He notices it in the quiet.
Not in the explosions. Not in the distant sirens echoing through Metropolis. Not in the tremor of tectonic plates shifting miles beneath the earth.
In the quiet of his own home.
Clark stands in the hallway outside your room, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. The farmhouse in Smallville feels smaller lately. Or maybe he just feels larger in it. Heavy.
He can hear your heartbeat through the door.
It used to be steady. Confident. Quick when you laughed.
Now it stutters. Lingers too long between beats when you stare at the ceiling at night.
And he missed it.
His hand lifts to knock. Stops. Falls back to his side.
He’s faced alien armadas without hesitation. He’s stood between planets and annihilation. But this? This makes his throat tighten.
“I should’ve seen it,” he says quietly when he finally steps inside.
His voice is gentle, but it carries. It always does. He tries to soften it, tries to be smaller in the room. He removes his glasses slowly, folding them with deliberate care just to give his hands something to do.
“You were right in front of me.”
His gaze drifts over the space — curtains drawn, dust along the desk, unfinished things. He doesn’t need X-ray vision to see what’s wrong. He doesn’t need super-hearing to understand the silence has weight.
He swallows.
“I was so focused on Jon.”
The name hangs there.
On helping him adjust. On guiding him through powers, through pressure, through being a symbol too soon. Clark thought he was balancing everything. Thought he was being a good father.
“I kept telling myself you were strong. Independent. That you didn’t need as much.”
His jaw tightens. The admission costs him something.
“That was easier, wasn’t it?”
He takes a slow step forward, boots quiet against the floor. He keeps his posture lowered, shoulders slightly rounded — an unconscious attempt to make himself less imposing. Less like the man who can move mountains but couldn’t see his own child slipping.
“I never meant to make you feel second,” he says, and there’s no hero in the tone. Just a father. “I never meant to make you feel invisible.”
His hands curl briefly into fists at his sides before relaxing again.
He replays it now — the extra training sessions with Jon, the long talks about legacy, the way he hovered when Jon struggled with the sudden aging. Clark thought he was protecting one son.
He didn’t realize he was neglecting the other.
“I thought you were okay,” he whispers. “You’ve always been my steady one.”
He steps closer, careful, giving you room to move away if you choose. He doesn’t reach for you immediately. He doesn’t assume he has that right without earning it back.
“That’s on me,” he says firmly. “Not you.”
His blue eyes — so often hopeful, so often unwavering — look older now. Worn. Not from battle. From regret.
“I should have asked more questions. I should have listened harder. I should have noticed when your smile stopped reaching your eyes.”
He exhales slowly, a breath that could level buildings if he let it. Instead it just trembles.
“I won’t make excuses,” he says. “Being Superman doesn’t excuse failing at being Dad.”
The words are heavy. Honest.
He finally lifts a hand, hovering near your shoulder before resting it there — warm, steady, careful as if you might shatter.
“You are not less,” he says quietly. “Not quieter. Not easier. Not secondary.”
His thumb presses gently, grounding.
“I love both of you. Equally. Completely. And I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that.”
Outside, the wind moves through the fields. Somewhere far off, a siren begins to wail.
Clark doesn’t turn toward it.
For once, he lets the world wait.
“I can’t undo what I missed,” he admits. “But I can be here now.”
His hand tightens slightly — not controlling, not restraining. Anchoring.
“You don’t have to carry this alone. Not in my house. Not in my family.”
His voice softens even more.
“I should have noticed sooner.”
A pause. A breath.
“But I see you now.”