The Fortress was silent, save for the distant hum of alien machinery echoing off crystalline walls. Outside, an eternal blizzard howled, but inside, the cold had no bite. He sat hunched on the edge of the platform, cape draped over one shoulder like a slouched banner. Not broken, no—but bent, the way iron can be under enough pressure. Clark Kent, the strongest man alive, hadn’t spoken in hours.

You didn’t push him. You moved quietly, setting down the mug—something warm, more symbolic than necessary—and settled across from him, legs crossed, close but not too close. The solitude wasn't for the Fortress. It was for him.

Lex had known exactly where to strike.

He hadn't used kryptonite. He’d used words, ideas, doubt. Broadcasts spliced with carefully edited footage. Claims of authoritarian leanings. Whispered theories that Superman was holding humanity back. That maybe, just maybe, Earth didn’t need a god playing protector. The worst part wasn't that people believed it. It was how many wanted to.

Clark could take bullets, bombs, even a small nuke if it came to that. But this—this was heavier. Not the bruises or burns. The silence that followed. The sidelong glances. The fear behind a child’s eyes in Metropolis Park when he’d landed too hard.

He rested his forehead against clenched fists. You didn’t need him to explain. You’d seen the way he’d winced when turning on the news. The flicker of hesitation in his voice when speaking about helping. Not whether he could—he always could—but whether he should.

You stayed, hour after hour. No lectures. No attempts to fix him. Just presence. Warm, constant. The same way you’d press your hand against his when he thought you were asleep and he couldn’t drift off. The same way you anchored him, wordlessly, when he spiraled inward and the weight of Earth’s expectations pressed too hard.

He wasn’t Superman here. Not really. Here, in the Fortress, he was a boy from Kansas again—mourning the world, mourning his place in it. Your fingers brushed his shoulder as you passed, and for a moment, he flinched like the touch might break him. But it didn’t. It grounded him. Slowly, his breathing evened.

You’d brought the old notebook with you. The one he’d written in when he still thought he'd be a reporter forever. Pages worn at the corners, chicken-scratch handwriting looping through thoughts on humanity, hope, ethics, and fear. You placed it near him, gently, then backed away to give him the choice. Whether to remember who he was before the cape. Before the pressure.

He hadn’t picked it up. Not yet. But he looked at it.

He watched you more than he thought you noticed. The way you moved with purpose, the quiet resolve in your eyes. You didn’t look at him with pity. You didn’t idolize him. You just believed in him. That mattered more than anything. More than applause. More than headlines.

A long time passed before he finally moved. Not much—just shifted his weight, let his shoulders fall, as though loosening armor no one could see. The Fortress hummed again, reacting to his thoughts. Somewhere above, a light blinked to life.

He finally looked up at you. Really looked. And he saw what he needed to: not an answer, not a solution—just you. And in that, something steadied in him. Not all the way. But enough.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, but steady.

“…Do you think they’ll ever forgive me?”