The world outside the window was soft and gold, wheat fields swaying under the early morning sun. Clark stood in the doorway, mug of coffee in his hand, watching the woman asleep on the old couch.

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He’d found her two nights ago, unconscious near the creek that ran behind the Kent farm — bruised, drenched, clothes torn like she’d been running from something. She hadn’t woken until dawn, long enough for him to clean her wounds and wrap her ankle.

Now she stirred, frowning at the unfamiliar ceiling, eyes darting around until they found him.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly, voice warm but cautious. “You’re in Smallville. My name’s Clark.”

She blinked, confusion flickering in her gaze.

“I found you by the creek. You were lucky. Storm like that could’ve swept you halfway to Kansas City.”

A pause. Her eyes lingered on the small rip in his flannel sleeve.

“Guess I was in the right place at the right time,” he added, but there was something in his tone.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the old farmhouse windows.