#superman thoughts

You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your shoulders, a half-finished mug of tea gone cold on the coffee table. Lana’s text was still open on your phone. “He’s just stubborn. Give him time.” You weren’t sure if that was comfort or condemnation.

Then came the thump on the porch. Heavy. Solid. Followed by a whine, high-pitched and soft.

You stood too fast.

The door was already open by the time Krypto barked once, then stepped aside. He was panting, tail low and slow, eyes flicking toward the bundled figure behind him like he’d just delivered the most fragile thing in the universe.

Clark laid there, covered in ash, cuts, dried blood. His suit torn across the shoulder and smeared with grime. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first. He stood swaying slightly, arms limp at his sides, breathing just a little too shallow. Like he’d held everything together through the firestorm and finally cracked now that he’d made it to the finish line.

“Clark,” you breathed.

“I didn’t mean—” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

You stepped forward instinctively. “Come inside.”

He didn’t argue. Just let you guide him through the doorway, hand at his back, Krypto trailing behind like a silent witness. He collapsed onto the couch without grace. The same couch you’d sat on three nights ago, trying not to cry while he stared at the wall and said maybe you both needed space.

“I told Krypto to take me home,” he said quietly, fingers twitching against the frayed fabric of his suit. “I meant the the fortress. I don’t know why he thought to come here.”

You knelt in front of him, gently loosening his collar. “Maybe you didn’t.”

He blinked down at you, slow and tired. “You were right. About everything.”

“You don’t have to say that just because you got hurt.”

“I’m not saying it because I got hurt,” he murmured, “I’m saying it because being out there, doing what I do… it never feels as heavy as when you’re not here at the end of it.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his suit top, and he let you pull it down. The bruise on his ribs looked like it was already healing, but it was dark, angry, and raw. You touched it carefully with the tips of your fingers.

“I thought you might not come back,” you said, barely a whisper.

“I didn’t think I should. After the things I said…”

“Clark,” you said, voice firm this time. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed. You’re allowed to say things you don’t mean. I just want you to talk to me when you’re scared. Not shut me out and leave.”

He reached for your hand. His was scraped and bruised, knuckles cracked. “I was scared. And I hurt you anyway.”

“You’re here now.”

He let out a slow, trembling breath, like the last piece of armor he’d been holding onto finally gave way. “I don’t want space from you,” he said. “I want a life with you. And if I messed that up, then—”

“You didn’t.” You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re tired. You’re hurting. Just let me take care of you tonight, okay?”

His lips brushed yours, soft, reverent, like an apology and a thank-you all at once. Then he leaned into you, folding like a paper crane, head resting on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

And when Krypto curled up on the rug beside the couch, letting out a deep sigh, it was like the whole house exhaled with him.

Whatever had happened before didn’t matter right now.

His breathing had evened out, but you could feel the tension still coiled in his muscles. Even curled into you, even with his arms around your waist like a lifeline, his body didn’t truly relax. He was still carrying it, the weight of the fight, the fallout of your argument, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

You ran your hand through his hair. Dirt flaked off. Ash stuck under your nails.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to a whimper. Not from pain. From relief. Like part of him had been waiting for you to say it.

You led him upstairs slowly, step by step, his hand in yours like a child who’d wandered too far from home. Krypto stayed behind, curled up in the warmth of the living room. For once, the dog seemed to understand that this moment wasn’t for him.

In the bathroom, you reached for the hem of his pants, glancing up for permission. He gave a faint nod and helped you peel away the last of the ruined suit. The fabric clung stubbornly to dried blood and soot.

There was nothing sexual about it. Just reverent silence.

He stepped into the shower like he was walking into a confessional. The water hit his skin and turned brown almost instantly, swirling down the drain like a war story.

You didn’t ask to join. You just did fully clothed in an old tee and shorts, arms reaching around him as he stood under the stream, hands braced on the tile like it was the only thing holding him up.

You grabbed the soap and started at his back, slow and gentle. Over every bruise, every scrape, every bloodstained crease. His shoulders were tight as wire.

“You can let go,” you said softly.

He didn’t speak, but his exhale said everything. You felt it. How the tension bled out of him under your hands, how his posture shifted from rigid to raw. He leaned his forehead against the wall, eyes closed.

Your fingers found his scalp next. You poured shampoo into your palm and worked it in, nails lightly scraping as you massaged away the grit. Foam gathered and rinsed down, pink where it passed a healing cut above his temple.

“This okay?” you asked.

His answer came in the form of a small sound, barely audible, like a choked hum. He nodded once. That was enough.

When you reached his chest, you paused. Your hands hovered over the place just above his heart. The bruise there looked fresh. Like someone had tried to crush the breath out of him. He opened his eyes then, meeting your gaze for the first time since stepping in.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it,” he said.

“You did.”

“And Krypto, he just… he brought me here. Straight to you.”

You nodded, tears pricking. “Because even he knows where you belong.”

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was safe. Sacred. You washed the rest of him in quiet reverence. Wiped away the remains of the battle, the blood of strangers, the fury of gods. When you were done, you reached for a towel and wrapped it around his shoulders like a blanket.

He held it closed with one hand. The other reached for you.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

You stepped close, pressing your lips to his chest, right over the bruise. “Maybe not. But you have me.”

you dressed him in one of the old white t-shirt he kept in your drawer, soft from too many washes. He didn’t speak as you slipped it on for him. Just stood there, damp curls falling over his forehead, watching you like you were something holy.

You guided him to the bed with the same quiet authority you’d used during the shower. Clark followed willingly, his movements loose now, pliable, like he’d been unwound. He sat down on the edge, eyes flicking to you when you turned toward the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmured. “Don’t go anywhere.” You joke and hear him laugh a little.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice barely above a rasp.

The cocoa was muscle memory milk, a splash of vanilla, two scoops of the powdered mix he pretended wasn’t his favorite but always finished to the last drop. You whisked it gently, careful not to let it boil. Marshmallows optional, but tonight, you added three. Because you loved him. And because maybe he needed a little softness.

When you returned to the bedroom, he was already lying down, facing your side of the bed, one hand reaching across the sheets as if to check you hadn’t disappeared.

“I brought you something,” you said softly, climbing in beside him and handing him the mug.

He blinked at it, surprised. “You remembered.”

You gave him a look. “Of course I did.”

He took a careful sip, letting the warmth settle in his chest. You watched him, and for the first time that night, something behind his eyes cracked open. A trace of color returned to his cheeks. His shoulders dropped.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I know.”

“You could’ve been angry. Still.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers through his damp hair. “I was. Then I saw your face.”

His throat worked around the lump he didn’t try to hide. “I love you.”

“I know,” you said again. “Finish your cocoa.”

He obeyed. When he was done, you set the mug on the nightstand, then crawled closer and pulled him into your arms. He settled into your chest without hesitation, his head tucked under your chin, arms circling your waist like nothing else mattered.

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him. Ran your fingers down his spine. Rubbed slow, comforting circles into the small of his back. Kissed the crown of his head.

The kind of love that didn’t ask for anything. That didn’t need fixing. Just being.

Eventually, his breathing deepened. His body went heavy against yours. Sleep took him, soft and dreamless.