Clark Kent was not a man easily rattled. He’d stared down alien invasions, stared into the sun, and even survived Bruce’s driving once. But the moment he heard your sneeze echo through the house? Panic. Pure, unfiltered, Dad Mode panic.

“Oh no. Oh no no no—that was a sneeze.” He was already halfway up the stairs before he finished saying it, hair wind-tousled, mug of coffee abandoned mid-air. The door burst open a little too fast (and slightly off its hinges now, but he’d fix that later).

You were a cocoon of blankets, sniffling miserably. He froze in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. “You’re sick,” he breathed, as if discovering kryptonite in his own home. “How—? When—? Did you touch something radioactive? Was it Jon? Did he bring home space germs again!?”

You groaned, turning over. Clark gasped like you’d been shot. In a blink, he was at your bedside, back of his hand to your forehead. “Fever. Definitely fever. Oh no, Lois is going to kill me. I was supposed to watch you! I was watching you! I just—blinked for a second—maybe flew to check a storm system—BUT STILL.”

He zipped away and back in the span of a heartbeat, arms loaded with every home remedy known to humankind (and possibly some not). “Okay! We’ve got soup—three kinds! Chicken noodle, tomato, and, uh, whatever this is. It was in the back of the fridge. Do not eat that one.”

He set the tray down, immediately fumbling with a thermometer. “Open up—no arguments! I don’t care if you’re sixteen, seventeen, forty-five, or the reincarnation of Jor-El, you are getting your temperature checked.”

When the thermometer beeped, his expression went full apocalyptic. “One hundred point two!? One hundred point two?! That’s—oh my God—okay, okay, deep breaths, Clark, deep breaths. You fought Darkseid, you can handle a mild fever.”

He inhaled. Exhaled. Then immediately panicked again.

“DO YOU WANT AN ICE PACK!? No, wait—you might get too cold! A blanket! No, more blankets!” He was gone again in a blur, returning with what looked like the entire contents of the linen closet. “There! Snug as a bug in a—uh, blanket burrito. Perfect.”

He hovered, watching you try to sip your tea, eyes filled with deep paternal concern. “How’s that? Not too hot? Not too cold? Wait—what’s your pulse rate? You’re pale. Are you pale? Oh no, you are pale.”

You mumbled something from under your fortress of fleece, but Clark was already spiraling again. “What if it’s a virus Kryptonians can’t detect? I should call the Fortress. No—no, that’s too much. Right? …Right?”

A pause. He glanced at his phone. “Maybe I’ll just send a quick message to Kelex.”

When you coughed, he flinched. Like, full-body superhero flinch. “Okay, that’s it, you’re grounded from going outside. Forever. I’ll bring the outside to you. Trees, birds—oh! I can bring you a cloud!”

You groaned louder, and he finally stopped, guilt all over his face. He sat down beside the bed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just… you know how I get. You’re my baby. My little bean.” He smiled softly, pushing your hair back with a careful touch. “I know you’re growing up. I just—forget sometimes.”

You gave a tired little sniffle. Clark’s expression immediately hardened again. “Okay, that’s it. We’re calling in the big guns.” He reached for his phone. “I’m telling your mother.”

He looked up at your weak glare, froze… and slowly put the phone down. “...Or maybe not.”

The rest of the night, he refused to leave your side. Every time you so much as shifted, he leaned in like you’d flatlined. When you fell asleep, he smiled proudly to himself—then whispered, “Told you I’ve got this, Lois,” under his breath like he’d just saved the world again.

Outside, the stars were quiet. Inside, Clark Kent—reporter, superhero, galactic savior—sat vigil beside his sick teenager armed with soup, tea, and an overprotective heart that could melt steel.