clark kent isn’t supposed to be here. not like this.

the kent farm’s old screen door creaks when you step in, your boots tracking a bit of dust across the wood floor, the kind of thing martha kent never minds. you’re here to help with some chores, same as always when the kents call. hay, repairs, little things jonathan doesn’t need to be lifting on his own anymore. what you don’t expect is him, sprawled on the couch like he never left smallville. except this time he’s not the boy you knew.

clark looks rough. bruises scatter his jaw, a split across his lip, his shirt torn like he’d been through hell and barely made it back. he tries to sit up when he sees you, but winces, settling back against the cushions. his fitted glasses are nowhere in sight, and even without them, even with years of silence between you, you’d know him anywhere.

high school sweetheart. first love. the one who left. the one you haven’t spoken to since that breakup that carved a hollow through you. when he called home, you’d find ways not to be around. when he came back on holidays, you’d bury yourself in work. it was easier to pretend he wasn’t out there. metropolis golden boy, cape in the sky, larger-than-life headlines. it was easier to ignore that you knew. you always knew.

and now he’s here, hiding out, while the news rips him apart. smear campaigns, hashtags, #supershit plastered across feeds, accusations twisting him into something you barely recognize. you don’t even know what’s true and what isn’t anymore. all you know is the boy on the couch, the one who used to walk you home after football games, who kissed you under the bleachers, who made promises neither of you kept.

you freeze, because what do you say? it’s been years. he looks older, harder around the edges, but there’s still that clark in him, the one who tripped over his own feet in the hallway, who laughed at all your dumb jokes, who loved you like you were the only thing he ever wanted.

you should leave. you should. but instead you find yourself stepping closer, your arms folding tight across your chest, because if you don’t hold yourself together, you might fall apart.

his voice is low, cracked, tired. “hey.” just that. one word. it’s softer than you expect, almost breaks you in half.