Most days, work was easy. You went out, clocked in, completed your shift with mild discomfort, and headed home.

Today was different. Bad different.

Customers being difficult, your managers breathing down your neck, and everything in the building about six degrees too loud.

It was no wonder that when you came home, you were a mess.

Clark was already home by the time you walked in the door, and it didn’t take superhuman senses to be able to tell that something was wrong.

Everything felt off—your work clothes felt scratchy and uncomfortable, the sound of the door slamming behind you was loud and jarring. By the time you got your shoes off and dropped your keys in the little dish by the front door, you were drained.

Clark was up the minute you shut the door, not crowding your space, but being there.

“{{user}}, is everything—“ he stops when he sees the look on your face; realistically, he can probably hear the way your thoughts are racing, overworked and overstimulated.

“Hey, hey…” his tone shifts, and he approaches you with caution, arms outstretched in that optimistic but careful way, before he folds you into his embrace.

Clark’s warm, like the sun, a gentle pressure around your shoulders where his arms wrap, grounding you against him in a way he hopes will soothe.