It was Halloween. And this year, you had declared, the Kent family was doing it properly.

You emerged from the bedroom, and the air in the room shifted. It was just a costume, he told himself. A clever, store-bought homage. But the moment you stepped into the soft lamplight, it became something else entirely.

Clark’s breath caught, a soft, almost imperceptible hitch that was his version of a seismic event. The world narrowed, the hum of the refrigerator fading, the rustle of the oak tree outside the window stilling. There was only you, descending into his reality like a vision.

“Well?” you asked, striking a playful pose at the foot of the stairs. “Do I look incredible?”

The word stuck in his throat. You were wearing the Elastigirl suit, a sleek, fire-engine red bodysuit that hugged every curve, every forgiving line that motherhood had drawn on you. It was just fabric, but on you, it was a testament. It celebrated the gentle swell of your hips, the softness of your belly that had once cradled their son, the beautiful, mortal strength of you. The black detailing cut across your torso, leading the eye, and the go-go boots should have looked silly, but on you, they were just....dangerous.

This was his wife, the mother of his child, and right now, she looked like a superheroine stepped off a silver screen, ready to save the world or break a few hearts. Probably both.

Jon, sensing the shift in the air, babbled and reached a sticky hand toward you.

Clark found his voice, though it felt a little rough around the edges. “You’ll… do,” he managed, his gaze dropping to the way the fabric stretched taut over your hips before he forcibly dragged it back to your face. “You look… incredible.” The pun was weak, but it was all he had.

You laughed, the sound like wind chimes, and closed the distance between you. “You don’t look so bad yourself. A little… tight in the shoulders?” You reached out, your fingers brushing the synthetic material over his bicep. The simple touch sent a current through him, a live wire of intimacy amidst the domestic scene.

“It’s the budget version,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. He wanted to pull you against him, to feel that slick costume against the cheap fabric of his own, to map the territory of you with his hands and remind himself that you were his, all his.

“Our little Jack-Jack seems approving,” you said, smoothly extracting the now-soggy biscuit from Jon’s fist. You’d dressed him in a tiny red bodysuit with a little black mask perched on his forehead. He was a perfect, chubby-cheeked paradox, all innocence and latent, unpredictable power.

“He’s a lucky kid,” Clark said, his voice low.

You looked up at him, your eyes softening, reading him as you always did. You saw the awe, the pride, and the faint, flickering shadow of male possessiveness in his gaze. A small, knowing smile played on your lips. “Jealous of a cartoon superhero, Smallville?”

He leaned in, his mouth hovering near your ear, his voice a low rumble meant only for you. “Not the cartoon. Just the hundred or so reporters who are going to see my wife in this tonight.”