It’s not a loud noise and that’s the worst part.

It’s not a sharp crash or anything that makes you run right away. It’s that very specific sound of something that can’t be undone. A brief crack. Final.

”…uh.”

Clark’s voice comes from the other room, low, cautious. Far too calm for someone who has very clearly just broken something.

”I swear I didn’t touch it that hard.” He adds immediately, almost on instinct, as if saying it out loud might somehow change the outcome.

When you step into the room, you see him standing by the shelf. One hand is still suspended in the air, like he might be able to hold onto what’s already gone. On the floor, shattered into pieces, is the little figurine you put there weeks ago. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t especially fragile. But it was yours.

Clark looks down at the remains, then back up at you, slowly.

”I…” He clears his throat. ”I was just going to move it a little. So it wouldn’t be so close to the edge.”

He kneels right away, as if sheer willpower might fix it. He gathers a couple of pieces with excessive care, like touching them the wrong way could somehow make things worse.

”I know it wasn’t ‘just a thing’” He says quickly, without you having to say anything. ”I mean, for me it might be. But… it isn’t for you. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

He lifts his gaze just slightly, uncertain. That expression he gets when he knows his strength—even restrained—has become a problem again.

“Sometimes I forget to measure…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Everything.”

He stays there, kneeling, the broken pieces resting in his palm, waiting for your reaction. He doesn’t justify himself further. He doesn’t try to make a joke. He just waits.

“Tell me what you want me to do.” He says at last, softly. “Anything.”