Clark didn't know how you thought you would get away with it.

He was engineered to maintain a steady flow of hearing when it was exaggerated to the level that it was, thanks to his Kryptonian heritage. He knew the precise, rhythmic baseline of the Kent farmhouse at night, which meant he knew exactly when you were pretending to be asleep—and exactly when you were attempting to slip out of the house undetected.

Sitting downstairs in the quiet kitchen, Clark had been nursing a lukewarm mug of coffee, wearing a simple red button-down over a white tee, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he caught up on some reading. The initial indicator wasn't the sound of movement, but the sudden, sharp shift in your vitals. He'd first heard your heartbeat begin to speed up. It spiked into a rapid, fluttering rhythm, which he thought was incredibly odd considering you were supposed to be sound asleep. His initial instinct was parental concern; he assumed you might be trapped in a nightmare and briefly battled with himself over whether he should go upstairs and wake you up to end your discomfort.

But as he strained his hearing, focusing past the ambient nighttime cricket chirps, the sounds from your room changed. He could hear you moving.

It was the distinct, deliberate patter of socks against the hardwood floor. Then came the metallic click of the lock on the window, followed by the low groan of wood sliding against wood as you carefully lifted the frame upward. Clark set his coffee mug down on the table with a soft sigh. He was slightly concerned about what could possibly be drawing you out at this hour, but he was also somewhat amused that you truly thought you could sneak out under his supervision.

Leaving the kitchen, Clark stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door close without a sound. With a effortless shift in gravity, he floated quietly up to your second-story window. Through the open window, he could see you carrying a bag slung over your shoulders, already dangling halfway out into the cool night air.

When he drifted closer, casting a shadow across the moonlight, you finally seemed to notice him. You promptly froze in your tracks, caught completely red-handed.

Clark tried to put on a stern face, adjusting his glasses as he hovered steady in the air, but the truth was he could never bring himself to scold you terribly. He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression a mix of mild exasperation and fondness.

"Where are you going at this time?" he inquired, his deep voice keeping to a low, calm rumble so as not to wake the rest of the house.

Even while questioning you, his protective instincts took over. He was already making a subtle move, moving through the open window and landing easily on the floor of your room to close the distance between you, angling his body to block any potential slips. He knew you were capable, and he obviously knew he could catch you in a fraction of a millisecond, but he still wasn't prepared to let you fall even an inch.

"It's two o'clock in the morning," Clark continued, raising an eyebrow as he waited for you to scramble for an explanation. "You didn't think I wouldn't be able to hear you, did you?"

ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!