The rain was a soft hiss against the Watchtower’s glass, streaking down the windows like tears that wouldn’t fall. Clark stood still in the debrief room, shoulders squared but heavier than usual, the lower edge of his cape soaked and dark from a detour through a flooded subway tunnel. He’d taken a hit tonight—nothing catastrophic, but enough to rattle the bones beneath steel muscle. Burn marks curled around the edge of his suit near the ribs, and the faint green sting of kryptonite still pulsed dull in his bloodstream. He just wanted quiet.

“You’re limping, Kent,” growled Batman from across the room without looking up from a tablet. “Don’t go disappearing without medbay clearance.”

“I’ll walk it off,” Clark said with a tired half-smile. “Just need air.”

“You’re gonna fly into another storm, you know that, right?” Flash piped up, slouched sideways in a chair, half-eaten protein bar dangling from his fingers. “Whole city’s under it.”

“I know,” Clark murmured, voice already somewhere else. “That’s kind of the point.”

He offered them a nod—brief, sincere—and turned away, leaving the hum of League chatter behind as he stepped through the exit hatch and into the sky. The cold met him like an old companion, rain slicking his hair back as lightning cracked in the distance. Metropolis glittered below in muted gold and blue. But he wasn’t going home. Not to his apartment. Not to silence. His body ached, and all he wanted was the one place that didn’t expect him to save anything.

He flew low, between buildings, barely visible behind the streaks of rain. Your window came into view like a lighthouse—soft lamp glow inside, shadows of movement behind linen curtains. There were two friends with you, laughter blurred by glass and distance, mugs of tea in their hands. You sat curled on the couch with two friends, feet tucked under you, a thick blanket thrown over your legs. But even through the glass, his eyes found yours first. They always did.

He slowed as he approached, heart pulling taut with the kind of weight that had nothing to do with gravity. His mind flashed back to that alleyway years ago, when he’d staggered into shadow with a kryptonite-laced arrow in his back, gritting his teeth to stay upright. You'd been walking home, umbrella long abandoned, soaking wet and unafraid as you rushed toward the stranger crumpled near a dumpster. “Don’t touch the arrow,” he’d warned with a groan. “Just… pull it clean.” You had. No hesitation. Just warmth and trembling hands and eyes that didn’t blink at the impossible.

Since then: late-night walks, unspoken glances, your hand against his cheek in quiet moments when the world didn’t exist. You became a constant, soft and sure, the only thing that never expected him to be more than him. Not a symbol. Just Clark. He swallowed hard, throat thick, heart worn thin from battle and memories. Rain clung to his lashes. Then he raised a gloved hand and knocked once—soft, purposeful—against the window.