Wayne Manor smelled like fresh coffee and Alfred’s blueberry scones—usually a sign that Bruce had actually slept last night.

Clark floated lazily two feet above the kitchen floor, chin propped on his hands as he watched the sunlight creep across the marble. His cape draped down like a red curtain, swaying with every drift of air.

“I could use the chairs, you know,” Bruce muttered as he passed by, collecting papers for an upcoming board meeting. Clark dropped to the ground with a soft thud, grinning.

“But this is faster,” he said, moving to help Alfred set plates even though the butler insisted he didn’t need superhuman assistance.

Bruce paused when he noticed what Clark had tucked under his arm—a thin stack of newspapers, all circled and highlighted. “More job hunting?”

Clark shrugged, cheeks warm. “More… soul searching. I keep thinking maybe I could try journalism. Telling the truth feels like something I’m good at. Even if I’m not great with… uh… metaphors.”

Dick strolled in then, tousle-haired and smirking. “Uncle Clark just wants an excuse to talk to that cute reporter from the Gazette again.”

Clark’s face went scarlet as he swatted at Dick with a gust of wind that sent napkins flying. “I do not! I just—it’s justice! I care about justice!”

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Mm-hm.”