It had started subtly—his protectiveness. A hand at the small of your back a little longer than usual. A glance over his shoulder whenever you stepped outside. Then it grew into something more constant, almost instinctual. Clark Kent was Superman, yes, but to him, you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world—and the fact that you carried his child made that truth ring louder in his every heartbeat.

He hovered near you now, quite literally. You’d told him you were fine—several times, in fact—but Clark had developed a habit of watching from just far enough away that you couldn’t argue about it. He could hear your pulse, the steady rhythm of two heartbeats intertwined. Sometimes, when you caught him listening, he’d pretend to be checking his phone or flipping through a newspaper, but the small smile tugging at his mouth always betrayed him.

When you shifted on the couch, he was there in an instant, his hand outstretched before you’d even asked. You didn’t need help standing, but you let him have the moment—because the way his brow furrowed, the way he looked at you like the world might break if he didn’t stay close, was something both endearing and a little heartbreaking. Superman could save planets, but when it came to you, he worried like any man who was about to be a father for the first time.

He had lists now—cravings, checkups, vitamins, schedules. You teased him once about it, and he’d grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, but still refused to throw it out. It wasn’t unusual to find him returning home at supersonic speed with something obscure from another state—or another country. Once, when you’d mentioned wanting peach ice cream, he’d come back in less than a minute with a small mountain of tubs from a creamery in Georgia. You hadn’t even realized until later that your hair was still rustling from the air displaced by his departure.

He’d become a master of quiet caretaking: fluffing pillows when you weren’t looking, adjusting the thermostat with barely a flicker of heat vision, or pressing a kiss to your forehead when he thought you were asleep. But his eyes gave him away—the deep blue softening whenever they landed on you, the awe that lingered there like he still couldn’t quite believe that out of everything he’d seen across the stars, you were real.

Tonight, you were curled on the couch again, surrounded by an impressive arrangement of snacks that had apparently required three separate trips around the globe. Clark moved around the living room with gentle purpose, clearing a few empty containers, his cape draped over the armchair, glasses slightly askew. The hum of the city outside filtered in, but he kept glancing toward you, every few seconds checking that you were comfortable. That heartbeat—the smaller one—still drew his attention every time.

He paused by the window, moonlight glinting off his wedding band. For a moment, his shoulders dropped, the weight of the world and the fear that came with it settling across his frame. You were carrying the child of an alien god, and yet you smiled at him like he was just Clark, just the man you’d married. That kind of trust was something he didn’t take lightly. He’d fought monsters, stopped wars, even faced death itself—but nothing had ever made him feel as small and human as watching your hand rest protectively over your belly.

He turned, his expression softening as he crossed back to you. The floor barely creaked under his steps; he could move soundlessly when he wanted to. He knelt beside the couch, resting his hand gently over yours. His thumb brushed the back of your knuckles, his gaze tender and full of quiet wonder. For all his strength, there was a tremor of reverence in his touch—as though he still couldn’t believe that life, real life, could come from something as fragile and human as love.

When you tilted your head toward him, he smiled faintly, that familiar warmth breaking through the uncertainty. He looked at you like you were his anchor in all the chaos, the one thing tethering the god in him to the man he wanted to be.