, unable to stop yourself, your voice trembling, eyes wide as his met yours in startled acknowledgment. “I–In case you were doubting it…the answer has always been yes.”

For a moment, he looked past you, at the golden fields, the sun glinting off the truck and the horses grazing, taking in the ordinary beauty that now felt extraordinary but then his eyes returned to the envelope and his hands, gloveless now, moved almost reverently as he tore it open, letting the small stack of papers unfold in the sunlight, first skimming the handwritten page, then moving to the typed legal documents with awe and care. You stayed a few steps back, trying to read his expression without daring to breathe too loudly.

“Clark…say something,” you whispered softly, voice laced with hope and watched as his lips curved into a grin that rivaled the brightness of the sun itself.

“If you didn’t have plans for Mother’s Day…now you do,” he said, voice warm and slightly breathless with glee.

“What?” Your eyes went wide, heart hiccupping as you finally moved closer, now able to see the title of the page he was holding.

It read: Notice of voluntary relinquishment of parental rights.

The words were clear and for a fraction of a second, your chest tightened again with the familiar ache of anxiety but it didn’t last. Clark, unable to contain himself, scooped you up and spun you around, laughing as the sunlight caught his smile, dazzling and pure, radiating joy so powerful you felt it pulse through your entire body. The world tilted, your stomach fluttered like wings taking flight and the fear of the fall dissolved into exhilaration, replaced by the warmth of relief and the first taste of a freedom long denied.

“Solid ground! Clark, put me down!” you gasped, laughter mingling with tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured, setting you down with care, his hands lingering on your cheeks, tracing away the tears that were no longer about fear but about hope, new beginnings and the life that was finally, truly yours to hold.

There was no grand announcement for Ellie, not the kind you might’ve imagined necessary, because she had already chosen you long before the law had and that certainty in her heart made her excitement no less tangible or joyous, a radiance that seemed to fill every corner of the sunlit house as Jonathan cried openly and Martha, muttering about phantom allergies, wiped at her eyes in a display that reminded you so vividly of Clark, a little echo of mother and son. You leaned toward him, murmuring softly just for him, a tiny joke about inherited tendencies.

After a celebratory breakfast, you returned home with a quiet determination, reaching out to the Harper’s attorney and your own, beginning the patient, intricate, months-long process that would slowly, painstakingly turn legality into reality. It was a marathon in paperwork and patience, each step meticulous and signature intentional but you moved through it with a calm that came from knowing the destination was worth every hour of careful, measured effort.

The only secret now shared between the three of you was Clark’s identity after a revelation had arrived one lazy afternoon while Ellie played in her miniature backyard play store, a little house brimming with carved wooden fruits and imaginary customers, while you sat on the swings, listening to the stories she narrated with earnest gestures and wild imagination. Clark had kneeled in front of you then, under the golden afternoon sun, finally asking the question that had waited patiently, like him, for the right moment in your already overwhelmed heart. You hadn’t told him you’d discovered the ring that weekend at his parents place but you knew that, somehow, he had sensed it just as he had always known when to wait, when to let life have its own rhythm and when to let love arrive fully formed, ready for you to say yes.

Ellie had been over the moon, tears sliding down her cheeks more freely than yours, her tiny hands clapping in delight and since that day, she had asked every night if she could help plan the wedding. You laughed together, reminding her in your warmest tones that time had its own kindness, that patience could be as magical as any fairy tale she invented in her playroom.

The house transformed around you over the following weeks as boxes vanished, the once-empty walls now cradling a sequence of photographs and mementos that told the story of your lives together more vividly than words ever could, each frame a testament to the quiet, extraordinary rhythm of your family, each corner glowing with the memory of moments lived fully and intentionally. Inevitably, your mind turned to the idea of preserving this story, of giving Ellie the gift of your eyes on the journey she’d become part of and together the three of you conquered the attic, clearing it, transforming it into the library it had once been and office where memories and stories would live, a sacred space where history and present coexisted.

In the quiet hours, you sat there, pen in hand, pouring your heart into journals destined for her, knowing that these pages would carry the essence of your days, the warmth of your shared laughter and the gentle hum of ordinary moments made extraordinary by love. 

Just like now, you wrote as she sat nearby, perched on the couch, small fingers fumbling over shoelaces as her father guided her patiently, the softest encouragement in his voice, after she’d spent the day inventing the rules of some new game on the backyard grass, her imagination as wild and unrestrained as the last rays of sunlight spilling through the windows…

My darling Eleanor,

A name you quickly learned to accept, for you learned you are light, as it was always intended to teach you.

I wish the world had always been kinder to you, and I wish your past had been gentler, that you could have known what love was before you ever learned what it wasn’t. Both your dad and I hope we can make your future something to look forward to, a place where hope grows like a garden, where planting the seeds is as joyful as watching them bloom, and where we can dance in the rain before dinner, trusting that tomorrow will be kind and warm.

Loving you has taught me something I never imagined I could feel, something I used to be so afraid of. Falling, I thought, was always dangerous, something to avoid at all costs, just like I feared the heights that once made my stomach twist and my heart race. But now, as I feel your little hand clasped in mine while dad swings us higher, the wind rushing past our faces, I have learned that falling is not the end. It is the taking of flight, the learning to trust the hands that hold you and the small, steady letting go of fear until it slips quietly away, leaving only wonder behind.

I know I’ll always think of our past with something like compassion and a great deal of love, and I hope you carry that same balance with you as you grow. That you never forget the lessons but that love always outweighs the pain and I hope, my sweet honey, that the days ahead, those we have yet to see, will be bright, long and full of laughter, with all the warmth we can give, enough to make you believe that life, at last, is vast and waiting for you to leap into it, so trust it to catch you.

With roots and wings alike, in every sunrise and wherever you fly,

Mommy

Sunlight poured through the house like liquid gold, spilling over every open window and door, catching dust motes and making them dance in lazy, glittering arcs, while the air was alive with the mingling sounds of Ellie’s friends from school and ballet, their laughter ricocheting off the walls and mingling with the gentle hum of conversations from adults like Lois, who never quite knew when to stop working even when surrounded by such joy. Ellie, perched with the seriousness of a tiny inspector on the edge of the couch next to Perry, scanned him up and down with a keen eye, her gaze settling on the familiar absence of his signature cigar.

“You don’t have a visitor tag?” she asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity and judgment, as if the sheer number of people in her home had suddenly rendered some sort of protocol necessary.

“Do I need one?” Perry asked with mock solemnity and watched with mild amusement as Ellie’s tiny brow furrowed in the concentration of bureaucratic compliance. She disappeared into her playroom for a heartbeat, only to return clutching one of her colorful lanyards, on which she had carefully crossed out her own name. Handing it to him, she waited, eyes wide and expectant, as he stared at it first, then at her and back again. The name now read “Perrie.”

“It’s supposed to be a Y,” he murmured, one eyebrow twitching.

She shrugged with all the gravitas of someone deciding the fate of empires. “That’s what my daddy said but now we can match!” she declared proudly, painstakingly spelling out her own name as if it were the first time anyone had ever attempted such a task. “E…L…L…I…E. Ellie. No Y!”

Perry considered it, finally shrugging and draping the lanyard around his neck, his expression softening into a grin he tried hard to hold back. 

“I don’t have the smelly stick, though…might be one out in the backyard,” she added, pouting slightly at the incomplete costume of authority.

“It’s okay,” he reassured her gently, “I’m trying to quit…but don’t tell anyone in case I change my mind.”

Ellie shook her head with mock severity. “No can do! No more secrets from me. I now source information and…” she paused thoughtfully, tapping her finger against her chin, “…and choose who to share it with.”

Perry’s eyes narrowed, half in amusement, half in mock intimidation. “Is it too soon for an internship proposal?”

“What’s an…i–in–tern–ship?” she asked, the word catching in her tiny voice.

“Ask your dad,” Perry said, nodding toward the backyard where Clark was turning burgers on the grill, sun catching in the strands of his hair and making him glow like a beacon of quiet happiness and Ellie, ever eager, darted outside, her voice trailing behind her like ribbons in the wind.

“I’m just saying I would be a great best man,” Jimmy interrupted, his tone more of a cheer than a statement, cutting through the low hum of conversation you’d been having with Cat and Lois in the dining area. “If you could…relay that info to him.”

“I just emailed him my cover letter,” Steve said, taking a bite of cupcake, frosting smearing across his mustache, as if to punctuate the importance of the moment. “Just make sure he checks the spam folder.”

You laughed quietly to yourself at how invested everyone was in plans you hadn’t even begun to formalize, because today wasn’t about schedules, seating charts or any of the typical milestones. It was about celebration, about the kind of joy that left you breathless and full, about Ellie’s birthday, about her finalised adoption and about love that had survived storms and waiting and had finally bloomed fully in sunlight.

“Jimmy, leave my wife alone, please.” Clark called, stepping into the kitchen like a conductor entering a symphony mid-movement and suddenly everyone’s eyes snapped to you, wide and disbelieving, while the hum of the house seemed to quiet just enough for a heartbeat to stretch into eternity.

“Wife?” Lois echoed, as if tasting the word for the first time.

You shrugged, a small, tight smile playing at your lips and their groans filled the space like a chorus of exclamation points. “We couldn’t wait!” you said softly, before promising a spring ceremony where everyone could take their rightful places beside you both.

It had happened quietly, almost imperceptibly, in the office the day you signed Ellie’s adoption papers with Clark and his parents, the people you loved most gathered around in a mood that made celebration feel inevitable. 

You swept up in the immediacy of it, decided there was no reason to wait. Vows had flowed as naturally as confessions had once stumbled, as though all of the months and years of waiting, hoping and fearing had simply condensed into those few sacred minutes and not for a second did you regret it, because this wasn’t an ending, it was the very start of something eternal, a beginning that felt infinite and entirely yours to share.

After all, your secret life couldn’t forever stay secret.

Taglist: @friedunknownphantom @massivescissorsthingperson @theredvelvetbitch @sakiigami @princess76179 @jvanilly @starryymeg @sukilinos @freythecrazyfae @astraealupinblack @cassiecasluciluce @spiderstyles04 @blondwhxrewrites @underwxrldqueen @laughsandlivia @hellokittybabooshka @fandom-life-12 @lleahhhhhh @covenkill @tequilawithissues @trentknd @hufflepuff-n-fluff @byleristheworld @itsmadamehydra @newlynocturnalcowboy @athenxt @iliketoeatpaint @shutthefilthy @elliott-calls @punksnotdeadbutiam @clowninavan @lynds-js @1989-taylors @justfollowtheroad @adoringanakin @archxve

A/n: Thank you to everyone who was patient enough to wait for this story, which has now, very bittersweetly, come to an end. What started as a simple one-shot turned into something much bigger because you asked for more and saw a potential I wasn’t sure I saw myself at the time,and somewhere along the way these three became one of my favorite storylines I’ve ever written.

It was really important to me to finish this before going back to prison (university), so I spent most of the last two weeks of my winter break making sure I could deliver this ending (not really the end) to you the way it deserved. It's very likely that these three might show up again in future fics and if they do, I’ll label them as “Journal entries from The not-so-secret life of Miss Honey” so you’ll know.

I’ll keep working on more things whenever time allows and schedule them as best as I can but if I disappear for a few weeks at a time, that’s probably why.

“For what? He’s the prize.” You mumbled and looked up at Ritchie who was shaking his head at you.

“Absolutely not. You’re the best. You’re a fucking great, talented, intelligent woman. He needs to be warned to treat you well.” Ritchie pressed, looking into your eyes as if he was trying to imprint it into your brain.

“Well, we’re just friends. And he’s a good one.”

“Say the word and Carmen here can go make him jealous. Nothing drives a man like that crazier than a weird motherfucker like Carm.” You laughed at his weird way to make you smile.

“Thanks, Cousin. You’re the treat, right? Let’s ask Ti-“

“Okay, okay. You’re… nice to offer. I’ll keep it up my sleeve.” You interrupted before it turned into a fight that would trump the restaurant for six weeks. You smiled at them, trying to be as sincere as you could. They wouldn’t be able to tell if you were full of shit either way.

“We mean it. We’ve got your back.”

Your smile became genuine now, because they were two deeply emotionally unstable man who had a difficult time expression healthy affection and here they were, offering themselves up to you.

“Yeah. Let’s go in before my tears start to fall and freeze on my face.”

The Amtrak station was offensively cold, just like the train had been but the scenery made up for it. However, your mind had been racing all the time as to all the ways this could end horribly. If you’d ruin Christmas. If there was any way you could not fuck up with your emotional avoidance and weird social behavior. You pulled the bag slowly, as if trying to buy yourself some time until seeing him and falling into his arms like the weak, weak girl you were when it came to Clark.

“Killer!” Clark squeezed himself through the people in the station, still in his formal attire from work and he looked so, so sweet. Your heart probably skipped a beat and he probably heard it. You were doomed.

“Hey!” You smiled as he finally reached you, catching his breath with the grace of an athlete as he enveloped you into his arms. He smelled like he always did, cologne and fabric softener and something sweet, like maple syrup or honey. He breathed you in too, you could hear it, and you hoped you didn’t smell like the train seats and nervous sweating.

“Doll, I’m so glad you’re here. We’re gonna have so much fun.” He whispered against your forehead, pressing a kiss to the skin before letting you go, grabbing your bag.

“How was it? Fine?”

“I think I’ve outgrown the train. I don’t think the novelty is worth the back pain.” You joked, Clark chuckling as he led you outside. He located a car and pointed you to it.

“You’ve got a car?”

“Ah, I rented it. You can’t fly, so.” Clark teased, making you huff. The banter cooled your nerves down, along with the freezing cold of night air. It reminded you Clark was still Clark, your forever friend, your family, the guy who took your virginity and let a tear stream down his face when he bottomed out. He was still him.

“My bad. I should really get that fixed.” He opened the door for you, putting your bag in the backseat and looking at you with the door open.

“Took the words out of my mouth.”

It was perhaps the warmest bed you’d ever known. The absolute comfort of his king sized bed (only fit for his huge frame) with an expensive duvet and Clark’s warmth so close to you was like a weighted blanket. You knew it was early because Clark was a natural early riser; you were too, usually, but the lack of rest from the Amtrak had tired you out. Clark noticed you stirred awake, he could hear your little gasp of air. He turned to look at you on the other edge of the bed, rolling over to plant himself close to you.

“You were mumbling, were you dreaming?” He croaked and Jesus fuck, was that raspy morning voice hot. He spoke all gentle but rough and it went straight to your core. You closed your eyes and remembered your dream. He slowly laid one hand over your belly, his palm resting softly as if just to feel you, to keep you there, have your warmth right under his palm. Not try anything else.

“Yeah. I dreamt Harry Styles replaced John Oliver which, okay, but then I started like scrolling back and he had been doing Last Week Tonight for a year.”

“Harry Styles was hosting a political talk show?” Clark confirmed.

“Yeah, but he had been for a year, and I hadn’t like noticed they’d switched out John Oliver, so I was wildly perplexed.” Clark huffed, a small laugh leaving his mouth as he rested his head in the crook of your neck, placing a small kiss on the exposed part of your neck.

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t kid about John Oliver, y’know that.” He did know how serious you were about John. He just didn’t know if you were serious about the dream.

“Right. Good dream.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“Yeah, maybe a nightmare so you’d get all whimpery and I could hold you and tell you everything would be fine.” Clark joked, looking at you as you turned to face him on the pillow, he was divine. His eyes were crusty and still so blue and his hair was a mess all over his forehead. You could devour him.

“John Oliver getting switched out is a nightmare. I’m so scared.”

“Are you?”

“Petrified. I’m gonna call for Superman to do a wellness check.” You joked and he laughed, kissing the tip of your nose. He hadn’t kissed you since you arrived, granted it was last night and you went straight to sleep, but the dynamic was still up for grabs. Whether you’d be friends or that weird relationship you’d do at home was still beyond you. That’s if friends sleep in the same bed.

“He’s busy. Has work. Needs a shower.” Clark responded, the hand on your stomach wandering down the shirt and rubbing short sure circles on the skin. He was sort of begging you to not distract him. Or to hold him captive here. Either one could work.

“Well, he better not be late.” Clark smiled and nodded, pushing the back of your skull closer to him and kissed the crown of your head, holding you there even after his lips left. You let yourself close your eyes as he kept you steady there, only the sound of the day starting outside, cars honking and dogs barking but it still felt too peaceful in that bed. Clark suddenly let breathed in hard through his nose, as if he was trying to trap your scent into his nasal cavity.

“Are you- are you smelling me?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not trying to kinshame, Clark- “

“It’s not that! I just- you have a particular smell. Like an herbal sweet tea, just like your mom made.” Clark defended and you almost melted into a puddle, because your mom did make a great sweet tea with chamomile and spearmint that you had always drank like an addict. She’d have it home when you came back from school, on the counter next to two glasses, one for you and one for Clark. You were glad he remembered or that his super senses caught that.

“But you like it.”

“Yeah, obviously. It’s so- so you.” You smiled into his neck, his mouth and nose still making you get goosebumps.

“Okay, go shower, Superman. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“Ooh, can you make me that burrito with eggs and weiners?” You huffed, finally looking up at him.

“I’m a professional chef and you want eggs and weiners?” Clark laughed at you, looking into your eyes as he saw your amused grin.

“A professional snob, maybe.” His grin faded as soon as your knee found his stomach.

“Someone’s at the door, cowboy! You want me to answer it?” You asked as you knocked on the door of his bathroom, cracking the door slightly open and from the fog coming out, you were wondering how he wasn’t cooking himself in there.

“Yeah. I can hear it! It’s my neighbour, he gets my mail sometimes. Thank him for me.” Clark responded and you nodded, walking to the door and cracking it open to see a slightly older man, probably in his 40’s whose eyes popped wide open when he saw you. He looked at the apartment number then back at you, trying to connect the dots.

“Uh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t know Clark had a girlfriend. This is Clark’s-“

“Yeah, I’m just a friend visiting. He’s in the shower. Thank you for this.” The man nodded, handing you a couple of envelopes. He looked you up and down discreetly, something in his mind intrigued.

“Friend, good. Well, nice to meet you-“ You gave him your name when he motioned for it and he repeated it back, smiling. The man was about to offer you his hand to shake when Clark jogged up to the door behind you, wet hair and glasses thrown on hastily meaning he had ran out of the shower and super-sped through getting dressed.

“Hey, man. Thank you, I appreciate it.” Clark interrupted, chest puffed up and somehow sizing up his neighbour. One of his hands wrapped around your waist and the message he was sending became crystal clear. The man nodded and waved softly before walking back to his apartment.

“Why’d you get out of the shower so quickly?”

“Not important, come back-“ He interrupted himself when he saw two familiar figures coming up the stairs. Oh shit.

“This is an invasion of privacy.”

“Steve asked him to come out for drinks he said he had ‘company’. Clark! Company. It’s sketchy.” Jimmy answered Lois and she rolled her eyes, going up the final step when she saw Clark standing in his doorway with someone. Jimmy took the words right out of her mouth when he let out a gasp, high toned and dramatic. You and Clark both turned to them who were walking towards the door. Clark gulped nervously, his hand dropping from your waist but stayed at the small of your back.

“Well, well, well. It’s nice to see you again, babe.” Jimmy said and gave you a small side hug in greeting. You smiled awkwardly, looking at the girl beside him, you could only assume was Lois. Well, he’d shown you pictures so you knew. And you had also stalked her LinkedIn and twitter one night. You were hoping she was just really photogenic and handled the airbrush filter like a pro, but no, she looked exactly the same in person. Even better, she looked real. And here you were, oversized t-shirt with a few mysterious stains and leggings. Her nails were regally done like anyone in the big city would have and you hadn't gotten a manicure in three years, why would you when you’re a chef?

“Hi, I’m-“

“Oh, I know who you are. Lois. Clark’s said great things about you.” You responded, not knowing why you said that and didn’t just let her introduce herself, you’d say your name and that would be that. Weirdo.

“It’s lovely to meet you. Clark didn’t mention you were here.” Lois responded, looking at the tall man who was standing at the door with a nervous smile on his face.

“Yeah, it didn’t come up.”

“Well, we were just coming to invite you to drinks. Last ones of the year. Come out.” Jimmy said, a knowing smirk on his face as if he had caught Clark redhanded, a kid who had hid his favorite toy from his friends so no one would loose it.

“Go! I’ll be fine on my own.” You said to Clark, who you knew had probably turned them down to be with you.

“Oh, no! Both of you need to come! Come on, we’d love to get to know you.” Lois interrupted your words and you smiled softly at her, looking at Clark.

“If you want to, if you don’t that’s fine. We’ll stay.” Clark said, low and only to you as the other two people ate up what they could witness of this dynamic, what Clark had kept secret all those years of knowing him. You gave him a closed lip smile and nodded.

“Let’s go! Just give me like, 15 minutes to put on something decent.” You responder and Lois and Jimmy cheered. You excused yourself into the room and looked for something okay to wear.

“Don’t be weird and don’t freak her out. I mean it.” Clark immediately whispered shouted to them, who stood in the doorway with teasing smiles.

“Why would you not tell us she was here?” Jimmy asked, crossing his arms and laughing at Clark’s flustered state.

“I just- I didn’t want- I don’t know.” Clark admitted, because the opportunity to mention it did come up multiple times, but he chickened out when trying to say it. He was so used to keeping them a secret from most, it was just like he didn’t want to jinx anything by telling. They always only existed because they existed in their bubble, safe from commentary and scrutiny.

“Fine. Forgiven. Go get dressed.”

“And then, Clark got the growth spurt and never wore his little cape again.” You cooed, everyone in the table laughing at the image of a little teeny Clark that ran around the farm with a red cape and dreams of saving the world. He’d make you get up into the treehouse and he’d pretend to save you whenever you went over to play. That wasn’t as fun for you as it was for him, but even then, you had a hard time saying no to him.

“Thank God he outgrew that. Can’t imagine my boy here flying when he can’t even talk to a girl. Well, the act works. Doesn’t it, Lois?” Steve teased, slapping Clark’s back and making you laugh in the worst, fakest way you could gather. Well, it was funny because flying is one of the tamer things Clark does nowadays. Everyone seemed to buy it, everyone but Clark whose eyes turned to you and blinked a couple of times as if trying to talk to you through morse code. You could understand. Kind of. It was reassurance.

“It wears off.” Lois responded, shrugging her shoulders with a frown as if she was upset that Steve brought it up. It was in the past. Her eyes flickered towards you quickly, undetectable but she saw you biting your inner cheek as if trying to not show an ounce of emotion.

“So, what are your plans now, darling?” Cat turned towards you, friendly smile surrounded by red lipstick that was the exact right shade.

“Yeah… I don’t know. Think I might be over Chicago.” You mumbled as you swirled the straw of your mojito. Clark’s eyes flickered towards his beer, as if the idea that you may be willing to move somewhere else made him nervous.

“Well, there’s a lot of good restaurants in Metropolis. And it’s nice here! It’s safe… even with all the meta human stuff, we have superman.” Yeah, you knew Metropolis had Superman. You thought about it more often than not. They had Superman, most importantly, they had Clark Kent. Your Clark. The same one that held your hand when your parents yelled at each other when you were 10. The same one that accidentally used heat vision when he saw you in a swimsuit when he was 16. The same one that talked you down after you had a bad trip at a music festival when you were 18 (he gave you a talking to the following day). It was the same Clark that made love to you so tenderly you cried when you were 22 and feeling insecure about yourself.

This city had him. And fuck, you were jealous. You were possessive with everything in your life, you were an only child of divorce. Everything was yours, your parents, everything they’d bribe you with, your house, your things.

You had accepted Clark wasn’t yours to keep or loose in tenth grade through, when girls started to pay attention to him and he paid it back. When he had plans with other friends, dreams and aspirations that didn’t include you. If it was because of your nature or pure, raw love, you weren’t sure. But you wanted Clark to be yours to keep, you wanted him to choose to be yours. It didn’t work out like that. And maybe, since he was one of the things you needed to fight to have, at least for more than a week every winter, you were afraid of him.

You watched your mom make sacrifices and change and fight for your dad and be rewarded with a whole lot of nothing. Your friends would change their hair, their mind, their life for men and they would still leave. Hell, even you had bended and broken to fit for people and it only ended up with you having to straighten yourself up. So when it came to this precious, calm thing you had with Clark; it had always seemed to you it would be best to leave it be. Never try too hard, never too emotional, too there. And you had managed to keep it, keep him a call away, a single kiss would melt him into colloidal matter that molded around you.

But of course, like with everything good, you still wanted more. You wanted his mornings, his midnights, to clean his wounds and stitch the suit with the same careful devotion Martha had used to make it. You wanted him between your thighs on late nights, quickly before work, on lazy afternoons. You could even use with him right now, in the bar bathroom.

“Yeah, I- I don’t know. Could be.” You accepted, glancing at Clark that had the look on his face. The look of needing a way out, of being needed somewhere else. You cleared your throat.

“Clark, could you uhm- go get me tampons?” Clark looked at you and gave you a closed lips smile, everyone around the room just accepted that Clark would go get you tampons because he was that sort of guy. He waved, jogging out the door and leaving probably up into the sky as soon as he could. So now you were alone with his friends and co-workers. Peachy.

“So, are you like seeing anyone?” Steve asked you, completely unaware of the situation between you and Clark. To be fair, the only person who you thought knew was Jimmy.

“Oh- I’m not. More of a loner in that sense.”

“Oh, so who’s that?” Steve pointed to your phone’s background photo, a picture of Marcus plating up an opera cake, with big goofy smile and Carmy stood next to him looking into the camera with those blue eyes that reminded you of a hurt husky. They weren’t like Clark’s. Clarks reminded you of a clear blue sea in the Mediterranean on a summer afternoon, where people would bathe and fish and animals lived in peace. Clark’s blue was like the packet of your favourite cookies, the colour of your sheets back home. It was comforting and warm.

“Just my coworkers. Well, ex-coworkers.” You responded and looked at picture, you supposed it could look romantic that it was the background of your phone. Steve nodded, taking your word before standing up and announcing he was getting another round.

“I’ll come! Escort me to the bathroom?” Cat asked and pulled Jimmy up too, leaving you alone with the only woman who pull off the sweater vest she was wearing. It was quiet for a while, the music from the bar bouncing off the walls and the back of your brain, Don’t fear the reaper. You never understood the song, is it about love, doom? Aren't those two the same?

“I read your article last month on the proposal for free childcare. It was really good.” Don’t fear the reaper. God, Lois wasn’t the reaper. She seemed kind and smart. She hadn’t tried to undermine you, hadn't been mean or condescending how you feared or maybe hoped she would be. It would give you an excuse to hate her.

"Thank you, really. I worked really hard on that."

"Yeah, Clark's mentioned you're so good and such a hard worker. Not that he talks about you a lot! We don't even talk a lot! God, sorry." You stopped your ramble, making her laugh softly and place her hand over yours on the table.

"Don't worry, it's fine." You nodded and took a big sip of your drink, not removing your hand from under hers in fear of being weird or cold. You wanted to be nice, wanted them to like you.

"Y'know, I know about you and Clark."

"Me and Clark's what?"

"That like... situationship you two have."

"I don't know what that is."

"He said the same thing." You gulped at her response as she wore a small smirk. You nodded, finally pulling away your hand and hoping whatever Superman was off fighting would smash this darn bar and take you out.

"What- how do you-"

"Jimmy sort of made him tell a couple weeks ago."

"So, he hadn't like mentioned me before that?" You asked, trying not to sound too weak or hurt. Even though you rarely talked about Clark to other people too, you sort of hoped he did. That he wanted to drive you into conversations like you wanted to.

"He had. He had just been awfully vague about it."

"I would never like- get in between you two or if he was still with you neither of us would-"

"I know! I know, trust me. I'm not accusing you of that. I just wanted to say, we're done. I don't even know if we ever really started. Either way, I'm not in the picture. Just his coworker. He's all yours." You huffed a little, watching Lois smile at you with such sweet, sure confidence you knew she wasn't kidding you. She was trying to help you.

"He's... not."

"He could be. I think that's why he had been so secretive about it, didn't want to ruin it. You know him better than I do, he's Superman but he's weak when it comes to this. I know he needs you; he wants you." Lois said and you nodded quickly as if you were being scolded and trying not to get a smack from your mom.

"Okay. Thank you."

"No need. Now, tell me about you. Do you have any writing experience?"

"Well, I helped Clark a lot in high school."

"Good enough. Do I have the job for you." You raised your eyebrows at her, about to inquire right when Clark walked back into the bar, out of breath and hair a little messier.

"Hey, I got the- oh. Right, just a little accident. Took care of it." He interrupted his excuses when he noticed it was just the two of you and you both knew what he was actually up to. He sat back down, now next to you and placing a hand on your thigh to get your attention discreetly.

"You okay?" He mumbled next to your ear, looking around the room as if he was managing any threat that may be coming your way. He really didn't need to, you were strong. Been stronger than him his whole life. You were never scared of needles, made fun of Clark for not being able to swallow pills when he was 9. You stood up for him, for your friends, for everyone that needed it with no fear of consequences. You were bravely human, Clark sometimes thought he had moulded his human experience by watching his parents and you function so bravely and lively.

"Fine. We were just talking shit about you." You said with a straight face, making him roll his eyes.

"Did you teach him that pancake in the shape of a heart trick?" Lois asked, following your lead to convince him there wasn't actually a heart to heart going on.

"Yeah. Did he show you the card tricks?"

"Yeah, they are so ba-"

"Do you two want privacy to make fun of me?" Clark interrupted.

"You can stay; we don't mind."

"So, you did have a good time?" Clark asked, hands nervously in his pockets as he swayed outside the bar and waited for everyone to leave safely in their respective cabs and groups.

"Yeah, I get why you like them so much. Specially Lois. I really get it." You said, a little warm and loose lipped from the drinks. Clark frowned a little, looking around to see if anyone else was watching him before walking closer to you while you rested against the cold brick wall.

"Well, yeah, as friends. But you're my best friend, you know that, right?" You smiled, looking up at the gentle giant crowding you into the wall as the city kept honking and moving behind him. You really couldn't notice much beside him though.

"Yeah, but we see each other twice a year and you see them everyday."

"It doesn't matter. You're still the best friend I've ever had. And you know, that could change. We could see each other more. If you want to." Clark was sure you were the best friend he had ever had. He knew that when you two drifted away in high school and it felt like he was missing a rib. He knew that when nothing felt as fun, as comfortable, as good in college with other people he liked. He knew it when something good or bad happened, you always had the best things to say. You knew how to talk when you disagreed, knew how to fight and hold your ground, how to change his mind, how to respect it when you couldn't.

"I want to. You know I do." You whispered, but he heard, red tinge taking over his face with a stupid easiness.

"Good."

"Peachy."

"Excellent-" He stopped himself when you pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, making his face feel the heat coming from your breath that smelled like booze and pheromones and fucking divine. He smirked a little before kissing your cheek sweetly.

"C'mon, take me home, friend." Friends. Right.

"Baby. Please." Clark whined, putty in your hands as your tongue ran down the underside of his cock. He was laying nice and obedient on his bed while you, still fully dressed, had your hands stilling his hips against the mattress with your whole weight as you teased him with your mouth. Clark could overpower you easily if he wanted, but what's the fun in that? Why wouldn't he let the girl he loved play with him?

"Please what?"

"Let me... get inside you. Let me touch you, angel." Clark would rarely call anything fucking you because it was crass and undersold what you two did. He hated that word. Even if you weren't actually together, you loved each other, cared for each other. That would never be casual.

"Fine." He almost didn't hear it, so used to begging and you ignoring him even after he had already came into your mouth and stayed hard in your hands. His eyes cracked wide open as you smirked at his state, so far gone. In the blink of an eye, Clark lifted you off him and put you down onto the bed. Your long dress and underwear followed quickly, his superspeed only came out in occasions where he was really desperate. You gasped as the wind created by his movements blew over your newly exposed skin and made you shiver. He noticed, of course he did, and mumbled 'sorry', leaning down to wrap his lips around yours hungrily. He was honestly starved.

He hadn't kissed you yet, not since you got here. Not since you went home after Thanksgiving and he drove you to the train station. He actually pinned you to the side of the truck and kissed you with such intensity you dropped your duffel bag just to wrap your arms around his neck. It went on for a couple of minutes, hot, heavy kissing with slight pauses for breathing. He finally let you go when the train you took was announced and he kissed your cheek, looking you dead in the eye and saying 'I'll see you soon' like he meant it with every ounce of his body.

He remembered every crevice of your mouth, ever since that night you graduated and he finally came to terms with how badly he'd wanted you for so long. Clark always thought of himself like a man that was deeply in touch with his emotions and someone who knew what he wanted. His parents had raised him empathic and curious. He wasn't cowardly or avoidant. So, it was a mystery to himself why he had friend zoned himself in your life. He just never thought of it as a possibility, he always thought he was made to admire you from afar. He always knew he liked you a little too much, thought about you a little too often, wanted you a little too close to be just friendly. It had just never occurred to him he could actually do anything about it. And when you started thinking about boys like that, he just assumed he should start looking too. That's when the distractions came. Beautiful, sweet, irresistible distractions with bare legs and soft giggles. He got lost. You started hanging out with other people more, he heard from word of mouth how you'd kissed a boy on the Ferris wheel and spent a night smoking with another.

So, when he heard his Ma telling his Pa that you liked him, that you'd told her between tears after seeing him with someone else, it flicked a switch. He realized you could feel the same way too. That he didn't need to pretend it wasn't there. That you were a possibility, one handed to him on a silver platter. He let himself wonder for a second longer what your hands would feel like on him, how you looked with your lips all red from kissing, how you'd sound when he found that one special spot on your neck with his mouth. He hadn't actually stopped thinking about it ever since. When he was fighting an alien invasion, he drifted from the good of humans to the good of you and your giant heart. When girls came onto him and grabbed onto his biceps, he thought about the times you'd rested your head on them and told him a secret no one else would know.

His hands spread your thighs apart a little too eagerly, too hard but you didn't seem to mind as he could hear your heartbeat get louder. Clark's mouth finally separated from yours, looking down at the vision of lust, the sweetest torture one could bare. You were perfect, you were his right now. He would keep trying to make you his always.

"No foreplay, baby. Just fuck me." You pleaded, puppy dog eyes he would never say no to.

"Sure?"

"I'm so fucking wet, you'll slide right in." You joked and Clark laughed, highly doubting it but he'd bite. He quickly got a condom from the nightstand; never would admit he'd brought a pack two days ago in expectation of your arrival. The silver packet flew across the room as he took the rubber out and placed it on himself carefully, after many trails and errors that same summer, you'd had to be introduced to Plan B a couple of times.

"Big stretch, princess."

"Oh, I hate that." You cringed at 'princess'. Clark rolled his eyes as he hiked one of your legs over his shoulders for not only more access, but the angle that got your eyes rolling to the back of your head. He lined himself up on your hole, wondering how the hell he managed to fit his cock in there every time. You were magical. Clark pushed in slowly, a groan escaping his mouth as he watched you bite your lip as you looked down at his dick disappearing into your insides. Clark's thumb found your clit and rubbed tight circles to loosen you up further, feeling your walls become easier to slide into.

"So good to me, doll. Your pussy's just right for me." Clark mumbled, kissing your ankle next to his face when he bottomed out and you whined slightly, moving your hips closer to him to feel more, get more of him.

"Fuck me, Clark." He tskd you, he wouldn't let it slide right now. Not after today. Not with you feeling so good, so right.

"You know it's not that, never that, I'm making love to you." He shook his head but agreed, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting again into you with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs in the most delicious way. You did feel the love radiating from him, pushing into your insides. He set a pace, eyes locked onto you and how your tits bounced with every move.

"I know, baby. Love." He smiled, hips picking up the pace of his tip loosening you up and kissing your cervix with every pass of your spongy walls.

"You belong here, on my dick, on my bed. With me. You know that."

"I know, Clark. I belong here." Don't fear the reaper.

One night, you had paused mid conversation and said, almost confused, “I don’t feel nervous around you,” and he had looked at you gently, like it made perfect sense, “You’re not supposed to.” You had laughed a little at that, quiet and unsure, “I think I always thought I was,” and he just shook his head, “Not with me.” You did not notice it immediately, the way it began to anchor itself in you, but one day you realized you were breathing easier, and it startled you because you had not known you had been holding your breath before.

It was quiet, but not the kind that leaves you wondering if something is missing, not the hollow kind that makes you question if there should be more. It was the kind of quiet that felt full, the kind that settled into every corner of your chest until there was no space left for doubt to echo. With Clark, there was no guessing, no replaying conversations hours later trying to decode tone or pauses. Everything was simply there, clear, honest, real. Once, after you trailed off in the middle of a thought, you had hesitated, “I don’t know if that made sense,” and he had answered immediately, “It did,” like there was no room for doubt in it,“You mean you feel like you’re always expected to already have the answer before you’re ready to say it.”

You stared at him for a second, “Yeah… exactly that,” and he just nodded, “Then it made sense.” There were no lines to read between with him. You did not have to rehearse what you were going to say or reshape it into something easier to accept. You could just speak, and he would listen, not just hear you, not just wait for his turn, but listen in a way that made you feel like your words had weight.

One afternoon you had caught yourself rambling, stopping mid sentence with a quiet, “Sorry, I’m talking too much,” and he had frowned slightly, not upset, just confused, “No, you’re not. Keep going.” “You don’t mind?” you asked, softer. “I like hearing you think,” he said, simple as that, and something in your chest had tightened in a way that felt unfamiliar and warm all at once.

He understood you, not in the way people sometimes pretend to, not in a rushed or surface way, but in a way that felt lived in, like he had taken the time to learn you without ever making it feel like he was studying you. It came out in small, almost invisible moments. “You’re going to change your mind about that later,” he said once when you dismissed an idea too quickly. You blinked at him, “I am?”

“Yeah,” he said, almost smiling, “You always do when you think about it longer.”

“You make me sound predictable,” you teased. “Not predictable,” he corrected softly, “Just… consistent.” And somehow, that felt better. He never made a spectacle of how well he knew you, never pointed it out for anyone else to see. It was just there, quiet, consistent, unshakable.

It showed in the smallest things, the things no one else would think twice about, the things you might have once overlooked if you had not started to understand what they meant. Like the way he always bent down when you spoke softly. You had never asked him to.

The first time it happened, you had not even realized it until you were already mid sentence, leaning in slightly, voice dropping without thinking, and suddenly he was closer. Not abrupt, not intrusive, just intentional. Natural. He dipped his shoulders just enough, head tilting toward you so your words did not have to reach for him.

You stopped, caught off guard, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to mumble,” taking a small step back out of habit. “You weren’t mumbling,” he said quietly, already adjusting to stay within your space without crowding it, “I just wanted to hear you better.” You hesitated, searching his face for any sign that he was just being polite, “You don’t have to do that.” He looked at you for a moment, something gentle and certain in his expression, “I want to.”

That was it. No emphasis, no lingering attention on it. Just truth. You swallowed slightly and nodded, “Okay,” and continued, your voice still soft, but this time you did not feel like you had to make it louder.

After that, it happened every time. “Tell me again?” he would say if you spoke too quietly from across the room, already stepping closer before you could repeat yourself. Or he would lean in slightly when you turned toward him, like it was instinct. Once, you caught it and smiled a little, “You always do that.”

“Do what?” he asked. “Come closer when I talk,” you said. He seemed to think about it for a second, then shrugged lightly, “You’re talking to me.” Like that explained everything. And maybe it did. Because it was not just about hearing you. It was about meeting you where you were, about making sure you never had to reach further than you were comfortable reaching. It was in the way he adjusted without asking you to change first, in the way he made space without announcing it.

“You don’t have to get louder,” he told you once when you tried to raise your voice instead, a small, reassuring smile on his face, “I’ll come to you.” And something about that, about the quiet certainty in it, stayed with you long after the moment passed, settling deeper and deeper until you realized this was what it meant to be cared for in a way that did not ask you to become someone else to receive it.

Or the way he remembered things you barely recalled telling him. It did not feel forced or deliberate, never like he was trying to prove something, it just slipped into conversation so naturally that you would only realize it after the fact, when it lingered a little too long in your chest. “You hate that place,” he would say casually when someone suggested lunch there, not even looking up from whatever he was doing, like it was common knowledge.

You had blinked at him the first time, caught off guard, “I do?” He glanced over then, something soft in his expression, like he already knew you would not remember, “You told me it smells like burnt coffee and regret.” You stared at him for a second longer than necessary, trying to place the moment, “I said that?” A small smile tugged at his mouth, barely there but warm, “You were very specific about it.” You let out a quiet laugh, still a little stunned, “I don’t even remember that,” and he just shrugged slightly, like it was not something worth pointing out, “I do.”

It should have been a small thing.

It was a small thing.

But it stayed with you.

Because you had forgotten saying it.

And he had not.

It lived somewhere in him, not highlighted or displayed, just… kept. Filed away with everything else about you that he held onto so carefully, like none of it was too insignificant to matter. “You always say that when something disappoints you,” he mentioned once when you made an offhand comment under your breath. You turned to him, eyebrows lifting, “Say what?”

“That it almost had potential,” he replied, tone thoughtful, not teasing. “You don’t like dismissing things completely.” You huffed a quiet laugh, a little embarrassed, “I didn’t realize I had patterns like that.” He looked at you, steady and gentle, “Everyone does.” Then, softer, “Yours are just easy to pay attention to.”

Sometimes you would test it without meaning to, like your mind could not quite believe it was real, like you needed to see the edges of it just to understand how far it went. “What’s my favorite season?” you asked once, out of nowhere, watching him carefully. He did not hesitate, not even for a second, “Late summer.” You narrowed your eyes slightly, “That’s not even a proper answer.”

“It is for you,” he said, almost amused, “You said you like when it still feels like summer but people stop expecting you to enjoy it.” You stared at him, your expression softening despite yourself, “I forgot I said that.” “You say a lot of things you don’t realize are important,” he replied quietly. You swallowed, looking away for a second, “And you just… remember them?” He nodded, simple, certain, “Yeah.”

Other times, it was even smaller.

“You’re going to want tea later,” he said one afternoon, passing by your desk like it was just another thought, something casual, something unimportant.

You frowned slightly, glancing up at him. “Why?”

“You always do after that kind of meeting,” he answered easily.

You tilted your head. “What kind of meeting?”

“The ones where you pretend you’re not annoyed,” he said gently.

You let out a soft, surprised laugh, shaking your head. “I wasn’t pretending.”

He raised an eyebrow just slightly, not pushing, not teasing, just… knowing.

You huffed, looking away for a second before giving in. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“I’ll bring you some,” he said, already moving on like the decision had been made long before you even responded.

“You don’t have to,” you called after him, a little louder this time.

“I know,” he replied without turning back.

And that was it.

The conversation ended like it had barely begun, but it stayed with you anyway, lingering somewhere in the back of your mind as the day went on, as the meeting faded into the rest of your work, as you forgot about it entirely.

Until later.

Until the quiet moment when he set the cup down next to you without a word.

You looked up, a little startled, your eyes flicking from him to the tea, then back again. “You actually did it.”

He shrugged slightly, like it was nothing. “You wanted it.”

You picked it up, the warmth seeping into your hands, grounding. You took a small sip, then paused, your brows pulling together just slightly. “This is… exactly what I would’ve picked.”

“I know,” he said simply.

Of course he did.

It always was.

You watched him for a second longer than you meant to, something quiet settling in your chest again. “You’re kind of scary,” you told him once later, half joking, your voice softer as you leaned against the edge of his desk.

He glanced up from his notes, a little confused. “Scary?”

“You remember everything,” you said, your gaze dropping briefly before returning to him. “Even things I don’t.”

He considered that for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “Not everything.”

“Feels like it,” you murmured.

His gaze softened then, something quieter, deeper settling there. “Just the things that matter.”

Your breath caught a little at that, subtle but enough that you felt it.

“Who decides what matters?” you asked, almost without thinking, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

He held your gaze for a second, steady, unwavering. “I do.”

There was no arrogance in it. No weight meant to overwhelm you. Just honesty, simple and certain in a way that made it feel heavier than anything else he could have said.

You looked down, trying to steady the way your chest had suddenly tightened. “That’s… a lot.”

“I don’t think so,” he said gently. “It’s easy.”

“Easy?” you echoed, glancing back up at him, searching his expression like you might find something more there.

A small smile appeared, quiet and certain. “Yeah.”

He paused, just for a second, like he was choosing whether or not to say it out loud.

“It’s you.”

And there it was again.

That feeling.

“You know what I’m craving today?” you asked one afternoon, leaning against his desk, arms loosely folded, tone light like it was just something to fill the quiet, but there was a part of you that was watching him, waiting, curious in a way you could not quite explain.

He did not even look up from his notes.

“The strawberry pastries from that corner bakery,” he said easily, pen still moving, voice steady like the answer had been sitting there waiting for the question. “The one you said tastes like summer.”

Your breath caught.

Not sharply, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you felt it, the way something in your chest tightened and softened at the same time.

You stared at him for a second. “You didn’t even think about that.”

“I did,” he replied, still not looking up, a hint of something amused in his tone. “Just not out loud.”

You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but softer. “I was trying to trick you.”

“That wasn’t a very hard one,” he said.

Now you tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly, “Oh really?”

That got him to pause. He glanced up at you then, finally, something warm flickering across his face. “You talk about those pastries like they’re a life experience.”

“They are,” you defended, a small smile slipping through despite yourself.

“I know,” he said simply.

And that was the thing.

He knew.

Not in a vague way, not in a general sense, but specifically, precisely, like every small detail you had ever shared with him had somewhere to go, somewhere to stay.

“Okay,” you tried again, pushing off the desk slightly, “what about this one. What am I thinking about right now?”

He leaned back in his chair just a little, studying you for a moment, not intensely, not like he was trying to solve something, just… observing.

“You’re wondering if I’m always going to get it right,” he said.

You blinked.

“That’s not fair,” you said quietly.

A small smile curved at the edge of his mouth. “You didn’t say it had to be about food.”

You huffed a soft laugh, shaking your head, but you could feel it again, that same warmth settling deeper. “And? Am I wondering that?”

“Yeah,” he said, gentler now. “And you’re also wondering what it means if I do.”

Your voice came out softer than you intended. “And what does it mean?”

He held your gaze, steady, grounded, like he was giving you time to sit with it instead of rushing to answer.

“It means I pay attention,” he said. “That’s all.”

That’s all.

Like it was nothing.

Like it did not feel like everything.

“Clark,” you murmured, something in your expression shifting, something a little more vulnerable slipping through.

He noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“You don’t have to make it into something bigger,” he added quietly. “It’s just… you tell me things. I remember them.”

You swallowed, nodding slightly, even though your chest still felt too full. “Yeah. I guess you do.”

He watched you for another second, then, softer, “Did I get it right?”

You let out a small breath, a real one this time, your shoulders easing without you thinking about it. “You always do.”

Something in his expression softened at that, not proud, not self satisfied, just… warm.

“Good,” he said.

You lingered there a moment longer than you meant to, leaning against his desk, the quiet stretching comfortably between you, before someone across the room called his name and the moment shifted.

It was not just the two of you, either.

That was the other thing.

It was how he carried you into rooms you were still learning to feel comfortable in, how he never let you fade into the background even when you felt the urge to.

Meetings used to make you shrink a little. Too many voices overlapping, too many interruptions that made your thoughts feel like they had to fight to exist. You would sit there with ideas forming carefully in your mind, shaping themselves into something you thought might be worth saying, only to watch the moment pass before you could speak. And then it would be gone. You would press your lips together, nod along, let it dissolve like it always did.

Clark noticed.

He never pointed it out directly, never said anything that would make you feel exposed. He just… adjusted.

Clark never forced you to speak.

He made space for you.

“What do you think?” he would ask, turning toward you in the middle of a discussion, his voice steady and certain, cutting cleanly through the noise without raising it, like your opinion was not just welcome but necessary. The first time he did it, you had blinked at him, caught off guard, “Me?” you asked quietly, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, like there was no one else he could possibly mean. “I want to hear what you think.” You hesitated, glancing around the table, feeling every pair of eyes shift toward you, “I don’t know if it’s fully formed yet,” you admitted. He nodded once, patient, unhurried, “That’s okay. Say it anyway.” Something about the way he said it, like there was no risk in trying, made you inhale and begin, your voice softer at first, but steadier with each word.

And when you spoke, he listened.

Not politely. Not the kind of listening where someone waits for their turn to respond. He listened like it mattered. His attention did not waver, did not drift, did not split between you and anything else in the room. You noticed it in the way he angled slightly toward you, in the way his expression stayed focused, like he was following every thought as you shaped it out loud.

Once, when you paused, unsure if you were making sense, you glanced at him, “Am I explaining this badly?” He shook his head immediately, “No. Keep going.”

“You’re sure?” you asked, quieter. “I’m following,” he said, softer now, like he was grounding you back into it. And you did. You finished your thought, and when the conversation moved forward, he circled back to it later, referencing something you said like it had been an important part of the discussion, because to him, it was.

Sometimes, when the room was too serious, too stiff, when the conversation dragged on just a little too long, you would catch his eye. It happened without planning. A shared glance across the table, a flicker of recognition, like you had both noticed the same thing at the same time. The ghost of a joke would form between you, unspoken but fully understood. You would press your lips together, trying to stay composed, and across from you, you would see the same effort mirrored back.

“Don’t,” you mouthed once, barely moving your lips. His eyes flickered with quiet amusement, “I’m not doing anything,” he mouthed back. You raised an eyebrow slightly. He looked away for a second, like that would help. It never did. A small, quiet laugh would escape him first, barely audible, just enough for you to notice. Even when you were turned slightly, pretending to pay attention to someone else speaking, you could feel it. You would glance back and find him already looking at you, warmth in his eyes, something soft and fond that made everything else in the room blur for just a second.

“You’re terrible,” you whispered once under your breath when the moment passed. “You started it,” he whispered back, not even looking at you directly, like it was just part of the conversation.

It felt like being chosen, over and over again, in ways no one else could see.

There were notes, too.

Passed across the table during meetings when you were supposed to be paying attention. His handwriting neat, careful, deliberate in a way that felt so distinctly him. The first time it happened, you had looked down, confused, unfolding the paper slowly.

Don’t say it.

You bit back a smile immediately, glancing up at him. He was looking straight ahead, completely composed, like nothing had happened. You nudged the paper slightly, catching his attention just enough. He didn’t look at you, but you saw it, the smallest shift in his expression.

“I can see it on your face,” he added when you leaned just slightly closer.

You quickly scribbled something back, trying to keep your hand steady enough not to draw attention.

You started it.

You slid it toward him, your fingers brushing the edge of his for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away. He did not look at it right away. He waited, patient as always, until someone else began speaking, until the attention of the room shifted elsewhere. Then he unfolded it slowly, careful, like he had all the time in the world. The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely, that quiet smile you had started to recognize before it even fully formed.

He wrote something back.

You felt it before you saw it, the light tap of the paper against your hand. You unfolded it quickly, glancing down.

I always do :)

You pressed your lips together, trying not to react, trying to stay composed, but you could feel it again, that warmth, that quiet pull that made everything else feel distant for a moment.

Later, when the meeting ended and people started filing out, you leaned slightly toward him, voice low, “You’re distracting, Smallville.”

He glanced at you, something amused in his expression, “You’re the one who writes back.”

“You started it,” you repeated, softer this time.

“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “I did.”

It was all so small.

So easy to miss if you were not paying attention.

But you were.

You were starting to see it everywhere, in every glance, every quiet moment, every word that passed between you without needing to be explained.

And somehow, all of it together felt like something bigger than anything loud or obvious ever could have been.

It was everything.

Even when you were not directly with him, he found ways to reach you. It never interrupted anything, never pulled attention in a way others would notice. You would be mid conversation with someone else, explaining something or laughing politely, and Clark would pass by, pausing just long enough to say, “You should try that book I told you about. You’d like it.”

You would blink, turning slightly, “Which one?” and he would glance back, already moving, “The one with the short chapters. You said you like stopping points.” Then he would keep walking. Like it was nothing. Like it did not leave your heart racing for reasons you could not explain to anyone else. You would turn back, trying to pick up where you left off, “Sorry, what were you saying?” and the conversation would continue, unchanged for everyone else.

No one noticed. That was the strange part. To them, it was just Clark being thoughtful. To you, it felt like something else entirely, something quieter and deeper, something that stayed long after he walked away.

To everyone else, Clark Kent was kind, attentive, maybe a little earnest in a way people overlooked. To you, he was the way your thoughts felt lighter when you were around him, the certainty that you did not have to earn his attention, the quiet gravity that pulled you closer without ever demanding it. You mentioned it once, half joking, leaning against his desk, “You do that thing where you just show up and say exactly the right thing.”

He looked up, a little confused, “I just say what I’m thinking.” You shook your head, softer now, “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

“Does it bother you?” he asked gently. You hesitated, then shook your head again, “No. It just… matters more than it should.” His expression softened, something steady settling there, “It matters because it’s you.” You looked away for a second, feeling that familiar tightness in your chest, “That’s what scares me.”

“Why?” he asked quietly. You let out a small breath, “Because it feels too right.” He did not rush to answer that. He just watched you for a moment, then said, “It’s supposed to feel right.” Like it was simple. Like it always had been.

One evening, when the office had finally emptied out and the noise of the day had faded into a distant hum, you found yourselves alone. Papers were scattered across desks, unfinished work left for tomorrow, the city glowing faintly through the windows. You were talking about something trivial, something neither of you would remember later, and then it shifted.

You looked at him and felt it, the weight of it, not heavy in a suffocating way but heavy like something real, something that could not be ignored. “I think this is the first time,” you said, your voice quieter than usual. He noticed immediately, of course he did. He stilled slightly, giving you his full attention. “The first time what?” he asked gently.

You hesitated, searching for words that felt big enough without breaking the moment, “The first time I’ve felt like this. Like I’m… actually seen. And it doesn’t feel like I have to prove anything to keep it.” His expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. “You don’t,” he said, no hesitation, no doubt.

“You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.” The room felt still around you. You took a small step closer without realizing it, and he mirrored you just enough to close the distance, careful, always careful, like he understood the space between you mattered.

“I don’t think I knew it could be like this,” you admitted. He smiled, quiet and warm, “I was hoping you would.” Your breath caught, not because it was dramatic, but because it was simple, because it was true. You leaned in just a little, not quite touching him, but close enough to feel the warmth of him, the steadiness that had slowly become your anchor. “Clark,” you murmured, unsure what you were asking for.

“I’m here,” he said softly. And for once, you did not feel like you were standing on your toes trying to reach something just out of grasp. With Clark, you never had to reach. He was already there.

Robin turns to look from where she's walking just ahead with Sarah and the others. She meets Steve's eyes first and then yours, and she smiles at you tentatively, as if to say, Everything okay?

You shake your head at her. Don't worry about it.

"I'm obviously fucking listening," he mutters, looking to the sun as he combs his hair out of his eyes. 

"You don't have to be a jerk about it." 

"You're jabbing at me."

"I'm jabbing at you?" 

"It's black and white with you today. I say black and you say white, and it's giving me a headache." 

You huff a breath out. Arguing with Steve is easy, you did it enough when you first met, but it's different now. It hurts your feelings when he digs in.

"That's not true, I don't need to be contrary to disagree with you," you say. 

"But you are! You're just disagreeing with me because you're in a bad mood! You know we need to leave, you know it's the right thing, and I just don't want to listen to it anymore." 

"Why? Why is it so hard for you to listen to me? You love me," you say. It sounds odd, nearly questioning, and you both flinch. 

"Of course I love you. But I'm tired. I don't want to fight." 

"It wasn't a fight until you made it one," you say. 

Fight or flight doubles and you rush forward and away from him before you can get anymore heated. He says your name but you ignore him, falling in to step with Robin and Sarah. 

She frowns at you apologetically. "Sorry, can I…" 

"Yeah," you say quickly. "Of course you can." 

Robin smiles and drops back to walk with Steve. They don't speak, and you don't look back, but you're glad she's with him even if you're mad at him; you've argued, but you certainly don't want him on his own at the back of the camp's procession. 

Sarah smiles at you. She has big green eyes and pretty red hair, straight as a sheet and shiny as silk despite the circumstances. It's greasy at the top, so at least she's not perfect. 

"Hey," she says sympathetically, "are you okay?" 

Her asking has a heat brewing behind your eyes, but you find it to be annoyance rather than upset. 

You have to force the words out, "I'm fine." 

She nods, rolling the cord of her tent around her hand. It drags on the floor. It's the mode of transport the majority of your campmates have chosen for their tents and bags, a hundred pack of bungee cords wrapped around tarps and sacks to take some of the strain off of everyone's shoulders. It looks strange, all those camping bags dragging over dirt and grass. 

"Love is very difficult," she says. "I don't envy the fighting. But you and Steve don't fight much. I envy that, how happy you are." 

You breathe out slowly. She's nice, and Robin likes her, and you'd rather not take your anger out on her. 

"It's not difficult," you say eventually. You roll your neck and whine as it clicks. "It's easy. Just hard lately 'cos things are different." 

"I guess it's exhausting having to care about someone else. I can hardly find the energy to care about myself." Sarah laughs gently. "Not that people aren't worth loving, but the energy to look after someone, it must be tiring. What I'm trying to say is, I can see why it would be harder lately 'cos we're not at Oaks anymore, you feel like you're always on high alert trying to stop something bad happening." 

You hear what she's saying, but you focus in on the wrong part. It's hard, so hard, having to look after someone. And that's all Steve does. 

You look over your shoulder. Steve and Robin are walking side by side, Robin's hand curled around his elbow, her cheek dipped momentarily to his arm. "It'll blow over," you think she says. 

Steve nudges her. She nudges back. 

"Maybe it would be easier if he didn't have to look after me," you say. 

You say it because you want reassurance. Sarah races to give it to you, your shoulders relaxing in tandem as she says, "No way! He wouldn't want that, and you don't either. Try not to worry, Y/N. You just need a breather." 

—

You are being so, so quiet. Steve knows you struggle talking to him when you're mad. You're not cruel enough for the silent treatment but there's nothing wrong with needing space. He hates how crabby he got with you, but he also genuinely still thinks that he was right. 

Who knows. Steve sighs and scratches his stubbly chin. He has a zit coming, he can feel it, and it's driving him crazy. 

You'd offer to squeeze it if you weren't fighting. He knows that's a stupid fucking thing to miss, and want, but he likes you taking care of him. He loves that you don't care about the gross stuff, you'll do whatever if it makes him more comfortable. So he sits by the struggling campfire wishing you'd squeeze his stupid zit and say more than, "Hungry?" as you pass him a can of pasta. 

You eat in silence. Steve suffers it until he can't anymore.

"Do you want the rest?" he asks, offering you his half-eaten can of low-carb linguini. "It's boring," he warns. 

"Swap?" you ask, offering your bowl. You have a mixture of sliced water chestnuts, artichoke hearts, and half of a frankenfurter. 

You'd obviously taken the worse option. You could've given him the hodge podge, but you gave him the pasta. He feels bad for complaining and trades dinner with you.

"Do you…" 

Steve waits for you to finish. When you don't, he swallows around a chalky water chestnut and asks, "What?" 

"Never mind. Forget it." 

Steve raises his eyebrows but looks back at his meal. He was hoping you'd say sorry, because he's still feeling too proud but he wants to make up. He thinks maybe he doesn't deserve to make up if he can't bring himself to apologise —you were right that he should listen, even if he's tired. He should have more patience, just patience has never been his strong suit, and he's fucking exhausted and he knows you are too. He's sick of worrying if he did the right thing, and he's still mad at you, but he's starting to wonder if it matters anyways. It was a stupid fight that got too big. If you hadn't walked away, you might've been able to smooth it over. If he wasn't too stubborn to take the five big steps to your side, he could've done the same.

"I'm still annoyed," he says finally, "but I'm sorry for being a dick. Can we… gloss it over for now?" 

You usually give in pretty easily. You aren't eager to hold a grudge, a sucker for one of his tight hugs, but you seem pretty reluctant as you nod. He's not as forgiven as he'd like to be. It's fair. His apology wasn't the best. 

"Sorry," you mutter. 

"Am I a dick if I ask to talk about it when we've both had some sleep?" 

You shake your head, shooting him a nice, albeit small, smile. "I think that's a good idea." 

Robin appears as you're pitching your tent. 

"Okay, don't make this a big deal, but I'm sharing with Sarah tonight." 

You smile. Steve frowns. 

"Uh?" he asks. 

"We were talking about how you guys had your, uh, disagreement, and I mentioned that you're cranky because you never get to hook up because I'm always there, and she invited me. So that's what I'm doing. Maybe you guys will feel better after some time alone." 

"You think we're cranky because we aren't hooking up?" Steve asks, genuinely baffled. 

"Not really, but Sarah laughed. I," —Robin tucks her hair behind her ear, looking bashful in her huge hoodie— "really do think you could benefit from, like, privacy. Just have some time together. Don't argue again." 

"Thanks, Rob," you say. 

Robin presses her lips together in a funny smile and shoots you a double finger guns. "I'm a philanthropist." 

"Maybe you'll be less cranky when we see you in the morning," Steve says. 

"Please, Steven." 

Robin says goodnight. You and Steve pitch the tent slowly. He thinks you might be scared of being alone with him while things are still awkward, reluctant to meet his eyes, and you haven't smiled since the little one you offered at the fire. 

He sits at the entrance of the tent beside you and sighs. "I'm sorry." 

"You already said sorry." 

"I know. But I figured it couldn't hurt." 

You pull tufts of grass up in your hands, slouched forward into your own lap. He puts his hand on your back and rubs at your poor posture. Sometimes he worries that months ago, when you fell through damp flooring in a dilapidated building hundreds of miles away from here, you'd permanently fucked your discs. Your recovery was rough, and he barely noticed how much grief your back was giving you because he'd been so scared of the lump on the back of your head. He wonders if it still hurts. 

He gives it an extra soft rub to be safe. 

"Do you think things would be really different if we never met?" you ask. 

"Things would be awful–" He starts immediately. You cut him off. 

"Would they?" you ask, propping your face in your hand, elbow digging into your knee.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he asks. He's trying to be one hundred percent joking, but it's a solid 80/20, the 20 a startling hurt. "Would things be awful if we never met? Let me think about that one. Yes. Things would be awful." 

You smile weirdly.

He takes his hand back. "What, you think things would be better if we never met?" 

"For you." 

Steve gets this feeling like he's had hot water chucked over him, and his eyes start to hurt. They ache. He could cry for you, he really could. How can you even think that, for a moment, for long enough to ask him, and begin asking him an hour ago? You sat there for an hour thinking about it and this is still the conclusion you came to: you think things would be better for him without you. 

Steve takes your face into his hands. He needs you to be looking at him, straight at him and into his eyes as he tells you. 

"I would not be here without you." 

"But if you were–" 

"But I wouldn't be. And not because you saved me from geeks at the start," he says, frowning, furious, "or any time after that. I could be the best survivalist in the world and I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." 

"Robin–" 

"Is my best friend. I'd die for her." His hands slide further back on your face. "But I wouldn't be here without you." 

"I make things so hard for you," you say. Steve watches helplessly as your eyes fill with tears.

"You don't, and if you do, I make things hard for you too." 

"I'm sorry for being miserable," you say, staring at his chin. 

He ducks his head to force you to meet his eyes. "It's okay, it's okay," —he wipes under your eyes with his thumb to catch a tear that hasn't fallen yet— "it's okay. It doesn't matter. You don't have to be happy, you don't have to be nice to me every second of every day, you just have to know what you mean to me and get a handle on it."

"No, 'cos I know I make it hard, I know I've been hardwork right from the start and I don't get easier. I'm always getting hurt–" 

"It breaks my fucking heart, but if you think that matters to me–" 

"–I'm not strong, I complain and I– I make bad choices, I cry all the time–" 

"Why do you think that?" 

"I'm messed up," you say, pulling his hands from your face. 

"There's nothing wrong with you." Steve squeezes your hands, shuffling closer to you on knees, desperate to set you straight. "Come on, Y/N. You need to be strong to get through this. You think you'd have gotten this far if you weren't strong?" 

"I got here because of you–" 

"I'm here because of you," he says firmly. Loud, angry, abrasive in the face of your heartsick tears. "Why can't you see that? Did I do something, to make you think you can't do this?" 

"You didn't do anything, Stevie," you sniffle, wiping your cheek with the back or your wrist, "and it's not the point." 

"What's the point?" he asks, much softer than before. 

You shrug. You wipe your cheeks again, stemming the rapid flow of tears spilling at the corners of your eyes. Your lashes are darkened triangles against your skin. "I don't know. I just wish you had someone looking after you who could actually look after you, rather than make you miserable all the time." 

"I'm not miserable." Steve takes in a big breath, hand tangling in the worn fabric of your shirt as he leans in too close. "Would you tell me why you're crying?" he asks quietly, tilting his head to one side. "Please. Just tell me what's wrong." 

"I don't want to fight anymore," you say, and you sob. 

"We're not fighting, baby," he says, hand slipping under your t-shirt. His palm roves the soft pouch of your stomach to your side, where he grasps at you, pulling you in toward him for a hug. His chin bumps into your shoulder, your wet cheek to his stubbly one. "This isn't a fight, this is me trying to make you feel better, honey. I don't want you to feel like this." 

"I'm worried you'd be better off without me," you mumble, lowering your head and pressing your eyes to his shoulder, the wet of your tears leaching into his shirt. "I'm doing it right now, I'm being fucking useless." 

"Why are you so afraid of being upset?" he asks, frowning.

"Because you never are," you say. You move into his touch, like you're trying to climb into his lap. Steve yanks you forward. 

"That's not true, you've seen me at my worst. You've seen me angry, and mean. Crying my eyes out." 

"You cry when things are bad. I cry all the time," you say, sounding very, very small. 

"Honey, I cry more than you think. I cried two nights ago. I cried when you were sick." He doesn't enjoy admitting it, because he wants to be strong for you, but he thinks his confession is a different kind of strength, and one you're in dire need of. "I'm sorry I don't always let you know. It's not fair. I expect you to tell me everything and I keep shit from you."

"Why did you cry two nights ago?" you ask, peeling away enough to look up into his face. 

He has to tell you, even if he doesn't want to. He should've told you when it happened. "I felt sick." 

"Yeah? Like nauseous? Do you feel sick now?" 

"Not really. I don't like seeing you cry, but I'm alright." Steve's hand slides down your side to the hem of your jeans, his thumb pushing into the waistband. "See?" he asks imploringly. "I felt like shit so I cried, and it doesn't mean you'd be better off without me. It just means I felt sick. You don't have to give meaning to everything, you really don't. I hate to say this, but you have to keep your head up. For me." 

You nod, sniffling and wiping your snotty nose with your sleeves. He bats your hand away and does it bare handed. There are much worse things in the world than this. In fact, he's happy to do it. 

"I'm sorry, for fighting with you and for crying all over you." You laugh, and Steve's heart soars.

"I love you, you idiot," he says. "I love you. Hold still a second." 

Steve climbs up on knees to press kisses from temple to temple, from temple to chin, and from chin to your lips. Your skin is hot and damp under his lips but he traverses unperturbed, trying to plaster each inch of your frankly gorgeous face in love. 

"I want you with me forever," he says, hoping you understand exactly the severity of what he means.

"I want you," you say. "As long as you'll have me. Forever and ever." You give a few quick nods, and the sadness drains from your expression, replaced with a relieved and ecstatic affection instead. "I really think I might be tired." 

"You think?" he asks. You laugh together, and he grabs your hand, giving it a sharp squeeze as he tacks on, "But I really need to listen to you, even if I'm irritable."

"We take stuff out on each other sometimes," you say. 

He squeezes your pinky finger. "We do. It's gonna happen. And I'm glad it's me and you, you know? I don't wanna fight, but I want it to be with you." 

"I want it to be with you, too," you say.

He can finally relax for the night. You make your way into your tent and lie on your backs, ankles hooked, a shitty paperback resting on your chest. The camp quietens as people head to their own tents for the night, though a gaggle of people stay awake at the fire, telling stories and laughing. Despite everything, there are moments when all of this feels fun. When Steve can pretend he's two years ago on a loser-group camping trip. And maybe he didn't know you then, but he would've seen you across the way and asked you out. Or he would've bumped into you at the communal showers and told you how to work the ice machine. Maybe you would've met at the lake. Maybe you would've hated one another. However you met in this distant what-if, Steve knows it would've somehow ended like this; your hand lifted to his hair and stroking wayward patterns, your breath sharp with spearmint. You'd brushed your teeth together over an empty can. Steve misses sharing a bathroom mirror with you hip to hip, but he'll take the small stuff whatever way it's packaged. 

"For the record? That was your stupidest question to date." Steve turns his head to you, tarp wrinkling under his ear. "Like, you're the queen of stupid questions, and that one still managed to surprise me. And you once asked me if I thought petroleum jelly had nutritional value." 

You flick his eyebrow gently. "I know it was stupid," you say, voice rough from a good cry. "I just couldn't stop thinking about it." 

He tugs you in for a forehead kiss, lavishing in the feeling of your skin under his lips. "You believe me, right?" 

He pulls away. 

"I believe you. I love you. I'm gonna keep my head up, Stevie, s'long as you start telling me when you need me." 

He thinks that's a deal he can make. "Deal. Easy." 

You grin at him. "Can I squeeze your pimple now?" 

"Yes!" He whips into a sitting position. "I've wanted to ask you all day." 

"It looks like an ingrown hair." 

"I'll have to stop shaving. Maybe I'll grow a beard." 

You don't bother sitting up, only beckon him toward you with a raised hand. "That won't be necessary, H. Just let me work my magic…" Your fingernail digs into his chin. "Ew, it's kinda gross."

You bite your tongue again. The pain doesn't count for much. You're already in agony. Your lungs ache from screaming, from running harder than you've ever run, and you've been cut from head to toe by shards of glass. You're in the worst state you've ever been in minus one risky head injury, but you're far from hopeless. 

You've prepared for this. You know what you need to do. You'll do more than crawl across glass if it means you can reach the rendezvous point by morning. 

Taking quick, terrified breaths, you bounce to your feet and hold out an arm. It's a bad strategy. If you get bit, you can't fix it. You don't have a knife, and if you did you don't have the nerve to amputate yourself. But your choices are to lead via hand or face, and hand seems wiser. You step over slippery tile in your ill-fitting shoes until you find a wall, your panting echoed back at you. 

The sobbing has stopped. An eerie quiet takes its place. Something bad has happened. 

Something bad already happened. Something is over. 

You freeze when you hear chuckling. It's quiet but unquestionable. 

Who could laugh? After seeing the carnage of the cafeteria? The bodies lining the east gate? 

The pitch blackness wanes the closer you get to the door. A rogue tear races down your cheek as you squint against the flickering firelight. There's a herd of men standing at the pit of the quad, warming their hands with the spoils of the lives of the hundred who found shelter here. You hide your body behind the wall, the glass door of the gym you'd been secluded in stuck half open. They likely hadn't meant to, but the raiders tripped the electricity, and it hasn't come back on since. It likely won't come on ever again. 

You squeeze through the door, so afraid of being out in the open that it makes you physically retch. 

You rag your body through the door and wince at the deep gouges it feels like it leaves behind. Your knees don't want to bend, they're so shredded, but you've no choice but to sprint to the side of the gym, and then the fallen gates, and the treeline behind it. 

You step over the heavy metal gates that once protected you slowly. Each grind of fence into the asphalt below feels like a siren call. 

The only light is the orange flicker of the fire cast between the trees like grabbing fingers. You step in the shadows, flinching at every snapping branch under your feet, every dry leaf. You don't look back —you can't. You're terrified of what you'll see. 

Please, you think, over and over, a prayer if there's ever been one, please, please. You're so afraid of not getting what you're asking for that you can't finish the sentence. Your head is a loop of pleading, begging, offers to someone who isn't listening. 

I'll never complain. I will never wonder why. I won't cry, or ache, or so much as sigh. So please. 

It happened at dinner. The entire community, what felt like every member of The College gathered in one place for 'thanksgiving dinner'. There was thanks to be said, sure, but nothing that aligned with the original celebration. Thank you for a place to call home. Thank you for the meal. Thank you for a safe haven. Thank you for– 

But a shot rang outside. 

Heads bobbed. Adults and children alike shifted at the cafeteria tables to try and see which of the patrolling gate guards had needed to fire. 

It was like rain after that. Pop pop pop. 

You grip the present like a bouy and hold on tight. You can't think about what happened while you're still in it. The fear will paralyse you. 

Your shoe steps onto something soft. You look down though you don't want to, and it's too dark now to make it out. You bend at the waist and let out an involuntary whine at the pain that lances up your abdomen. 

It's a blanket. You don't think it's one of yours, though you had so many you can't be sure. It's green and rough and the best protection on offer. You wrap it around your shoulders and keep walking. 

You know where you are only because it has been drilled into you so thoroughly. 

I'll meet you at the bottom of the hill… Do you remember, we ate vegetable soup and dumplings cold? It was the best meal we'd had in months. 

"Oh, fuck," you say, losing the strength in your legs. You grasp at the rough trunk of a tree and gasp for air. You can't breathe, you can't think. "Fuck." 

Your sniffling whispers are lost in the wind. 

"I don't think I can do this," you mouth. 

I promise I'll meet you there. 

"I can't." 

But you have to. You can see it all laid out in front of you. Eating sour cherries on the floor, bare-legged and brimming with love, his hand on your straggly knee. His hand on your back, guiding you through doorways and under tree branches. His hand on your cheek, your shoulder, your thigh. 

His hand in yours, a hundred miles of highway behind you. Pulling you along. 

You walk for what feels like hours but can't be so long. Your shoes are doing more harm than good, blisters like pebbles on your heels and toes. You step out of them and carry them down the hill, grass sharp under the soles of your feet. The socks you wear are threadbare. 

You hadn't realised you'd have to do this, and that was a mistake. You could've been prepared for this; you should've been carrying a knife in your belt everywhere you went, and you never should've left yourself open to the elements. How many jackets do you have under your bed? 

The convenience store beckons like a beacon. The night is heavy but the moonlight strives to lead you, and you follow it to the white walls one exhausted step at a time. 

You circle the building. 

There's no one waiting for you. He isn't where he promised. 

You try to open the door but can't find the strength. Everything hurts more than anything has ever hurt before. Your hands are immobile now, your shoes falling to the concrete beneath with a dull thump. One springs away too far to reach. 

You sit down against the back of the convenience store, drained of everything you have. If he isn't here, he's dead. If he's dead, you might as well die. He was everything, and he's gone. 

You fall asleep sitting up against the wall, face smashed to your shoulder. Let whatever comes across you first finish you off while you sleep… 

There's a pressure around you. You wake in a struggle, still too tired to move, to flail, completely encompassed. Your first thought is that you've died, but the pressure tightens, and you feel all your hurt reawaken. 

"I know, baby," Steve murmurs. You must've made a sound. "I know. It's okay. I got you." 

You really have died if he's here. 

You grab limply at his back, trying to pull him away so you can see his face. It's a geek chewing through the juncture of your neck, and whoever's looking down on you feels sorry enough to let you see him before you go. It's a raider, tying you up and hanging you from a pike, the ropes constricting your blood flow. It's not Steve. 

"What fucking happened to you?" he asks, his voice shaking. "What happened? Did someone–" 

"Steve," a familiar voice says, "come on, man, she can't understand you." 

Steve pulls away from you and it's him, his face, his pale cheeks and almond brown eyes, one ringed in a purple wine stain, the white bisected by an ominous red. 

"What…" Your mouth won't cooperate. A cold hand grabs your face. It can't be Steve's, his hands are always so warm. Water is tipped into your mouth, the majority of which runs down your neck to your clavicle. 

"Do you have, um, do you have that bottle of malt still?" Steve asks. 

"She'll pass out–" 

"Maybe that's best," Steve says. 

"Not if she doesn't wake up again." 

"She's gonna turn septic, no doubt. I have to go back, I can get antibiotics." 

"You can't go back, are you stupid?" 

You groan, their words rushing in one ear and out the other, indecipherable from the whooshing that feels like it's originating behind your eyes. 

"Y/N," Steve says gently, "can you understand me, honey? Do you know what I'm saying to you? Can you nod?" 

You nod as best as you can. 

Steve puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gingerly. "I'm going to make everything better, I promise. I promise." 

You try to say sorry, you should be really fucking sorry, he has to save you all over again, but the only thing that wants to come out is shattered breath. 

Things are spotty after that. You have the sense of being moved flat on your back and dragged. It's not pretty, the distinct memory of a hand over your mouth, and then, when your bearings are coming back, you remember that you'd been screaming. 

You have your head in someone's lap. You don't fall asleep or wake up, it's like you're treading water and your head's been under. Now you're breaking the surface, and it's to the tender touch of a fingertip climbing up and down your nose bridge. 

Something crackles. It takes you right back to the bonfire in the quad, is it the bonfire? You try to lift your head and the person holding you startles. 

"No, stay still," Steve says gently. 

"Steve?" 

"Who else?" He says, still gentle but a hint of his usual derision peaking through. "Do you let other guys treat you this way?" 

"Steve," you mumble, tears pricking your waterline. 

He can't hug you from the way he's laid you out, but he leans over slightly as though he's shielding you from the grey above. You try to turn your neck and find the white hot pain a quick deterrent. 

"Look at you. Fuck, look at you," he says. 

You cry a little, unsure if you can speak. Tears sting an abrasion beside your eye. 

"Don't upset her, Steve," says a girl's voice. Your heart skips a beat as Robin Buckley comes into view, lip split and without a jacket but otherwise unscathed. "Hey, Y/N. Don't worry, you're not stuck solely with him." 

You laugh, but you're crying so you cough, and pain zips up and down your arms and legs. 

Robin kneels down beside you and hugs you lightly. Her hair, scraped back into a pony tail, tickles your cheek. 

"I love you, I'm so glad you're okay," she says. 

"Me too," you mumble. 

Robin pulls back and smiles at you. "You gotta eat something, killer." 

"I don't really think she can move, Robs," Steve says quietly. 

"She won't be able to if she doesn't eat." 

Steve sighs and helps you up painstakingly slowly, his hands under your armpits. He sits forward rather than pulling you back, supporting you like a Steve-shaped chair.

You realise for the first time since you woke up that you're inside, rather than outside. 

And there are lots of survivors. 

Jonathan and his mom are standing across the room. Jonathan has two little kids in his arms, and you're so shocked you actually try to ask about it. "Did he have babies while I was out?" you croak. 

Steve hums near your ear. "He saved nearly all of the kids all by himself… Most of their parents are dead. I think he feels responsible." 

"Most of them?" you ask. 

"Yeah." 

Lots of survivors doesn't mean all. It doesn't even mean the majority. The College had almost four hundred people living in it. This room houses what couldn't be more than a fifth of them, and there's at least a dozen children. You don't say it aloud, but you feel it thick in the air like an electric charge. 

This is not good. 

"Don't worry," Steve says, hands crossing over your stomach. "Please, honey, just– just think about yourself for now." 

"I can't believe it." 

He shushes you. 

"Steve, all those people…" 

"I know." 

You use him as impromptu furniture and Robin returns with a can of peaches and a fork. She loves you enough to feed you. It makes you want to cry again. 

You're relieved to be far away from what happened, but there's a feeling of unreality that won't cease. You keep looking at the corners of the room like the light will dim and the blood caked to your hands will reappear. Someone wiped them clean while you slept and bandaged them with care. 

You feel sick after the peaches. 

"Throw up if you gotta," Steve says mildly, his nose resting against the back of your head. 

You fall asleep again. 

When you wake up, it's night. You feel stronger than you had as soon as your eyes open, digging your elbows into the blanket tucked beneath you and hiking up to look around. Steve's asleep to your left, his hand screwed in the bedraggled fabric of your shirt, and Robin's asleep to your right, her hand touching your elbow. 

A woman you couldn't name from the back sits in front of the door. The muzzle of a long gun sticks out over her shoulder. 

The room isn't big enough for this many sleeping bodies, and so the group sleep toe to toe and hip to hip. The only people with blankets are the children and the badly injured. You have two. You have no idea how Steve managed it, one under you and one over your legs. 

Or, you don't think you know how he managed it until you slide the blanket down and realise you aren't wearing any pants. Underwear that aren't yours have been pulled up your thighs and cinched with an elastic band. 

Poor lovely Steve. He always does the gross stuff. 

You pull the blanket back up for the sake of decency and swallow. You swallow again. You're thirsty and in an insane amount of pain, the intensity increasing the longer that you think about it. You don't want to wake him, but you know it's what he'd want, and he's saved your life for the millionth time, so. He should get what he wants. 

You try to be sweet. You can barely breathe, your chest hurts that badly. 

"Stevie," you whisper, tugging his fingers from your shirt and squeezing them imploringly. "Stevie, please, are you awake?" 

It's Robin who rouses. 

"He–" She yawns and her jaw clicks. "He might not wake up, I made him take a quarter of an oxycontin." 

"Yeah? What for?" 

"He wrecked his knee, and he made it worse carrying you up the stairs here." Robin scratches her eyes with her hands. "Not that it's your fault, it's not your fault. Just what happened." 

"Oh." You pull Steve's hand to your lips and kiss it. Wincing, you turn onto your side to face Robin, pulling his slack arm over your tummy. He doesn't hug you closer in his sleep, and it feels wrong. "I know you look after him 'cos he's yours, too, but thanks." 

She smiles, her cheek appling against the hand she's using as a pillow. 

"Do you want a quarter of an oxycontin?" Robin asks. 

"No, you should save it." 

"I know you need it. It's not all superficial. Jonathan's mom gave you stitches, did you see?" 

"Everything sort of throbs right now." 

She pulls a half of a pill from her pocket and apologises that you have to bite it in half. She can't give you the full half because this is the full capacity of painkillers and she's lucky she has that. 

"It's okay," you say, accepting the water she offers. 

"I really don't know what we're gonna do, Y/N." 

"I don't even know what happened, I… don't even think I want to know. I remember the beginning." The gunfire and the shattering windows. The shouting. "I don't remember where you went." 

"We didn't know where you went." 

"Sorry. I don't know." 

"It honestly might be better if you don't remember any of it," Robin whispers wryly. "I wish I didn't." 

You grab her hand with your free one, pretzelled between her and Steve. "I'm sorry, Robs." 

"Me too. But we'll be okay. We're together."

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

Robin blows a curl of her hair from her face. She looks young, sun tanned and freckled as she is, and scared, which isn't her style. She acts like nothing ever gets to her. It's a privilege to be let in. 

"I was terrified that you were dead," Robin whispers. "And then I thought me and Steve were gonna die anyways, and he got into a fist fight with a geek and Dustin almost died." She stops abruptly. 

"Is that how he got the black eye? From a geek?" you ask. 

"No. There was a man," she says, "trying to pin me down. I don't know what he… Steve pulled him off of me." 

You rub the back of her hand with your thumb. "He hurt you?" you ask, eyes burning with heat. Angry and sad tears at the same time. 

"Nah, Steve saved me. He's good at that." 

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry. You really don't get how bad you look, I shouldn't be telling you anything. You need," —her voice takes on a saccharine but not ingenuine pep— "to get better, and to worry about yourself. I'll be surprised if you ever walk again."

"Really?" The oxycontin must be working (if a quarter even works), 'cos you're not nearly as disenfranchised by this possibility as you should be. 

"No. But think about how much that would suck and this is almost the winning situation." 

"Sorry, Buckley, I swear I'd laugh…"  

"But everything sucks."

"Yeah." 

You have one hand full of Robin's cold fingers and another woven between Steve's warm ones. You have two whole blankets, you're mostly fed, and there's a lady guarding you with a gun bigger than your head. You can rest easy, if only for an hour. 

Robin falls asleep gradually, quiet snores growing louder by the by. 

You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes you can see shapes like bodies standing over you, or hear a disembodied groan as it echoes in the shower room. You regretfully remove your hand from Robin's and turn back to Steve. There's a twinge in your thigh as you that reminds you about Joyce's stitches. You wonder how many there were. It feels like a lot when it pulls. 

You put you hand on Steve's cheek. Thinking you might cry and actually crying are surprisingly far apart. He deserves to have some tears shed for him, your poor boy, defending his friends, hurting himself, almost losing you, losing his home, and watching the community he loves die all in one night. He deserves so much more than he gets. 

"I love you," you say under your breath. 

The mantra. Please, please, please, let him be waiting for me. 

— 

Your hand is like a hummingbird in Steve's, twitching twitching twitching. He rubs the back of your hand and tries not to wake you. The pain you're in now while sleeping will feel a thousand times worse when you wake, and he has nothing to give you for it. 

He woke up to your fingers twined in his. You must've done it in the night. 

Robin's sleeping curled up next to you, his two favourite people in the whole world getting a well-needed break from the horror of it. Horror doesn't even feel like the right word, it doesn't encapsulate the grimness of your situation. There's no potable water, barely any food, and a lot of months to feed. Steve knows they need as many people out looking for resources as they can get so they can move on, and they need to do it fast, before someone comes looking to pick off the rest of them, but he just can't do it. He can't leave your side. 

He tries to think about how he got separated from you and every time it's like a kick to the chest. He looked to his left in the bloodshed and you just weren't there anymore. 

Things got messy in between. 

When he finally had the choice he tried to backtrack, and Chris and Robin had to forcibly drag him to shelter. 

He told you and Robin the same thing, meet me at the store, though thankfully Robin hadn't been out of sight for longer than a minute, and he'd been able to protect her. He wasn't the only one to pick a familiar place. A small crowd of people had been waiting inside the convenience store, a gun aimed at the door.

He'd wanted to go back for you. He would've if he could stand, his knee a twisting hot pain, an agony —he tried anyway. 

They stayed like that, kids hiding behind the shelves, the adults at the door like a barricade, waiting for a sign as to what to do. Waiting to be put down like animals by the monsters who invaded the community, geek and human alike. 

There was a thump by the door. Steve realises now that it must've been you, but they'd been convinced it was a geek, and so nobody stood. It had his nerves aflame, because what if you were huddled somewhere unable to move? What kind of boyfriend, what kind of partner, would leave you vulnerable? He'd rather put himself in moral peril trying to save you than leave you to that fate. So he stood on his fucked leg and he eased open the door, Christopher beside him because he's a good man, and together they stepped into the dusk. 

Steve did not have to look very far for you. You'd been laid out against the wall like you'd been thrown there. 

He collapsed to his knees as soon as he realised it was you, scared to touch you, your clothes more blood than fabric and your eyes scrunched closed in pain. 

"Holy shit," Christopher said.

Astute. Steve felt for your pulse, found it fast despite your state of unconsciousness. A wound on your leg was weeping furiously, and Steve ripped off the bottom of his shirt bare-handed to wrap it up. 

He hugged you even though it would do nothing. It was selfishly all for him. 

Steve had thought for a moment, Fuck, I cannot keep doing this. The level of adrenaline, the sharp spike of fear thinking he might have lost you. I can't keep doing this. 

But he can, and he will. 

They carried what food they could with them to the block of apartments they're currently taking shelter in, but Steve had carried you with help, and so he hadn't managed to grab anything at all. He relies solely on the charity of the community to feed you today, and he promises he'll make it up. 

"Y/N," Steve says, a can of soup in hand, not knowing if waking you is the right thing to do, but his hand on your shoulder anyways, "wake up, I have something for you." 

You mumble into the floor. 

He hums. He could heat the soup up. He'd need to go outside, which would be exhausting, and he'd have to start a fire, but they'll be starting one soon enough to boil water while the sky is still dark enough to hide the smoke. Maybe he can call in a favour. 

He limps over to Joyce. She's been great since the attack, considering what happened to Hopper. 

"Hey, honey," she says. "What are you upto?" 

"Can I be a total dunce and ask you for a favour?" 

Joyce takes his can of soup. He limps back to your side and looks you over for a while, peeling back your blanket to check that the big cut on your thigh and the tens on your knees aren't visibly infected. He's been given a tube of antiseptic and applied it to you generously, but he worries it won't be enough. Your legs are fucked, really fucked, cuts and bruises on every inch of skin. He has no idea how it happened and you haven't been lucid enough to ask.

He tucks the blanket back around your legs to ensure some privacy and moves onto your arms. He thinks you must've fallen onto debris, if the scratches near the base of your forearms are any indication. 

He puts your arm down gently and his eyes flick to your face. You're looking at him. 

"Oh, hi," he says, breathless with relief. 

"Hi Stevie." 

"Hi." He covers his eyes with his hands. 

"Steve…" You murmur, your fingers ghosting his elbow, stretched as far as you can reach from your position. "Baby, please."

He scrubs his eyes until they burn but successfully pushes away any waterworks. 

"You have to stop doing this to me," he says, practically begs, nodding with each word like it might drive the sentiment home. 

"I'm sorry." You sit up, clasping his elbow. "Really sorry." 

Steve exhales until he's completely empty of breath. "God, I know. It's not your fault." 

"Hey, Steve, stop using my mom like a catering service," Jonathan says suddenly, interrupting your moody conversation.

He's holding a camping bowl with a rag underneath it, pretending to be more pissed than he is. He smiles down at you. "Hey, how are you?" 

"I'm fine." 

"Well, eat up. Get better. I need friends that aren't fourteen years old or Steve," he jokes, lowering the soup into your lap. "I'm glad you're okay." 

"Thanks, Jonathan." 

He smiles and leaves, accosted by little kids as he goes.

Steve puts his hand under the soup despite the rag, worried you'll burn yourself. You protest, and Steve's actually happy to hear it. It means you're feeling more like yourself. 

"Are you sharing with me?" you ask. 

"If that's what you want." 

"Yes, that's what I want."

Steve lets you have the soup dumplings, hot and sweet, the best part. He doesn't bother eating even one. You take turns drinking from the corner of the camping tin, thigh to thigh, Steve guiding it to your lips whenever you look ready for another sip. 

It's actually him that cries, to his surprise. He thought for sure he'd hold it together, but he's just so grateful that you're here and in one admittedly battered piece, eating soup and warm against him, they start of their own accord. You rest your head wonkily on his shoulder, seemingly unaware. He tries not to sniffle.

"I love you," you whisper, dropping your hand on his thigh. 

He puts his cheek on your head. His tears seep into your hair. "I love you too." 

"Are you crying?" you ask, sounding heartbroken as you turn to him. Your eyes widen in shock. "What's wrong? Is it your knee?" 

It's not his knee. It couldn't be further from it. 

"We lost everything," he says, everything coming out in a rushing whisper, "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to take care of you anymore. You almost died, again."

"I didn't almost die, I was tired," you say gently. "I wouldn't have died." 

"That doesn't mean I can still do this." 

"Steve, I'm not asking you to do anything. I know I was hard work–" 

"No–" 

"But this time it's different. I'm not saying you don't look after me, I'm not even saying you won't have to again, but I don't need a bodyguard this time around. And we aren't alone. You're not alone. I need you to be my– to be mine. That's it." You put your hand on his cheek. It's heavy, rough, but you try to be kind and he knows it. You're uncoordinated, stroking under his eye. "I'm sorry, Steve, I am, I'm so sorry, please don't–" 

His turn to interrupt a ridiculous notion. "Please don't what?" he asks, not unkindly. You take your hand back. Your face crumples, your head dipped toward your shoulder. "Don't what? You think I'm going somewhere, really?" 

"Please don't blame yourself for everything," you say. 

It's not even that. He isn't blaming himself. He isn't blaming you. He's just mind-numbingly terrified to be back on the road.

"We're together," you say, nearly shy. "Isn't that okay for now?" 

"...That's the only thing that's okay," he says. 

He scrubs his face with his hand, scratching through his limp hair. He rolls his shoulders, and, after a deep breath, he takes your hand and pulls himself together. 

Steve doesn't know what to say, and he suspects you're facing a similar dilemma. 

"Don't get it twisted," he says eventually, his voice rough with earnestness, "you're the only thing that matters to me. But…" What do you say? After all those people have died? When your sweetheart can't stand, she's so cut up? All to get back to you and nothing good promised? "I wanted more than this for us." 

We had more than this.  

"This is the world now," you say, tired. 

"Remember that phrase? 'I'll give you the world'? I'd say that to you, but I don't think you want it," he says, trying to lighten the impossibly heavy mood. 

You laugh under your breath. "I do, though. I want it with you, handsome, so just… don't give up yet. Okay?" 

"I'm not giving up." 

"Thank you." 

Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Don't say thanks, you don't even have to ask me for that." 

He rests his face against yours, mouth to your temple, his eyes slipping closed. He doesn't have it in him to unpack everything that's happened. Maybe he never will. 

But he has his girl. 

—-

His mispronunciation has you smiling. It's an expression Steve knows well, your guilty bemusement. 

"That's okay! Do you know how many drawings of giraffes there are? Millions and trillions, and I bet none of them are as brightly made or as creative as the one you've made." 

"What about mine?" the dark-haired girl asks. 

You pause your cutting to peek at her giraffe. "That's so cute, I love it," you praise. "Wow, I'm sitting with the next Picasso's and I didn't even know it." 

Your voice… Steve's barely ever heard you speak like that. So soft, and so loving. 

Not that you don't speak to him sweetly, half the time he thinks your words are more love than sense, but this is new. That's how parents talk to their kids, how sisters talk to younger siblings, and aunties talk to niblings. It's a familial, mellow sound.

It kind of drives him crazy. He tightens his hands in the fabric of your jacket, head racing with thoughts he hadn't stopped to think of before. You with kids. You with a family, his family. Kids that look like you, that carry your features and your sweetness around for you when you can't.

Kids that don't look a thing like you, or him.

You put down the scissors and hand over a freshly cut, stand-up giraffe to one of the kids. It looks great, and the kid says thank you with a clumsy ardency that you clearly adore. 

"You're welcome, Nina," you say. "I'll do yours next, Hal, if you're ready." 

The blonde boy passes you his giraffe. Before you take up the scissors again, you look at the boy's front, and you laugh kindly. "Baby, your buttons are all wrong. They're wonky, see?" 

"Oh," Hal says, looking down, "I don't know how to do them."

"I can help, if you want." 

He nods voraciously. You start to correct his buttons in silence, and Steve isn't afraid to admit to himself that it's the last straw. There is something endearing, hypnotising about watching you take care of others, he thinks the forbidden words — you would make the most beautiful mother. 

You giggle and straighten Hal's shirt when you're done. "Tada." 

"Thanks," Hal says, sounding pleased. 

"You're super welcome. Stevie?" 

It takes Steve a second to realise you're talking to him. You're looking up at him where he's frozen, concern knitting together your darling brows. "Is everything okay?" 

"I just– brought your jacket. It's cold." 

You stand up from the table and pat Hal on the shoulder, a frown twisting over your face. 

"You look pale," you say, taking your jacket. You pull it on one arm at a time, and tilt your head back as Steve dives in to zip it up. "How are you feeling?" 

"I'm fine," he says. I'm going insane, he thinks.

"You caught me slacking off." 

"This is slacking off?" 

You huff a laugh. "Well, yeah. I should be checking the dates on a box of cornflour right now." 

"You haven't mentioned this," —he gestures vaguely at the table of art's and crafts— "before. Do you come in here a lot?" 

You hum as you wrap your hands around his wrists. You pull his hands to your shoulders, and grin when he gets the memo and gives you a hug. 

"Thanks for bringing my jacket." 

His hand scrapes up your back, trying to pull you closer when you're as close as you can possibly be. "You know how busy my schedule is." 

"I know." Your sarcasm is biting. "My poor boy." Less so. 

You pull away and he still can't believe it. You have an air of content about you, a lightness he's always amazed to see. 

"Sammy asks me for arts and crafts help all the time. The uh, apocalypse kind of threw a spanner into the works for most of these kids. Some of them don't know how to write, or use scissors. And we all know they barely need me in the pantry, they could replace me with a well organised book." 

"Do you like helping out here?" he asks carefully. 

"Yeah, I do." 

His head is reeling. 

The future is a long way away and right here at the same time. You and Steve could make something. 

He doesn't know what you want. Maybe you don't want kids, maybe you won't be ready for another ten years, but the possibility isn't something Steve can ignore. 

"You can stay and help if you want to?" you ask.

He doesn't have control over his own body when he nods, a panging ache in his chest for the possible future. You beam and lead him over to the table of children, taking up your scissors as Steve settles in a chair a ways away from you. 

"Hi, guys, this is my boyfriend, Steve. I bet some of you have seen him before. He's gonna help us with the cutting out, okay?" 

Steve smiles at the gaggle of little faces that turn his way. "Hey, guys. I'm a way better cutter outer than Y/N, so if you want the best giraffe you gotta ask me." 

Some are old enough to understand his sarcasm, and some aren't. He's delighted when Hal, the blonde-haired, brown-eyed boy, turns to you to stroke your arm. "It's okay," he says, "I still think you're the best one." 

You're getting better at knowing what you want, what he wants, and how to make it happen. The first time had been good, amazingly romantic and with a lot of happy crying, but a short mess. This time had been longer, slower, as loving as your first go but undeniably charged.

"Perfect," you say under your breath. 

"Flatterer." 

"Is it okay for you, going slow for so long?" you ask. 

Steve massages your shoulder absent-mindedly, fingers flat to the back of it and thumb rubbing the hill. "I kind of need to. Or it'll… I'd finish too quickly." 

"I don't mind if you want to do that," you say, enacting some massaging of your own. Your palm roves from between his shoulder blades to the soft hair at the back of his neck. 

"I want it to be good for you," he says. 

"'N' I want it to be good for you," you say. 

"It is good for me, honey. I almost called you 'loser', but I didn't, because you need to listen to me." His lips touch your cheek lightly as he lifts his head, a purposeful and loving touch. "It's better than good for me. I sort of hope you'd be able to tell–" 

You start laughing, embarrassed by his implication even while he's naked on top of you, and super, super in love with him. "You did sound like you were having fun," you croon. 

He groans and tucks his face into your neck. 

"You're not as loud," he says after a moment. "Is that… is that my fault?" 

"I was holding my breath for most of it," you confess. You don't mean to, but the pressure, the warmth, the feeling of his skin on yours, it can tip into overwhelming. A good overwhelming, but overwhelming all the same. 

"What?" He pushes himself up onto an elbow, his eyebrows pulled together in a heart-warming concern. "Did I hurt you?" 

"No, no," you say, again with an embarrassed, breathy laugh. "Stevie," —said softly, always— "it doesn't hurt, it's the opposite of hurting. I feel so– it feels…" 

His eyebrows relax. Steve nods, curls of sweat-damp hair around his face jolting with the movement. "I know. I swear it feels better if you don't hold back." 

"Not holding back." 

"A bit." 

"What if I make some really weird noise that turns you off?" 

"I think," he says, leaning down inch by inch, "that would be physically impossible." 

He kisses you sweetly, and then less so. Your lips part as he presses down on you, his hand cupping your cheek if only to hold you still. You have a bad habit of pulling up and knocking your teeth together. 

"I liked the rough part too," you say. 

He kisses your top lip lazily, but through his ardency he manages a hum. Go on?

"I liked how you got more, um, forceful… and it didn't hurt like last time, don't get stressed." 

Last time, you'd asked him to be rougher sooner, and it pinched. It wasn't a big deal —you told him what it felt like and he stopped to make it better. Today, there'd been no need to stop. You'd asked him once not to stop, and he'd made a sound you'd never heard from him, a throaty groan that has heat rising to your cheeks remembering it, and the feeling of his hand tightening its grip on your thigh. 

"Going slow is the answer to all our problems," Steve says. He takes your face into both hands and rubs your cheeks with his thumb, one then the other. It has you squinting with each pass. 

"That's not true," you murmur. 

"I know you like some stuff fast," Steve says, salacious and not. He gives you a quick, tight squeeze, kissing a stripe of nose-smushed, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your face before he pulls away. "Do me a favour? If the small sounds are any example, I really wanna hear the big ones. I need to, actually, or I'm not gonna make it." 

You put a hand over his heart. 

"Idiot," you say, and push him away from you. 

Steve pretends to be pushed before plummeting back down for another smacking kiss, pressed to your cheek. 

"Love you," he says, his eyes closed. "Love you. I love you." 

"I love you too," you say. 

"I love you," he says again, quieter than before. 

"I know, handsome. I love you too." 

His hand wanders down your side. You've started to feel his weight in your stomach, and his touch fosters a second kind of heaviness. 

"Do you want to go again?" he asks quietly. Long fingers trail back up your waist, goosebumps erupting in their wake. 

When Clark placed the ring on your ring finger, he looked at your face with uncertainty. And no, it wasn’t a lack of love—it was fear. A fear that tightened around his chest as if someone had pressed a firm hand deep inside it. Your arrival in his life had been something strange, something new that he had never felt before. Before you, Clark had lived like someone who always had to be careful, who always had to hide what he was. But when you appeared, all of that changed. He had experienced emotions so human, so real, that the only thing he wanted was to spend his entire life by your side. But at the same time, he knew how his body worked. He knew his growth was different from yours. He knew that, as a Kryptonian, he could live far too many years—more than three hundred. And that disturbed him. It circled his mind day and night. Because he would watch the people he loved die. He would see his parents grow old and disappear. But when he met you, that idea vanished from his mind, as if his heart had decided it wanted to love you no matter what.

“Are you telling me that at some point in our lives I’ll be older than you?” you asked with a smile, leaning against his chest. Your voice sounded calm, as if you were only playing with the idea.

Your laughter made him smile. But imagining it—just imagining it—broke his heart. At that moment, you were only twenty-six and he was thirty-one. A relationship that seemed to fit perfectly, even with that small age difference. You went for walks, cooked together, laughed at night while watching old movies. When you got married, you were still twenty-seven and he, therefore, thirty-two. Nothing out of the ordinary. You were young, just like Clark. You reminded him of it over and over again every time you looked into his eyes and saw that shadow of concern.

“It’s okay, Clark. Live in the present,” you whispered to him one night, your head resting on his shoulder. “If you keep thinking about how you’ll be in the future, you won’t have enjoyed the present.”

He nodded slowly. He tightened his arm a little more around your waist.

“Will you live many years?” he asked in a low voice, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You smiled and lifted yourself slightly to look at his face. “The real question is—will you keep loving me even when I start to grow old and get gray hair?” you said, fixing his hair with your hand. “Because I won’t be the same woman you see now. My knees will hurt, I’ll get tired more often, the skin on my arms will sag… all of that.”

Clark shook his head firmly. “I will love you until I take my last breath in the universe,” he said, his voice slightly broken but certain.

You nodded and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. “You better,” you whispered, and then leaned against him again. You kept cooking together, you stirring the spoon in the pot and him chopping vegetables beside you, as if nothing that had been said was so serious.

The years passed. And you had twins. A little girl named Sienna. The little one with blue eyes like her father and light brown hair like yours. Everything about her was like you: the way she laughed, the way she frowned when she woke up, even the gestures with her hands. And the little boy named Joseph, with blue eyes and black hair, identical to Clark. But there was a difference, and it was a big one. A difference that made Clark’s blood run cold when he began to notice it. Little Sienna seemed human like you, without any problem. She grew, crawled, babbled. Everything normal. While Joseph had inherited his father’s Kryptonian gene. At three months, he began to cry in a way that wasn’t normal. The lights in the house flickered. The kitchen lights, the living room lights, even the refrigerator light. You and Clark looked at each other, surprised.

“The neighbors are going to notice,” you whispered, your heart racing, trying to calm the baby in your arms. You rocked him gently, but the lights kept flickering.

Clark was already on his feet, looking toward the window. “It’s okay. I’ll fix something quickly,” he said, and stepped into the hallway. He returned seconds later. The lights stopped flickering. “I checked the building’s fuses. Well… I replaced them without anyone seeing me.”

You let out a long sigh. Then you wrapped little Sienna in a thick blanket. Clark picked her up carefully, holding her close against his chest. You wrapped Joseph and placed him against your chest, feeling how he was still trembling a little from crying. Clark held your waist tightly, and in a single breath you arrived at the Fortress of Solitude. Joseph’s cries were still loud, but in there no one could hear them. The ice gleamed around you. Everything was silent, except for the baby’s soft sobs.

“So he took after you,” you said with a tired smile, looking at Joseph as he slowly began to close his eyes.

Clark nodded with a shy smile. He looked at the baby—how, after an hour, the child had decided it was time to sleep. His fists were closed and his breathing calm. Clark looked at you while you held your son so carefully. Then his gaze shifted to little Sienna, also asleep in his other arm. He looked at her peacefully and suddenly a tremor shook something cold inside him. It wasn’t real cold. It was fear. That meant his son Joseph would live as long as he would. How would they live without you? How would Joseph live without his sister Sienna when she grew old and he didn’t? He looked at you with concern, but you didn’t notice. You were too focused on tucking the children in.

Clark stepped closer and hugged you gently. He carried all three of you without any effort: Sienna in one arm, Joseph in the other, and you pressed against his chest. They returned to the apartment in a second. He laid the babies in their crib, side by side, and you covered them with a soft blanket. Then you slept with Clark by your side. He held you all night, stroking your hair, breathing in your scent, as if he wanted to preserve that moment forever.

The fear worsened when the children turned ten. Clark watched them run through the living room, laugh, argue over toys, and then he would look at you. You were already thirty-eight. You were still beautiful—anyone who saw you would know that. In fact, Clark seemed more in love every day, if that was even possible. He looked at you as if it were the first time. You took care of your children, worked, kept the house running with a strength that left him speechless. But you also looked at yourself in the mirror more often now. You would stand still in front of it, running your hand over your face, touching the small lines that were beginning to appear beside your eyes. You looked at younger women walking beside you on the street, in the supermarket, in the park when you took the kids out. They were sweet, just as you once were. They were beautiful. And you lowered your gaze, tightened your grip on your keys, and kept walking. Forty would come soon, and you knew Clark would continue to look younger. You didn’t need a mirror to know it. Clark knew it too. He looked at you with concern, with that hidden sadness he tried to cover with smiles.

One afternoon, you were brushing your hair in front of the vanity in your room. He entered without making a sound, as always. He stood behind you.

“You’re still beautiful,” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist, looking at you through the mirror. He rested his chin on your shoulder. “Honestly, you make me nervous. I’m still a lovestruck teenager,” he added, letting out a soft, almost shy laugh.

You laughed too, shaking your head. But your laughter faded quickly. You remained staring at your reflection, your fingers still on the brush.

“When will it start to look bad?” you asked, your voice calm but with something broken inside.

Clark looked at you, not understanding. He frowned slightly.

“How long will I be able to kiss you without it looking like an older woman trying to win over a man in his thirties?” you continued, setting the brush down on the table. “Imagine when I reach eighty, Clark. Or seventy. I’ll look like your grandmother.”

He turned you gently, very carefully, as if you were something fragile. He caressed your face with his fingertips, from your temple down to your chin.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, his voice barely trembling.

You smiled, but he didn’t smile back.

“No, really,” he insisted, gently pressing your cheek. “I… it doesn’t matter how much your age advances. I will keep loving you just as much. I… I don’t want to love anyone else,” he said, and in his eyes you saw that fear again—that same fear he had the day he put the ring on your finger.

You took his hand. You held it with both of yours. “Hey,” you whispered, looking at him intently. “The day I die… Clark, you won’t spend your entire life loving me, will you?” you asked.

Clark looked at you in disbelief. As if the question had struck his chest. His eyes widened slightly.

“Love, I… you’ll live more than a hundred years,” you continued, squeezing his fingers. “I don’t want you to stay stuck after I’m gone. I couldn’t bear to see you that way—alone, sad, unwilling to love anyone else. That would hurt me more than dying.”

“We shouldn’t talk about that,” he pleaded, his voice rough. He shut his eyes tightly, as if he could erase the words just by not seeing them.

“Please,” he added, almost breathless.

You nodded silently. And he hugged you. He held you tightly against his chest and rested his face in your hair. The two of you stayed like that for a long time, without saying anything more.

And then it came. The years went by. The children grew. Sienna and Joseph were no longer those babies who cried in the Fortress. Now they understood things. You and Clark explained to them why their father still looked young. You did it calmly, sitting in the living room, with both children listening with the seriousness of those who were no longer little. Clark stepped away from Metropolis for a while. He was Superman—of course, that would never change. But as Clark Kent, you both decided to fake his death before people began to notice that something strange was going on. Because a man who doesn’t age—that raises questions. And questions were dangerous. So you did it. You said he had died in an accident. There was a small funeral, with few people, with white flowers and people crying in silence. You looked sadly at everyone who came to say goodbye to your husband, that husband who was actually still alive, who still slept beside you every night. Your husband was now as young as the first day you met him, and you were already fifty. Your children stood beside you, watching you. Joseph looked at you. He was so much like Clark that sometimes it made your chest tighten.

“It’s for the best, Mom,” Joseph whispered sadly, shaking his head slowly. He knew Clark was away at that moment so they could make the accident believable. He knew his father would return at nightfall.

“Besides,” Sienna said, her voice firm as she held your arm, “if we waited any longer, everyone would start to suspect. Someone would have noticed.”

You nodded without saying anything. You just stared at the empty coffin that no one could open.

Clark came back every day. No matter what the newspapers or the neighbors said. He returned home when the sun went down, took off his boots at the entrance, and looked for you in the kitchen or the living room. You were his wife. He wore his wedding ring on his finger, shining just like the first day. One night, you watched him as he washed the dishes. You lowered your gaze and looked at your hands. They were beginning to wrinkle. Your skin wasn’t the same anymore. You weren’t the same.

Clark dried his hands on a cloth and walked over to you. He knelt on the kitchen floor, in front of the chair where you were sitting. He took your hands in his.

“Hey, aren’t I still your husband?” Clark asked, with a small smile, tilting his head the way he did when he joked.

You smiled and caressed his face with your palm. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against your fingers.

“I missed you,” you admitted, your voice breaking. You weren’t talking about that day. You were talking about all the days. Every morning when you saw him so young and it was hard to believe he had stayed by your side.

Clark opened his eyes and hugged you tightly, wrapping his arms fully around you, holding you against him as if you still weighed the same as you did at twenty-six.

Your life was long. Very long for an ordinary human. Those eighty years you once mentioned jokingly in your youth, when you laughed against Clark’s chest, fell short. You reached eighty-five. Death showed Clark mercy and gave you a few more years, as if it knew he wouldn’t be able to let you go so soon. In your final years, he cared for you with hands so gentle it seemed he feared breaking you. He bathed you, brushed your hair, read to you aloud when you could no longer hold books. He took you to the garden in the mornings so you could feel the sun. When the day came, Clark mourned your death. He cried as much as your children did. Joseph and Sienna stood beside him, the three of them embracing in the room where you had closed your eyes for the last time. Joseph had promised to take care of Sienna, the little human of the family who was now already thirty. Sienna had married a good man, a normal man, and had a baby who still carried some of your features: the same shape of the eyes, the same way of pressing the lips together when thinking. Joseph, on the other hand, was engaged to someone who was not from this planet. She was immortal, luckily for him. Joseph would not suffer the same fate as his father. He would not have to watch his love grow old while he remained the same.

Clark withdrew from everyone for a time. He couldn’t look at people’s faces without searching for yours among them. He went far away, to places where no one knew him, where he could be alone with his memories. He watched his grandchildren from afar, from atop a building or behind a tree, not daring to get too close. He spent time with them sometimes, when the pain eased a little. “He’s a friend of their mother,” Sienna would say when her children asked who that tall man was who sometimes appeared at parties. Even though she loved spending time with her father, she knew he needed his space. Clark looked at her—his little Sienna, just like her mother. So much like you now, with her own family, cooking for her children, laughing the same way you used to laugh. Joseph also had his own children, some with Kryptonian genes, others more human, all carrying pieces of both of you.

Then Clark returned to Earth. Not because he wanted to, but because Joseph went looking for him. He found him floating in space, staring into nothingness. Joseph stood in front of him and looked at him with those blue eyes just like his.

“Sienna wants to see you, Dad,” Joseph said, his voice calm but heavy.

Clark looked at him without moving. He waited.

“She’s saying goodbye,” Joseph said, and then his voice broke slightly.

Clark said nothing else. He descended to Earth immediately. He flew faster than he had in years. He arrived at Sienna’s house and entered without knocking. He found her in bed, covered with a blanket you had woven decades earlier. Her children were around her, her grandchildren too. Sienna’s hair was completely white. The years had settled over her, weighing in every wrinkle, in every bone visible beneath her skin. But when she saw her father, her eyes lit up just like when she was a child.

“Dad,” Sienna whispered, her voice tired, so soft it was barely audible. The scene was strange—having a father who looked younger than his own children. But for Clark, it wasn’t strange. He had already lived it. He took his daughter’s hand and smiled, even though inside everything was falling apart.

“I thought you wouldn’t come, Dad,” Sienna said, barely squeezing his fingers.

Clark shook his head. “I promised I’d come back,” he said, and gently stroked her white hair with infinite softness. “You’re very beautiful, sweetheart. Just like your mother.”

Sienna smiled. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. “You haven’t forgotten her, have you? Mom… you still love her, Dad. You’ve refused to find someone else,” she whispered, searching his gaze. “Mom wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

Clark hesitated. He shook his head in denial, but then he smiled with such deep sadness that Sienna’s eyes filled with tears.

“Your mother was the love of my life,” Clark said, his voice breaking, the words coming out as if they cost him. “I can’t call anyone else my wife but your mother. No matter how long I remain here. I… my heart was made to beat for her, even if she is no longer here.”

Sienna smiled, and in her smile was your smile—the same one Clark had loved for so many years.

“She loves you just as much,” Sienna said, her voice barely there now.

Clark watched as her voice faded, as her eyes slowly closed, as her chest stopped rising and falling. Sienna stopped breathing. Joseph, at the foot of the bed, looked at her with tears in his eyes. She was his twin, his other half, the one who had entered the world holding his hand. And now she had gone too.

The years kept passing. Superman was reborn again and again. He left, he escaped, he returned. But he was always there, saving those who needed him, even if his heart no longer beat with the same strength as before. Even though you were no longer there, your features and Clark’s lived on in those who came after. In fact, it was one of Sienna’s great-granddaughters who, one ordinary day, saw him from afar. Clark stood on a crowded street, looking at shop windows without truly seeing them. The young woman stopped. Something caught her attention. She was like you. She had the same laugh—the kind that begins with a soft whistle and ends in a burst of laughter. The same voice, slightly husky when she spoke softly. Her eyes were exactly like yours, large and dark, with that spark that wanted to challenge everything. Maybe she was a little more temperamental than you, with her brows always slightly raised as if she disagreed with something. But she was you—only with reddish hair inherited from her father. Clark smiled from a distance. He didn’t approach. He didn’t need to. He just looked at her for a moment, stored her image somewhere in his memory already filled with you, and kept walking. Your genes and Clark’s would remain for many more generations. Joseph kept meeting his great-grandchildren, his great-great-grandchildren, everyone who came after. Some had Kryptonian genes, with immense strength from a young age. Others were completely human. But almost all of them still carried some trace of you. A way of walking, a gesture with their hands, a way of laughing that reminded Clark why it was worth continuing to live.

“It’s been three centuries, Dad,” Joseph said, looking at his father in the Fortress. Joseph’s voice was no longer that of a child or a young man. It was the voice of someone who had lived a long life, who had seen entire generations be born and die. He stood beside Clark, arms crossed, observing the ice walls glowing with a bluish light. The Fortress seemed different now. It wasn’t just a workplace for Superman anymore. It had become something else. In every corner there were images: one of Sienna as a baby, wrapped in a yellow blanket, laughing while Clark lifted her toward the ceiling. Another of Clark running with Joseph and Sienna through a garden, the three of them rolling on the grass. There were pictures of you laughing—many pictures of you. You holding your children, you kissing Clark on the cheek, you looking at the camera with those eyes he could never forget. There was also the photo from your wedding day, with your white dress and him in his blue suit, the two of you looking at each other as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. Everything was a sanctuary. A sanctuary made for you.

Clark sat on a kind of ice bench, his gaze fixed on a floating screen. On it played an old video—one he knew by heart, every second, every sound. And yet he watched it again and again as if it were the first time.

“And in those three centuries, I have kept loving your mother,” Clark said with a smile. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

In the video, it was you. You were young, your brown hair falling over your shoulders, laughing at something that had happened off-camera. You had bought a house in the countryside, a small house with a large garden and an old tree in the background. Clark held Joseph in his arms, the boy with his black hair and wide eyes looking at everything with curiosity. Sienna was in your arms, holding a strand of your hair with her chubby little hands.

“We have to look at the phone,” you said in the video. Your voice sounded young, alive, full of energy as you pointed at the phone Clark had left resting on a chair. The little ones babbled, moving their hands, not really understanding what was happening. “Dad’s going to take pictures,” you said, and then Clark came to your side, drying his hands on a kitchen cloth.

“Ready,” Clark said in the video, with that slightly awkward smile of his. “Now we just have to press this button.”

You looked at the phone with curiosity, tilting your head. “Love, it’s a video,” you said when you saw the numbers on the screen going up. And then you smiled—that smile that stayed with Clark forever. “Like this, okay. I think you can record and take photos at the same time.”

You took the small remote and started recording. Clark wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Come on, look at the phone,” you said, and then the click of a photo sounded. You leaned against Clark’s chest, comfortable, as if that were your place in the world. Another photo. Clark kissed your cheek while your children laughed behind you. Another photo. And another.

Joseph smiled as he watched that moment. He had been so small then, so unaware of everything that would come. Your memory was a strange hollow in his chest. Something that hurt and comforted at the same time. He missed you so much. He longed so deeply to call you “Mom” just one more time, even if only to hear you answer. He longed to play with his sister Sienna, to run with her through the garden, to fight over the last piece of cake. Even though he was an adult now, even though centuries had passed, even though he had watched his own children grow and age, he still carried that childlike emptiness—the kind that misses his mother.

Loneliness surrounded Clark throughout all those years. He lived in a world that changed far too quickly for him. The people he knew grew old and left, and he remained. But your memory kept him alive. He smiled when no one was watching, remembering some silly joke you had made. He cried at night, when the silence of the Fortress became too heavy. Clark’s love was so pure, so intact, that he lived on only because you, from the shadows of his mind, told him: “Live. Don’t sink into despair because of my absence. We will see each other again.” And he promised. He promised you on your deathbed, holding your already cold hand. He wouldn’t do anything against himself. He wouldn’t seek an end. But life always needs heroes. And even the strongest hero can eventually die.

No one expected it. A cosmic enemy appeared—something from the farthest stars, capable of growing stronger by absorbing the light of different suns. Every time Clark struck it, the creature absorbed the energy and became larger, stronger. They fought in the sky, in space, above entire cities. Clark fought with everything he had. At one moment, when Joseph was about to be attacked, Clark stepped in front of him. He took the strongest blow of his life. Thousands died that day, in the most terrible battle the Earth had ever seen. But among the fallen was Clark. He was struck with kryptonite, yes, but it wasn’t just that. He pushed his power to its limit, beyond what his body could endure. He gave everything he had so his son could live. And in the end, he was gone. The memory of his body falling from the sky, his eyes closing, his arms opening as if he wanted to embrace the void. Clark embraced death like an old friend—like someone who had been waiting for that moment for centuries.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a field. It was strange, yet he recognized it immediately. It was Smallville. He could recognize that sky anywhere. But it wasn’t the same field where he had grown up as a child. It was different. The wheat swayed gently with the wind, white clouds drifted slowly across the sky. And then he heard a voice. A voice he had kept in his memory for four hundred years.

“You took your time, Kent.”

He turned quickly, almost stumbling. And he saw you. You were not the older woman he had watched die in that bed. You had no wrinkles, no white hair, no trembling hands. You were you at twenty-six. Your brown hair moved with the wind. Your eyes shone. And you were laughing—with that laugh he had believed he had lost forever.

“Did you miss me?” you asked, tilting your head the way you used to.

Clark’s eyes filled with tears instantly. He couldn’t speak. He opened his mouth and only a sob came out.

“Oh, my love,” he finally said, and ran toward you. His feet barely touched the ground. He wrapped his arms around you, held you as tightly as he could, burying his face in your shoulder. “Four hundred years,” he whispered, his voice breaking, soaking your clothes with his tears. “I waited for you and loved you for four hundred years.”

Then he looked at you, holding your face in his hands. He kissed you, and it was like the first kiss, like the one at your wedding, like every kiss you had shared in a lifetime.

You smiled, wiping his tears away with your fingers. “I know,” you whispered, your voice warm. “It’s time to rest, Clark.”

You took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “Let’s go home,” you said, and began to walk toward where the sun was setting, through the golden wheat.

Clark followed you. He didn’t let go of your hand. He walked beside you, feeling the wind on his face, feeling that something inside him was finally at peace. And at last, time stopped being a curse for Clark. Because there was no more waiting. No more counting the years, no more watching loved ones leave, no more being alone in a cold Fortress. There was only the field, your hand, and the fulfilled promise of seeing each other again.