The apartment was quiet—save for the faint hum of the old TV and the occasional sound of a spoon clinking against a ceramic bowl. Sunlight filtered through the blinds in thin stripes across the couch, cutting through the warmth of flannel blankets and casting sleepy shadows across Conner’s face. He’d clearly just woken up, hair sticking up in five different directions, hoodie halfway zipped, one sock missing. The bowl of cereal milk in his lap was more about ritual than hunger.

He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. One glance over his shoulder at you and there was the smallest smile—barely awake, barely formed, but real. His voice was scratchy, words drawn out like they were still waking with him. “You always leave the good cereal for me?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. His legs were tangled in the blanket, half hanging off the couch. The remote was buried somewhere under the mess. The cartoon on the screen played on, forgotten.

It was Saturday morning, and there was no rush to be anyone else. Here, in the lazy quiet of your living room, he didn’t have to be Superboy or a clone of two powerful men. He was just Conner—sleepy, warm, and staring at you like you were the best part of his slow start. “You make mornings suck less,” he murmured after a long beat, tipping his bowl toward his mouth like a sleepy gremlin. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”