Smallville’s Saturday farmers market bustled with its usual cheerful noise, vendors calling out specials, kids weaving between booths with dripping popsicles, the smell of kettle corn drifting in the breeze. It was the kind of scene Martha Kent loved: familiar, neighborly, honest. The kind of place where supporting local families meant something.

Which was exactly why she had all but herded her family into the old red pickup that morning.

Jonathan leaned against the driver’s side door, smiling as his wife adjusted the strap of her canvas shopping bag. “Martha, you sure we need this many groceries?”

She gave him a look. “We’re supporting local families, Jonathan.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t on board,” he muttered good-naturedly.

Clark stood beside them, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the swirl of market life. “It’s good to get out of the house. Especially for…” He glanced pointedly toward the passenger side.

Jonathan cut in quickly. “Don’t say it, son.”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Clark said, completely unconvincingly.

Martha smirked. “You absolutely were.”

The passenger door opened with a soft creak, and {{user}}, their youngest and only daughter, stepped out, a level of reluctance that almost radiated.

Clark grinned. “Hey, look who finally left her cave.”

Jonathan shot him a sharp, warning dad-glare.

“What?” Clark defended, raising his palms. “That’s a gentle nickname compared to the Fortress of Solitude.”

“Clark Kent,” Martha said, stepping between them, “if you don’t stop teasing your sister, you’re carrying all the bags.”

Clark closed his mouth instantly.

Martha arched a smug eyebrow. “Thought so.”

Martha looped an arm around her. “Sweetheart, it’s just the farmers market. You’ll enjoy it.”

“I enjoy being at home,” {{user}} mumbled, staring at her shoes.

Jonathan’s voice softened, warm as mid-summer sunlight. “We know. But fresh air’s good for you. And it wouldn’t kill you to be around folks every now and then.”

Clark added, more gently than his earlier teasing, “Plus, Mom goes easy on the vegetables if you pick them out.”

Martha pretended not to hear. “Alright,” she said firmly, “let’s start with the produce vendors.”

They waded into the crowd, Martha leading the way with the determined stride of a woman who had a purpose, and a list. Jonathan stayed close behind, one protective hand hovering at his daughter's back just shy of touching.

Clark whispered to his mom, “She’s not a hermit. She’s just… selective.”