Clark Kent always knew you would matter.

Not in the way you know things like algebra or how to string a fence line. No, it was quieter. Softer. Like the way sunrises come without being invited. He just knew.

Maybe it was the way you always smiled at him even when Whitney Fordman was glaring holes into the back of his head, like Clark had set his truck on fire (he hadn’t — though his heat vision had accidentally melted the mailbox once).

Or maybe it was how, even when the other kids whispered about him being weird or “off,” you still passed him folded notes in third period with little hand-drawn suns on the corners.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Clark had knocked over the entire art easel trying to impress her when he was seven.

Paint everywhere. On the floor. On Lana Lang’s hair. On himself.

Everyone had laughed. Except you.

You walked right up to him, covered in glitter, and said, “It’s okay, Kent. Van Gogh went crazy too, and they still put his stuff in museums.”

Then you’d handed him a red crayon.

That was the first time he’d thought you might be magic.

Clark kicked open the barn door, popcorn bucket still in hand, movie stub crumpled in his hoodie pocket. He’d seen Blade II with Pete and Chloe. They’d ribbed him about not asking you out — again. “Dude, you bent the steering wheel when Chloe mentioned Y/N dating Whitney.” He didn’t answer. He never did.

He stopped.

There, sitting on the wooden fence beneath the moonlight, was you. Hair loose, boots dangling, a blanket around your shoulders, staring up at the sky like it held all the answers you didn’t have.

His heart tugged in that all-too-familiar way.

You always did that — made him forget everything else. Even the things he could do. Even the parts of himself that weren’t human.

“Hey, there.” he called out softly, approaching.

You didn’t flinch. Just looked back over your shoulder and smiled in that slow, sun-warm way.

“Hey, Kent. You’re late.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t know I was expected.”

“You usually show up right before I lose my mind. Like a weird clockwork angel with bad timing.”

Clark hopped up onto the fence beside you. You shifted to make space, shoulder brushing his. That single point of contact made his pulse thrum. He doesn’t have to ask to know that your sister probably has another boyfriend over, that she’s probably getting high and wasting rent money on alcohol. That you probably had another huge fight because of it.

Clark smiled faintly. “You’re always welcome here. My mom’s been making extra dinner just in case.”