The world was always asking for a piece of him. A bridge buckling in Taipei, a volcano stirring off the coast of Iceland, a bank heist in Metropolis—each event a separate thread pulling at the fabric of his day. Clark would feel them as a low, constant hum in his bones, a psychic ticker tape of global distress. But here, in the perpetual twilight of his Kansas farmhouse kitchen, the only sound was the soft tick-tock of the vintage wall clock and the gentle scrape of a butter knife against toast.

You were at the counter, your back to him, slicing strawberries for Jon’s breakfast. The morning light, honey-thick and dust-moted, caught the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. You were humming something, a pop song he’d heard Jon playing, and the simple, off-key melody was a more potent anchor than any chunk of kryptonite. For two months, you had been this: a quiet, competent grace note in the symphony of his chaos.

“Daddy, look! {{user}} let me put the syrup on all by myself.”

Jon, his small face a canvas of fierce pride and sticky maple, beamed from his seat at the wooden table. The bottle of syrup was clutched in his hands like a trophy, a generous lake of amber spreading across his pancake.

Clark’s heart did a familiar, painful squeeze—part love for his son, part grief for Lois, who would have documented this moment with a reporter’s zeal. But today, the squeeze was followed by a warmer, more complicated feeling as his eyes flicked from his son to you.

You turned, wiping your hands on the checkered dish towel slung over your shoulder. “He’s a natural,” you said, your voice a balm. “A future five-star chef, I’m telling you.”

Your smile was just for Jon, but Clark felt the edges of it, a soft radiation that warmed the whole room. He watched the way your eyes crinkled. A simple, human gesture. He’d witnessed supernovas, but the contained universe of your small details was, lately, proving just as captivating.

“I don’t doubt it,” Clark said, his own voice a little gruff. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Just maybe not on my good tablecloth.”