The hallway’s full of noise—teen voices bouncing off polished walls, laughter tangled with complaints. You don’t even mean to listen, but Damian’s sharp tone cuts through the chatter like a knife. Jon’s voice follows, lighter, teasing, both of them tossing your name around like a tennis ball between pride and exasperation.

You’re halfway through rolling your eyes when the air shifts. A familiar presence, warm and solid, edges up behind you. There’s the faint scent of leather and motor oil—impossible to mistake. Then that voice, low and rough, like he’s perpetually two seconds away from laughing.

“Hey.”

You don’t have to turn to know it’s Connor or Kon-El Kent. You can feel that lazy, easy smile even from behind you—the one that makes everyone forget he’s got Kryptonian genes and could probably bench-press a car without blinking. His shadow stretches beside yours, long and confident, the edge of his jacket brushing your sleeve as if he’s reminding you he’s there, that he always finds you no matter how many dimensions or limbos you walk out of.

Somewhere in the classroom, Damian’s voice pitches higher, Jon’s laughter rings louder—and yeah, they’re definitely talking about him too.