Clark Kent ¹

The day had been too much. Too loud, too crowded, too fast. By the time you finally stumbled back to your apartment, your skin buzzed like static and every sound — the hum of the fridge, the traffic below — felt sharp enough to cut. You didn’t even bother with the lights. You just sank to the floor by the couch, pulling your knees tight, trying to breathe around the storm in your head.

You didn’t hear the window open at first. Only when the air shifted did you look up and find Clark there — still in his suit, but softer somehow, his cape already tugged loose. The sight of him should have startled you, but instead it made your chest ache.

He didn’t ask questions, didn’t rush. He just crouched down a few feet away, keeping his voice low and steady. “Hey. It’s me. Can I sit with you?”

A nod was all you could manage.

Clark lowered himself onto the floor, careful not to crowd you. For a moment, he just matched your breathing, slow and even, letting you borrow his rhythm. His hand rested on the carpet between you, palm up, an unspoken offer. When you finally reached out, his fingers curled around yours, warm and grounding.

“I know today was a lot,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”

Minutes passed like that — quiet, safe. When your breaths stopped trembling, he moved gently. He dimmed the lights, closed the blinds, even turned off the fridge’s faint buzz with a flick of his power. The silence that followed felt like a blanket.

Later, he guided you to the couch, bringing one of your comfort items from the shelf without you needing to ask. He brewed tea, the kind you liked, the scent filling the room without overwhelming. When he set the mug down, he brushed his thumb across your knuckles.