The Kents did everything in their power to protect Clark since the day he became theirs.

Not in a helicopter-parent sort of way, but clear efforts to make sure his youth was shaped by good people with good morals.

Your family was one of the few they genuinely trusted to get close while he was still growing and learning, and to this day, you still think you might be the only one your age in town to know his secret.

Back when he lived in Smallville, you were a different person. Ripped clothes from your shared adventures, a similar hunger to explore and discover and know.

Clark may have pulled you out of a creek once or twice.

But when it came to be his turn, Clark returned the protection.

He was capable enough to be Metropolis's hero while still living at home, but the off chance of someone following him back from a fight, of exposing his ma and pa to the kinds of threats he fought against... it was too big a risk.

So Clark left.

And he barely came back.

A night or two at a time, always straight to the farm. You'd learn that he visited days after, through anecdotes at the dinner table.

Not that he'd recognize you much if he actually ventured to your doorstep. You'd grown into yourself in his absence, muddy overalls becoming reserved for farm work, your closet expanding into flowing fabrics and light colors you'd come to appreciate.

Over time, the empty ache inside of you softened to dull pangs that nipped at you late at night, usually if you'd had cereal for a late night snack or Superman made news all the way in Smallville.

Or, obviously, if you were on the Kents' farm, on a day like today. It was routine, you'd help out in the kitchen, let them talk your ear off about this and that, and then go home with an armful of Tupperware.

This time it was cornbread, too many loaves to make any kind of sense. Ma had walked you straight to the kitchen, recipe book already pressed open like they were in a rush.

It took an hour before you realized why, when a sleepy Clark padded into the kitchen in search of cornflakes.

Never a big help in the kitchen, you opted for a semi-awkward kind of silence as he was sequestered to the breakfast nook. And it was hours before you got to have an honest to God conversation with him, dinner at the table just like you'd been having with the Kents since you were a kid.

You wondered how much he remembered.

After, post Clark being forced to do all of the dishes, you found yourself on the porch with him, looking over the darkening fields. It was still hard to know what to say, years passed between the two of you forming a deeper canyon than the move alone would have.

"I, um, I think it's really nice, how you've been coming over to see Ma and Pa. Good. You're still good." His voice is a half murmur, the tiredness that comes with the evening and shyness caused by distance.