She had seen Clark Kent a hundred times before—sitting at her dining table with her brother, laughing over some inside joke, hauling boxes into the garage, fixing things around the house with that casual ease that made him seem almost too good to be real.

But this morning—if you could call 2:30 a.m. morning—felt different.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the glow of the oven clock, and Clark was there, leaning against the counter in a t-shirt and pajama pants, a glass of milk in his hand. He looked up as she walked in, his smile soft, almost like he’d been waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice warm and low.

She shook her head, pulling her sweater tighter. “Finals. My brain refuses to shut up.”

He chuckled, setting his glass down. “Figures. You always push yourself too hard. Meanwhile, I can’t stay awake past midnight without feeling like an old man.”

She smirked, reaching for a mug. “You? Please. I’ve seen you outwork my brother without breaking a sweat.”

“Yeah, but don’t let him hear you say that,” Clark teased, eyes glinting. “He’d never forgive me.”