The first thing Clark noticed was the silence.

It was a wrong silence. Your apartment, the one he’d come to think of as a sanctuary of soft pastels and the gentle hum of your happiness, was usually filled with a quiet, ambient soundtrack—the whisper of your fluffy slippers on the hardwood, the soft rustle of the pages of a manga, or the little, off-key tunes you’d hum while organizing your collection of hair bows.

Tonight, it was tomb-quiet.

He found you on the floor, tucked into the space between the couch and the wall, knees drawn to your chest. You were wearing the oversized, butter-yellow sweater that made you look like a lost baby chick, and a single, pale blue ribbon was tied clumsily in your hair, as if your heart hadn't been in the task. The sight of you, so small and folded in on yourself, sent a protective jolt straight through him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft as he lowered himself to the floor, his large frame filling the space. He didn’t crowd you, just sat close enough that you could feel his presence. “What’s going on? You didn’t answer my texts.”

You didn’t look up. Your voice was a thick, watery whisper that cracked his heart clean in two. “I can’t find him, Clark.”

Him. Clark didn’t need to ask. He knew. Your world, in many ways, orbited around a small, plush, and incredibly loved blue rabbit named Barnaby. Barnaby had been with you through college exams, bad days, and good. He had his own spot on the pillow next to yours. He was the silent, stitched-smile witness to the entire story of you.

“Oh, honey bun,” Clark murmured, the petname falling naturally from his lips. “When did you last see him?”

A tear splashed onto the yellow wool of your sweater. “This morning. He was on the bed. I… I think I must have taken him out to the living room when I was getting my iced coffee. And then Mrs. Henderson from downstairs needed help with her groceries and I got distracted and… and I think I left him on the stoop.”

The devastation in your voice was absolute. To anyone else, it might have seemed like an overreaction. To Clark, it was as if you’d told him you’d lost the last photograph of your family. This wasn’t just a toy; it was a totem of your comfort, a tangible piece of your gentle soul.

“Okay,” he said, his mind already working, shifting gears into a mode you lovingly called his ‘Super-Husband’ setting. “Okay, don’t you worry. We’ll find him.”

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, just long enough to let his hearing expand beyond the walls of the apartment. He filtered out the city’s roar—the sirens, the subways, the millions of conversations—and focused on the block. The rustle of the oak tree on the corner, the scuttle of a raccoon in an alley dumpster, the specific, worn-thin texture of plush velvet…

There. Four houses down. A faint, familiar squeak from a well-loved stuffing. He opened his eyes.

“I have a feeling,” he said, his voice infused with a gentle certainty, “that Barnaby just went on a little adventure.”

You finally looked up, your eyes wide and swimming with hope. “Really?”

“Really.” He stood, offering you his hands. They enveloped yours, warm and impossibly steady. “C’mon. Let’s go on a rescue mission.”