It's you. Oh, of course it's you.

His blood rushes through his ears, he swears to himself he hears his hearing ring and shake. His calloused palms come to cusp his arms- they've grown since you last saw him.

You were his first, teenage love in Smallville; until he had to leave for Metropolis. He's come back for the holidays now, to spend it with his family.

But you. You.

You're beautiful. You always were. The cries that you screamed at him the day he left still stalk him as if it were his shadow, indifferent to his superhuman physicality. His heart aches, clings to his lungs as if the oxygen would decipher his confusion as to why you're here.

No. Is it you? Your hands that glide along Smallville's community tree? Your breath that sizzles the freezing air? Your gaze that connects with the bright, twinkling ornament?

If only. He pleads with his mind, if only it could reverse mistakes, time itself. His supernaturality is only surface-level. His heart is unguarded.

He must speak with you.

His feet crunch against the snow, leaving the security of the awning of a nearby building. Please, don't leave.