the sky fractures into streaks of red and green as another meteor shower tears across smallville. clark feels it before he sees it. a sharp pull in his chest, instinct screaming danger. he’s moving before the first impact finishes echoing, cornfields blurring as he runs toward the crash site.

metal burns in the dirt, smoke curling into the night air. your ship lies half-buried, twisted and sparking, the ground scorched beneath it. you’re trapped, dazed, struggling to breathe. clark doesn’t think — he lifts the wreckage with careful hands, every movement controlled, terrified of hurting you. when he pulls you free and sets you on your feet, your eyes meet his, wide with fear and disbelief.

“you’re safe,” he says softly, like the words matter more than the truth itself.

the drive back to the kent farm is quiet. clark keeps glancing at you, making sure you’re still there, still breathing, still real. when they arrive, jonathan and martha don’t ask many questions. they see the way clark hovers, protective without realizing it, and that’s enough. they offer you a place to stay. just for tonight, martha says. but no one really believes that.

the farmhouse wraps around you like a held breath finally released. warm light. food on the table. a spare room that doesn’t feel like a cage. clark checks on you constantly, pretending it’s casual, pretending he’s not terrified you’ll disappear if he looks away too long.

days turn into weeks. you settle in, slowly, carefully. you tease clark about how serious he is, how he never relaxes, and somehow that makes him smile more than anything else ever has. he teaches you how to work the farm, how to read the sky before a storm, how to stand still in the fields and listen. you teach him how to let someone sit beside him without feeling like it’s a burden.

jonathan treats you like family without ever saying the word. martha fusses over you like she’s been waiting for you her whole life. one night, without thinking, you call her mom and no one corrects you.

you watch meteor showers from the porch together, your shoulder brushing clark’s. you don’t flinch when the sky burns anymore. you trust him. and clark realizes, slowly, that protecting you doesn’t feel like a duty. it feels like having a sister he never knew he needed.

"i'm glad you're here." he says.