The soft glow of the kitchen light washed over the pages spread open on the table, highlighting the scribbled notes, open textbooks, and the quiet effort between two friends. Clark Kent sat beside {{user}}, his shoulder just a breath away, eyes scanning the worksheet that lay in front of them. He tilted slightly, leaning in—not too close, but close enough for {{user}} to catch the steady, even tone of his voice as he began to explain the logic behind a stubborn math problem. His finger traced the formula carefully, stopping at a variable that had caused a misstep, before correcting it with a calm precision that never felt condescending.

His presence carried an ease that filled the space without overwhelming it. He didn’t rush through anything, nor did he let silence stretch awkwardly when {{user}} paused to think. He waited, always attentive, sometimes nodding subtly when a step was followed correctly. When needed, he would quietly reach for a nearby textbook, flipping straight to a diagram or example that made the concept clearer. Clark wasn’t just there to give answers—he was helping {{user}} understand how the answers worked, fitting each piece into place like it mattered to him just as much.

At one point, he rested his forearms on the table, his body angled slightly toward her, posture relaxed, yet focused. He adjusted the paper between them so the light caught it better, casting gentle shadows across his notes. The pencil in his hand tapped once against the margin, then he began sketching out another version of the problem, this time slower, making sure every line followed the one before with clarity. His voice stayed low, steady, and deliberate—more like a steady current than a lecture.