Clark was halfway through hoisting a hay bale onto the loft rail when the sharp, wet gasp cut through the heavy summer air like a blade.

He didn’t hesitate. He turned—and what he saw made the world drop out from under him.

You stood frozen a few yards away, haloed in barn dust and dappled sunlight, your small hands wrapped around something faintly glowing green. Kryptonite.

His chest clenched violently. He couldn’t even breathe.

“No!” The word tore from his throat, louder than he intended, rough and panicked. “Drop it! Drop it now!”

You flinched, tiny fingers jerking open, the jagged rock slipping free—but not before it nicked your foot on the way down. It hit the barn floor with a dull clunk, rolled once, and settled beside your now-unsteady legs.

“I—I didn’t know, Daddy,” you whimpered, already crying. “It looked pretty—I just wanted to see…”

Then your knees buckled.

“No, no, no!”

Clark lunged instinctively—but as soon as he stepped closer, the Kryptonite’s radiation hit him like a freight train. His muscles screamed, vision doubled, and bile rose sharp in his throat. He stumbled, one hand gripping the beam beside him to stay upright.

You collapsed fully beside it, your skin pale and clammy. “It hurts,” you whispered. “Why does it hurt? Why can’t I—”

Your words slurred.

His child. His baby. Half-human, yes—but half him. Kryptonian blood in your veins. That damn rock was killing you.

And he couldn’t get near enough to help.

Not directly.

Clark’s eyes scanned the barn frantically, brain lurching through the fog of pain. There—a rake. Wooden handle. Long enough. Heavy enough.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t afford to.

He grabbed it from the wall, ignoring how his hands trembled, ignoring the pounding in his skull and the fire in his gut. He dropped to one knee—barely able to stay upright—and with a roar of desperate strength, hurled the rake across the floor like a spear.

The handle struck the Kryptonite dead center, sending it skittering across the barn, far from you.

Immediately, the pressure eased. Not gone, but enough for him to move.

He dragged himself forward, crawling on hands and knees, ignoring the splinters and hay slicing into his skin. His focus was only on you.

You were curled on your side now, shaking, eyes fluttering weakly.

“Sweetheart,” he choked, voice ragged as he gathered you into his arms. “It’s gone, baby, it’s gone. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”