The knock on your window was so light you almost missed it—just a faint tap against the glass, like rain that forgot to fall.

But you knew that knock.

You turned away from your desk, heart already racing. The curtains fluttered slightly, and behind them… him.

Clark. No glasses. No suit. Just him — disheveled, exhausted, and floating a few inches off your fire escape like gravity had given up trying.

You opened the window, and he stepped in without a word. His cape was torn, barely hanging from his shoulder. There was blood — not just his. Ash smeared his jaw. His fists were clenched so tightly they trembled.

And he looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, even as you reached for him.

He didn’t answer.

He just collapsed into your arms.

The weight of him — all of him — folded into your chest, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Your hands shook as you slid them into his hair, holding him tighter than you ever had before.

“I couldn’t save them all,” he said hoarsely.