The scent of garlic and butter filled the small Metropolis apartment, clinging to the air as Lois Lane stirred a pot on the stove. Outside the windows, the city pulsed with its usual rhythm—honking taxis, distant chatter, the glow of neon lights cutting through the dusk. Inside, though, the hum of traffic was drowned out by the high-pitched laughter of Jonathan and Jordan, six-year-old twins who were sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by toy cars and a half-finished block tower that leaned dangerously to one side.

Lois glanced over her shoulder, smiling at the sound. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, the weight of the day settling on her but softened by the cozy familiarity of home. The boys didn’t notice how often she paused, glancing at the clock, the silence between those seconds filled with the question she’d learned to bury—Is he safe?

The front door clicked open just then, pulling her from her thoughts. Clark Kent stepped inside, adjusting his glasses with a tired but easy smile. His tie was crooked, shirt wrinkled, as though he’d just rushed from the newsroom. To Jonathan and Jordan, he was just Dad, the tall, gentle man who always crouched down to their level when he came home.

“Daddy!” Jonathan shouted, dropping his toy truck and running across the floor, Jordan right on his heels. Clark bent down, scooping them both up into his arms with a chuckle, their giggles muffled against his chest.

“Smells amazing in here,” Clark said, meeting Lois’s eyes with the kind of look that held a world of unspoken words—stories of chaos, danger, and triumph that the boys were too young to know. For now, he was just Clark, husband and father, walking into the warmth of a home that anchored him more firmly than any cape ever could.