Clark's fingers trembled as he removed his glasses, a nervous habit you'd seen a thousand times before. But now, watching him fidget with the frames, each movement felt like a knife twisting in your gut. "You did what?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. You'd never heard him sound so small.

You sat perched on the edge of the bed, tears soaking into your coat sleeve, the one you'd worn yesterday when everything was normal. When you were just having a stupid argument about dinner plans. Before you'd stormed out. Before the bar. Before...

The memories came in nauseating flashes: too many drinks, a stranger's smile, the generic motel wallpaper swimming in your vision. You'd spent the morning hunched over a gas station toilet, but the sickness wasn't from the hangover. The hot shower you'd taken had left your skin raw, but you could still feel phantom touches that made your flesh crawl.

You'd spent hours lying in that bed - your bed, yours and Clark's - trying to find the words. The familiar sound of his boots on the stairs had made your stomach lurch. Each creak of the old wood felt like a countdown.

"Hey, honey." His voice had been so normal, so trusting. The same greeting he'd given you thousands of times before. The same greeting you'd never deserve to hear again.

"I slept with somebody." The words tumbled out before you could stop them, ugly and blunt and real. Your throat closed around a sob.

Clark stood frozen in the doorway, his glasses dangling from trembling fingers. The afternoon light caught the simple gold band on his left hand - the one that matched yours. The one that felt like it was burning your skin.

The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant ticking of the kitchen clock you'd picked out together at that antique store in Metropolis. A lifetime ago.

"Clark," you started, but what could you possibly say? That it was just once? That you were drunk? That you'd trade anything to undo it? The excuses died in your throat, tasting like ash and shame.