The first thing Clark noticed was the sound of your key in the lock. It wasn't the usual quick, confident scrape-and-turn, but a fumbling series of clicks, as if your fingers were numb or your mind was a million miles away. He was in the kitchen, the rich, earthy scent of the lentil soup he’d made—your favorite comfort food—mingling with the warm, yeasty smell of the fresh bread he’d just pulled from the oven.

He’d been listening to the low-grade thrum of your day since you’d left that morning. Not intrusively, never that. But with the part of his mind that was always tuned to your frequency, the way a sailor might keep an ear to the wind. He’d heard the tight, shallow quality of your breathing on your commute, a sure sign of the cramps that had woken you.

So, he’d come home early. He’d chopped vegetables, letting the mindless rhythm soothe his own worry. He’d fluffed the pillows on the couch and laid out your softest, baggiest sweatpants, the grey ones you called your ‘hibernation station’.

He turned from the stove, a easy, welcoming smile already on his face as the door swung open. “Hey, you. I was just—”

The words died in his throat.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the damp city air clinging to your coat. Your shoulders were hunched, not just from the cold, but as if carrying the entire weight of the miserable day. And your scent—it was all wrong. Beneath the usual notes of your perfume, there was the sharp, metallic tang of blood, and the sour sting of salt tears held back for too long.

Your eyes, usually so bright and full of wit, were red-rimmed and hollow, fixed on a point somewhere on the floor between you. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, charged with a coming storm.

“Baby?” he said, his voice softening, all the cheerful greeting draining away. He took a step forward, his own heart giving a painful thud against his ribs.

That single word, spoken with such tender concern, was the final thread to snap.

A ragged, broken sound escaped you, and then the dam broke. A sob wracked your frame, and you crumpled, not to the floor, but into yourself, your hands flying to your face. “Clark,” you choked out, the name a plea.

He was across the room in an instant with the quick, sure strides of a man whose only thought was to reach you. He enveloped your cold hands in his warm ones, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, designed to be an anchor. “Talk to me. What happened?”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face now, unchecked. “It’s so stupid,” you wept, your voice thick with humiliation and exhaustion. “I… I bled through my pants. My stupid light-colored pants. And I didn’t even know. I walked around the whole office, sat in meetings… and no one said a thing. No one told me. They just… they just let me walk around like that all day.”

The confession came out in a torrent of misery. And Clark understood. It wasn’t just about the biological accident; it was the vulnerability, the public shame.

His heart cracked clean open. He could hear the frantic, racing rhythm of your heart, could feel the fine tremor in your hands. He could see the dark, tell-tale stain on the back of your trousers, a small, cruel badge of your awful day.

He gently pried your hands from your face, cupping your wet cheeks in his palms. He leaned down, forcing your drowning gaze to meet his. His eyes, usually full of the sky, were now the color of a soft, deep twilight, holding only you.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed, his voice impossibly gentle. He brushed away a tear with his thumb, his touch feather-light. “I am so, so sorry. That’s… that’s the worst feeling in the world.”

He leaned forward and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead and pulled you into his arms, carefully, letting your head rest against his chest, his chin tucked over your head. “Okay, my love. Okay. Just tell me what you need. Do you want a bath? Pajamas? More chocolate than any one human should legally possess? Just say the word. It’s yours.”