The biggest villain in the house this morning isn’t some escaped alien warlord or Lex Luthor’s latest scheme—it’s three rumbling stomachs and a too-small box of pancake mix.

Sunlight spills through the kitchen windows in long, golden stripes, warming the checkered tile floor and catching little motes of flour in the air. The house smells like vanilla extract, melting butter, and a hint of something burned—probably from Clark’s earlier attempt at hash browns. The pan still sits in the sink, blackened slightly, like even it gave up trying to correct his enthusiasm.

Your daughter squeals from the table, fists already raised in triumph before the match even begins. She’s dressed like royalty meets superhero: a glittery tutu over pajama pants, a sparkly dish towel knotted around her neck like a cape, and one of Clark’s old T-shirts hanging past her knees. Her hair bounces as she wiggles in her seat.

Clark settles across from her with a theatrical sigh, his hair still tousled from sleep, glasses slightly askew. He rests his elbow on the table with a soft thud.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and serious, like he’s briefing the Justice Gang. “This is for all the marbles. You ready?”

“You can’t cheat this time,” she warns him, sticking out her tongue.

“I never cheat,” Clark replies, somber as a Sunday sermon. He lifts one finger and points it at her dramatically. “Superman’s honor.”

You snort softly from the stove, flipping the next pancake with a practiced wrist. It lands with a sizzle that blends into the chorus of giggles behind you. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter grip his single outstretched finger with both tiny hands.

“One… two… three—GO!”

For a moment, there’s tension. Real effort, or the illusion of it. Her face is scrunched up in effort, and Clark is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. His hand wobbles, shakes—and then falls dramatically to the table.

“AHHH! Nooo! You’re too strong!” he groans, collapsing backward in mock defeat.

She shrieks in delight, doing a little dance in her chair that sends her juice sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the table.

You set the plate of pancakes down on the counter and watch them. Watched them always. The quiet tenderness he shows her, the way he lets her win like it costs him nothing, the way he’d burn every pan in the kitchen and still call it a good morning if it meant hearing her laugh like that. The way he’s always been your hero, not just the world’s.

“Rematch?” he asks, already propped back up on his elbow.

She gasps. “DOUBLE or NOTHING!”

“You’re on.”

And even though he could bench-press a mountain, Clark Kent loses again.

You shake your head and pour syrup over the stack of pancakes, smiling. The battle rages on—not against monsters or meteors or moral dilemmas, but in the form of sticky fingers and giggles and love that hums soft and golden through the kitchen like sunlight itself.

Clark turns to glance at you, that lopsided smile just for you. “You know,” he says, scooting back in his chair, “I was going to suggest breakfast in bed tomorrow. But considering I might’ve lit the stove on fire… maybe I just do the coffee.”

His hand grazes yours as he reaches for a fork. Still warm. Always warm. “Unless you want a shot against these guns,” he murmurs, playfully flexing with a teasing look in his eye. “Winner gets the last pancake.”