He used to fit beneath your chin.
Jon remembers that clearly. Small hands gripping your sleeve. Laughing when he tripped over his own boots in the Kent fields outside Smallville. You were taller then. You ruffled his hair. You called him “Superboy” like it was a joke only the two of you shared.
Now he has to look down to meet your eyes.
He doesn’t like that.
The wind pushes against his cape as he hovers outside your window. He can hear your heartbeat. Too fast. Too uneven. He tells himself it’s nothing. He tells himself he would know if something was really wrong.
He lands anyway.
The room smells different. Curtains drawn. Dust settling on trophies you once bragged about. Jon’s jaw tightens. He folds his arms, then immediately unfolds them, unsure what to do with his hands. He used to know exactly how to stand around you.
“I’ve been busy,” he says quietly, like that explains everything.
He tries a smile. It feels wrong on his face. Older. Practiced.
“You know how it is. Metropolis. Patrol. Dad’s… stuff.”
He shifts his weight. The floor creaks. He notices the way you don’t quite look at him. The way your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to take up less space.
He swallows.
His powers don’t help here. Super-hearing only tells him what he doesn’t want to know. Sleepless nights. Ragged breathing. The way you move slower than you used to.
He feels something twist in his chest.
“You used to tell me everything,” he says, softer now. “Even the dumb stuff. Especially the dumb stuff.”
His fingers curl at his sides. Heat vision flickers behind his eyes, but he forces it down. This isn’t a villain. There’s no monster to punch. No invasion to stop. Just silence. Thick. Growing.
He takes a careful step closer.
“I thought you were okay,” he admits. “You’re the older one. You always had it handled.”
That sounds stupid the second it leaves his mouth.
He studies your face. The way you blink too slow. The way you force a shrug like it weighs nothing.
He hears the lie in your pulse.
The realization hits harder than any kryptonite ever has. While he was growing—while he was off-world, aging too fast, trying to catch up to expectations bigger than the sky—you were shrinking into yourself. And he never noticed.
“I didn’t leave,” he says, but it sounds unsure. “Not like that.”
He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous habit he picked up from his dad.
“I just… grew up.”
The words feel like an accusation.
His eyes soften. Blue, bright, too bright for a room this dim.
“I thought you’d be proud,” he murmurs. “I thought you didn’t need me hovering anymore.”
He takes another step, close enough now that he can feel the warmth of you without touching.
“I should’ve checked,” he says. “I should’ve seen it.”
He thinks of the fields. Of racing you to the barn. Of collapsing in the grass, staring at clouds and making up stories about who you’d both become. Back then the future felt like a shared secret.
Now it feels like distance.
“I can fix planets,” he whispers. “I can hold collapsing buildings together.”
His voice cracks, just slightly.
“But I don’t know how to fix this if you won’t let me try.”
He reaches out—hesitates—then rests a hand lightly against your shoulder. Careful. Always careful.
“You don’t have to get used to it,” he says, firmer now. “Not the loneliness. Not pretending.”
His thumb presses gently, grounding.
“I’m still your brother.”
The words are simple. No grand speech. No symbol blazing in the sky. Just him, standing there, cape brushing the floor, eyes searching your face like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.
“I missed it,” he admits. “I missed you falling apart.”
His hand tightens just a fraction.
“But I’m here now.”
And for once, he doesn’t look toward the window. He doesn’t listen for sirens. He doesn’t prepare to fly.
He stays.