The gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you cross the narrow stretch of land between your houses, dusk settling soft and blue over the fields. The Kent door opens before you can knock.

Clark stands in the foyer, broad shoulder braced casually against the archway, one arm lifted as though resting there by habit. He smiles, shy and earnest, like he always does when he sees you. “Hey. You didn’t text.”

“I thought I’d surprise you,” you say, returning the smile, heat curling low in your chest.

Upstairs, his father’s hammer strikes wood, a little too heavy, too forceful and the whole house shivers. Clark doesn’t. His palm presses more firmly into the frame, tendons standing out beneath his sleeve. “Mom’s just setting dinner,” he says, voice steady. From the kitchen, Martha calls, “Clark, sweetheart, is that—?”

“It’s her, yeah,” he answers quickly, eyes never leaving yours. Jonathan muttered something about a stubborn beam overhead in the distance from upstairs.

For a moment, you swear the house leans into him, like it knows. Clark laughed, quick and breathless. “Old house,” he said, feigning a strain in his voice to make it sound like he was struggling when really he isn’t; as if he ever would with his powers. His gaze lingered on you, hopeful, almost reverent. “You can come in, if you like. I’ll, uh.. be a second.”