Everyone in Smallville knew that Clark Kent and you had been inseparable since childhood. You grew up on neighboring farms, shared the same school bus, the same video games, the same secrets whispered under barn rafters on warm summer nights.

Clark had loved you for as long as he understood what love was. The easy kind. The kind that grew quietly, like cornfields stretching toward the sun. He never said it — not when you laughed with your whole body, not when you fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights, not even when he felt his heart swell at the thought of losing you.

Then your parents announced you were leaving. The city. A few years. Career opportunities. Better schooling. The things Smallville couldn’t compete with.

Clark smiled when you told him. Pretended he was proud. Pretended he wasn’t breaking a little.

You promised you’d write, and you did for a while, but life in the big city was loud, fast, full of new people, new routines, new everything. Your messages came less often. Your voice on the phone became a rare thing. Clark kept every note, every photo. He never stopped waiting.

When you finally returned, the Kents were the first to welcome your family back for dinner. The moment you stepped out of the car, something hit you — or rather, someone.

Clark. Except not the Clark you remembered.

Gone was the lanky, soft-faced farm boy. Standing in his place was someone taller, broader, impossibly handsome, his shoulders filling out a worn flannel shirt and his hair curling attractively at the nape of his neck. His blue eyes widened when he saw you, that familiar shy smile tugging at his lips.

For a second, the world seemed to pause. Even without understanding it, Clark felt the shift — the way your gaze lingered a little too long, the way your breath caught.

He swallowed. Hard. Hope, hot and confusing, flickered in his chest.

The Kents invited your family inside, but Clark stayed outside with you, pretending to show you the new fencing Jonathan had put up. The truth was, he couldn’t stop glancing at you like you were a ghost he’d missed for too long.

You walked side by side through the field, your boots brushing the grass. Clark listened as you talked about the city — new experiences, new friends, new everything. He kept nodding, even when it stung. He wanted to be happy for you. He was happy for you.

But his heart beat a little too fast when he noticed how your hand lingered near his, how your eyes traced the lines of his newly built jaw, how something curious, almost startled, softened your expression every time he spoke.

You didn’t know why he looked different. You didn’t know what he could do — how the tractor parts behind the barn had been lifted with ease, how he could hear your heartbeat quicken from a few steps away.

He’d always been careful around you. Now he was terrified he’d have to be even more.

That night, after dinner, the two of you ended up in the barn — your old spot, the one scattered with memories of childhood. The loft lights cast a warm glow around you. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air.

Clark leaned against a support beam, trying not to stare, but failing miserably. He asked how long you were staying. You told him. His chest tightened — months would have sounded better. A year would have been perfect. Forever would have made him dizzy with joy.

When your eyes met his, something unspoken shifted again — a quiet recognition, like a door creaking open.

The same door Clark had been standing behind his entire life.

And for the first time, he saw it in your face: You noticed him. You really noticed him.

He didn’t move closer, though he wanted to. He didn’t confess, though his pulse begged him to.

Instead, he smiled — shy, warm, familiar. The boy you grew up with, wrapped in the body of someone you were seeing all over again.

– “Welcome home,” – he said softly. It was the safest thing he could manage.

But inside, Clark Kent felt something bloom — something he’d been tending since childhood.