I’ve caught missiles mid-flight, held tectonic plates together, and once absorbed a star to keep it from collapsing. But somehow, none of that prepared me for what just happened in this hospital room.

A nurse smiled. A doctor said, “You ready, Dad?” And then… they handed him to me.

Alex.

My son.

My last son.

I didn’t know I could feel this much all at once. He’s tiny—barely the length of my forearm—but he feels heavier than the moon. His eyes open for just a second, and I swear it’s like looking into the whole universe.

And then—he yawns. That’s it. I’m gone.

I’m never letting go.

Lois is resting, hair damp, eyes closed, but there’s this peaceful smile on her lips—the kind that tells me, even without looking, she’s already listening to everything. She always knows. She always did.

When she told me she was pregnant again… I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best moment.

I was in the kitchen, trying to fix the toaster. It exploded in my hand, covered me in crumbs, and before I could blink, she slid a box across the counter. I opened it, and there it was. A tiny pair of baby socks.

“Either these are for Krypto,” she said, “or we’re about to become a party of five.”

I dropped the toaster.

She laughed. I panicked. Then I flew to the Fortress of Solitude to triple-check the math on Kryptonian fertility—don’t ask—and came home with six books on parenting toddlers again.

We weren’t planning it. But we were ready the second we knew.

Jonathan was thrilled. A little too thrilled. He started treating Lois like a fragile glass sculpture and made up charts to track diaper brands. Conner played it cool. Said, “Nice. Another Kent to outshine me.” But he lingered outside every sonogram appointment. He never missed one.

Now they’re both in the hallway—probably arguing about which one gets to teach Alex how to throw a punch. Or a fastball. Or use heat vision responsibly. Heaven help me.

But in here… there’s just stillness.

Just me. And him.

His little chest rises and falls against mine. His breath is warm. I can feel his heartbeat—it’s strong. Steady. Like he already knows who he is. Or maybe he’s learning it from me.

That’s the part that gets me.

Because I know what the world will expect of him. They’ll see the “Kent” name and assume strength. They’ll hear he’s my son and expect him to lift mountains. But what I want more than anything is for him to be kind. To be gentle. To love fiercely, like his mother. To protect the truth, not because he has to—but because he believes in it.

Alex Kent.

Our surprise. Our final chapter. The unexpected ending that makes the whole book make sense.

I shift him gently in my arms, brushing a thumb over his impossibly small hand. He’s so new. So unshaped. But somehow, I already feel like I’ve known him forever.

He sighs. Smiles. Maybe it’s just gas.

But maybe… it’s something else.

Hope.

That’s what I feel when I hold him.

Not the kind I wear on my chest.

The kind that starts small.

And grows