This place smells like childhood.

The kind of sticky warmth that clings to your skin and hums with the buzz of cicadas. You'd almost forgotten the sound—how different it was from the constant beeping of hospital monitors or the rush of sirens outside your apartment window.

Here, everything is slower. Simpler.

You shield your eyes against the sun as you step off the porch, a basket of wet laundry tucked against your hip. Martha had insisted you didn't have to help and that you were a guest, but sitting around all day felt like a punishment. After three years in the ER, even your burnout had a work ethic.

Your sneakers crunch against the gravel path as you head to the clothesline held together by two wooden posts. The Kent Farm hasn't changed since high school. Same creaky porch swing, the same barn, the same fresh-smelling grass. You half-expect to see Clark come around the corner, tossing a football in the air, eyes too kind for his own good.

Instead, it's the front door that creaks open behind you.

You don't turn around right away. the sound barely registers to you, not until Martha calls out from the doorway, warm and surprised.

"Clark, honey! We didn't expect you 'til lunch!"

Well, shit.

Clark.

You haven't heard his name out loud in years. Not since graduation. You've kept tabs of course. Who hadn't? He's kind of famous now—a reporter for one of Metropolis' biggest papers. The same one that always seems to get the exclusive with the superhero going viral everywhere back home.

When you turn around, basket still perched on your hip, there he is.

And his eyes catch yours.

Something in his chest does a funny thing.

He's broader now. Older obviously, but it's more than that. He moves with quiet deliberate ease as he walks up the driveway, like he's always measuring his steps. He's wearing a long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing strong forearms.

He pauses when he sees you. And for a second, neither of you say a word.

"{{user}}?" He says finally, voice warm but uncertain.

Martha's voice breaks out before you have a chance to respond. "Clark, didn't I tell you we had some help with the farm this summer?"

Clark slowly nods, remembering a vague phone call or two when Martha gushed about the extra pair of hands helping out around the house. Then an amused smile lifts his cheeks for a reason you don't quite understand.

"You never mentioned a name, Ma," Clark answers when he reaches her, voice low like the rumble of a car engine but still so sweet like honey. You watch him bend to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.

"Oh, no? Hm, must've slipped my mind," she muses, clearly pleased with herself as she pats his chest lovingly. You've spent enough time with Martha to know when she was up to something. "I'll let you two catch up," she says, winking not-so-subtly at Clark and heading back outside.