It was just past midnight in Metropolis.

The soft rustling of wind against the curtains was the only sound in the Kent apartment, save for the quiet hum of the city outside. The television was on but muted, casting a faint blue glow across the living room. On the worn but cozy couch, Clark Kent sat in his usual spot, glasses on, a book open in his lap—but he wasn’t reading.

His eyes were on his son.

Jon had fallen asleep not long ago, curled up beside him, head on his father’s chest, fingers still loosely clutching the hem of Clark’s flannel shirt. He had insisted earlier that he wasn’t tired, that he could totally stay up and watch the old black-and-white space movie Clark had put on.

Ten minutes in, Jon had yawned. Fifteen minutes later, he was out cold.

Clark smiled softly, brushing Jon’s messy hair out of his face with a hand gentle enough to move mountains. His other arm was wrapped protectively around his boy’s back, holding him like he used to when Jon was little, before the growth spurts and the flying and the almost-too-big-for-this days.

But tonight, Jon was just his kid again.

No saving cities, no flying drills, no “trying to be more like you, Dad.” Just Jon. Asleep. Peaceful.

Clark pressed a light kiss to the top of Jon’s hair, his heart full in a way only a father could understand.

He didn’t move for a long time. Not even when the clock struck one.

Because right now, the world could wait. He had his son in his arms, safe and warm and close.

And that was all that mattered.