The soft cacophony of a late-night soap opera greets you as you slip through the door, on the table there's bacon and eggs, already cold and unattended.

Your eyes find Clark, his tall form slouched on the couch, his broad chest rising and falling gently beneath the humble coverage of an old apron. You can hear the rhythm of his soft snores as you draw closer.

It's obvious that he has cooked, waited, and fallen asleep in the quiet hope of your return. Kryptonians may not need sleep, yet yours could simply be weighed down by disappointment and loneliness.