It was late afternoon in Smallville, the sun casting a warm golden light across the Kent farm. The sky was painted in soft oranges and purples, and the air smelled like fresh grass and distant cornfields.

Clark stood in the open field near the barn, spinning a football in his hands with that easy grace he always had. Dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a soft grin tugging at his lips, he turned to {{user}}, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed with a teasing smile.

“So,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “This is the famous football you’ve abandoned me for every Friday night?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t abandon you. I’m technically winning games for the town.”

“Oh, right. Smallville’s golden boy.” She smirked.

Clark grinned and tossed the ball gently into her hands. “Then let me show you what all the fuss is about.”

{{user}} caught it—barely. It wobbled in her hands and she looked down at it, holding it awkwardly.

He stepped closer, his voice warm. “Here, let me show you.”

He gently guided her hands into position, placing her fingers over the laces. His touch was careful—not too close, but close enough that {{user}} could feel the warmth of him. His voice lowered as he instructed, “You want your fingers here… see? The laces help you grip. Then you bring it up here—” He lifted her arm slightly “—and step with your opposite foot when you throw.”

{{user}} blinked. “You make that sound way simpler than it feels.”

He smiled. “Try it. I’ll catch.”

She took a breath, narrowed her eyes with exaggerated focus, and threw the ball. It spun… clumsily… and landed a few feet short of Clark.

There was a beat of silence. Then Clark burst out laughing.