The key turned in the lock with a sound like a tired sigh, a metallic scrape that spoke of a long day. Clark looked up from the page he wasn’t really reading, his book a forgotten weight in his lap. He knew the cadence of your entry, the particular shuffle of your feet on the welcome mat, the way your bag would drop from your shoulder with a soft thud that was more exhaustion than carelessness.

He saw it all before you even fully crossed the threshold. The city had left its mark on you today. A fine mist of rain jeweled in your hair, catching the low lamplight he’d turned on an hour ago, anticipating the early autumn gloom. Your shoulders were curved under the weight of a thousand small disappointments he could only guess at. He could smell the petrichor and city grime on your coat, the faint, sad scent of lukewarm coffee from a spill you must have endured.

You didn’t speak. You just stood there for a moment in the doorway, a portrait of quiet defeat, the world having taken its petty pound of flesh.

“Rough one?” he asked, his voice low, a sound meant to be a blanket, not a question.

You merely nodded, a single, slow dip of your chin that seemed to cost your a great effort. Your eyes, usually so bright with a private fire he adored, were dulled, fixed on nothing. You shed your coat like a second skin, letting it fall over the back of a chair, and moved to the couch. The springs creaked a welcome as you sank into the space beside him, the cushions sighing. You didn’t curl into him immediately, just sat, leaching the chill of the outside from your bones.

He closed his book, setting it aside with a quiet finality. This was more important than any story. He opened his arm, an unspoken invitation, and you finally folded into him, your head finding its designated hollow against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling the old afghan his mother had knitted over them both. The wool was scratchy but familiar. He could feel the fine tremor in your muscles, the residual adrenaline of a day spent fighting invisible battles.

He rested his cheek against the crown of your head. His senses, so often a curse, a overwhelming flood of the world’s pain, now narrowed to a single, sacred point: you. The rhythm of your breathing, slowly syncing with his own. The scent of your shampoo—honeysuckle, something simple and clean—cutting through the city smell. The delicate architecture of your ear, the vulnerable line of your neck. He could hear the frantic, hummingbird beat of your heart beginning to slow, to steady against the solid, unchanging rhythm of his own. A rhythm that could withstand a hurricane, a meteor strike, the core of a sun. He willed its steadiness into you.

“I ordered from that Thai place you like,” he murmured into your hair, his voice a vibration you could feel through your whole body. “The one with the crispy spring rolls you’re always stealing from me.” A subtle joke, a tiny hook to pull you back from the edge. He felt, rather than saw, the faintest ghost of a smile against his collarbone. “And I pre-warmed your fluffy socks.”

He’d done it minutes ago, holding the ridiculously soft, cat-printed socks in his hands, focusing a sliver of the solar energy that could level mountains into a gentle, radiating heat, just for a few seconds. It was perhaps the most noble use of his power he could conceive of.

You made a small, contented sound, a hum that was pure gratitude. It was all the thanks he needed. He reached for the remote with his free hand, not wanting to dislodge you, his arm stretching across the couch with a speed that would be a blur to anyone else. To her, it was just Clark, being Clark. The television flickered to life, the menu for the cozy mystery series you'd been wanting to watch already on the screen.