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Chapter Text

It had been eight years since their paths first crossed in the most peculiar of circumstances. Yet, describing it as a formal meeting felt as out of place as a unicorn at a Muggle tea party.

Louise couldn't help but chuckle at the memory of stumbling upon the body, dramatically washed ashore near her rented cottage like a scene straight out of a second-rate mystery novel. Little did she know, this encounter would forever alter the trajectory of her life.

Panic gripped her as she surveyed the scene, prompting a frantic summoning of Hermione via a hastily conjured patronus. Because, you know, when in doubt, call for the brightest witch of her age.

"Is he...? No, he can't be..." she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper.

Drawing closer, she knelt beside the inert body, her mind a whirlwind of questions and uncertainties. Was he a hapless wanderer lost at sea, or something more sinister lurking beneath the surface of the waves? With trembling hands, she reached out, her fingertips grazing his chilled skin tentatively.

Then came the comically futile attempt at magical first aid. Picture it: her, armed with a limited repertoire of emergency spells she'd picked up along the way, trying to revive a man whose heartbeat sounded like it belonged to a malfunctioning time-turner. To her astonishment, the arcane energies fizzled and waned, recoiling in defiance as if repelled by an unseen force.

But the pièce de résistance came when those striking blue eyes blinked open, confusion and gratitude dancing a tango across his features. With a murmured word of thanks, he rose to his feet in a fluid motion, his movements betraying a sense of urgency that belied the calm facade he wore. It was like a scene from a rom-com gone terribly awry, complete with the awkward exchange of thanks before he made his hasty exit, leaving her standing there with more questions than answers.

A few months later, fate decided to throw them together again in the most unexpected of places: a bustling bar in Washington. She had stopped by for a meal, seeking solace in the dimly lit ambience and the promise of good food. Little did she know, the universe had other plans in store.

As she sat nursing her drink, enjoying the rare moment of peace, trouble reared its ugly head in the form of a lecherous patron who clearly mistook the bar for his personal playground. Now, she wasn't one to shy away from confrontation, but this guy was pushing all the wrong buttons.

With a roll of her eyes and a muttered curse, she found herself on the verge of unleashing a verbal tirade that would make even Professor McGonagall blush. But before she could utter a single word, the unexpected hero of the hour swooped in like a Gryffindor on a mission.

"Hey, hands off, buddy," came the commanding voice, dripping with authority.

She turned to see the man and met those familiar blue eyes as he stood between her and the unwelcome advances of the would-be Casanova. The man, however, was undeterred and poured his jug of beer on the mysterious man’s head. The man attempted to throw a punch but was stopped dead in his tracks as her mysterious man deftly sidestepped the blow. And just like that, in a move straight out of a Muggle action flick, he swiftly incapacitated the offender, breaking his hand with a flick of his wrist that left her both impressed and slightly terrified.

"Oww!" the offender yelped, wincing in agony as he clutched his injured hand.

With a casual toss of his apron onto the bar counter, he made his dramatic exit, leaving the patrons in stunned silence and her scrambling to catch up. By the time she pushed through the crowd, he had vanished into the night, leaving behind nothing but a trail of chaos and a thoroughly wrecked truck in the parking lot.

"Well, that escalated quickly," she muttered to herself, shaking her head in bemusement as she surveyed the scene. Leave it to him to turn a simple dinner into a full-blown spectacle worthy of a front-page headline.

Nearly two years after their initial encounter, Louise saw him again, this time in the bustling heart of New York City's farmer's market. The market buzzed with life, a kaleidoscope of colours and scents mingling in the air as vendors hawked their wares and shoppers bustled about in search of the freshest produce. Amidst this vibrant tapestry, she spotted him—a solitary figure navigating the throngs with practised ease. Fate had a peculiar way of bringing them together, it seemed, and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of anticipation as she approached him with newfound determination and intercepted him before he could vanish into the sea of faces.

"I know your secret," she blurted out, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

His reaction was a study in subtle shifts—initial surprise giving way to a flicker of amusement dancing in the depths of his cerulean gaze. It was a look she couldn't quite decipher, a blend of curiosity and bemusement that left her feeling oddly exposed.

"So, what's the big secret?" he quipped, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Louise felt a surge of frustration bubbling within her, pushing her to the brink of recklessness. Without a second thought, she resorted to the only tactic she could think of in the heat of the moment—blackmail. Yet, to her frustration, the man remained eerily silent, his silence a stark contrast to the chaos swirling around them.

But before he could vanish into the crowd, Louise did the unthinkable. With a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation, she unleashed a stunning spell in the crowded market, her aim set squarely on him.

To her surprise, he vanished in a blur of motion, leaving her standing there in stunned disbelief. The world around her seemed to blur and warp, the sights and sounds of the market fading into the periphery as a new reality took shape.

Suddenly, she found herself standing in a vast field, the soft rustle of grass beneath her feet a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the market. Louise's heart raced as she stood in the desolate field, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. How had she ended up here? And more importantly, how had he managed to transport them without her even sensing it?

Before she could voice any of these pressing questions, her gaze fell upon her wand, now nestled between his fingers. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, her throat constricting with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

‘Smooth move, Louise.’ She cursed herself silently. ‘because of course, throwing a stunning spell in the middle of a crowded market was the epitome of brilliance.’

"H-how..?" she demanded, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“You tell me first,” he demanded, his voice firm.

Louise met his eyes and realized that yes, she had jumped into the lion’s den quite knowingly.

Later, he finally opened up to her, but only after Louise had revealed her own secret. The admission came with a touch of irony, considering she had to resort to showcasing her magical abilities just to convince him she wasn't a threat to expose him to the American authorities or the world at large.

‘Damn, the man had some serious trust issues,’ she thought, her mind swirling with a mixture of amusement and understanding. After all, she, too, had learned the importance of guarding one's secrets in a world where magic and extraterrestrial beings were far from the norm.

Louise demonstrated a few simple spells, aiming to alleviate his suspicions and establish trust; while he watched her with a mixture of awe and scepticism, his eyes betraying a hint of uncertainty as he processed the reality of her abilities and remarked, "Well, I must admit, that's certainly... unexpected.”

"You think that's impressive? Just wait until you see me pull a rabbit out of a hat," she said teasingly, unable to resist the opportunity to poke fun at the absurdity of their situation… all the while hoping that he might forget that she had attacked him without provocation.

As they continued to talk, sharing stories and laughter late into the night, Louise couldn't help but feel a sense of kinship with the man whose secrets seemed to mirror her own in ways she never could have imagined. Then, deciding to trust her, he spoke, his voice steady and composed despite the gravity of his words. And just like that, in the span of a few moments, her entire world was turned upside down.

"You're telling me you're an alien?!" she exclaimed, her voice betraying a mixture of incredulity and awe.

In turn, he arched a brow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "You're telling me you're a witch?" he countered, his tone tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

Louise flushed at her hypocrisy, feeling a pang of embarrassment at being called out so bluntly. "Touché," she conceded with a sheepish grin, unable to deny the irony of their situation.

This time, however, he didn't vanish into thin air. Instead, they found themselves spending hours together, lost in conversation as they shared stories and laughter. He seemed just as perplexed by her tales of the Wizarding World as she was by his revelations of extraterrestrial origins, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

As they talked, neither of them could have anticipated just how important they would become to each other in the coming future. But in that moment, as they laughed and shared their most intimate thoughts and experiences, Louise couldn't help but feel a strange sense of gratitude for the chance encounter that had brought them together. Who knew that a chance encounter with a mysterious stranger would lead her down a rabbit hole of cosmic proportions?

That had been that...

How Louise Potter fell in love with Clark Kent was a mystery even to herself. As an Auror on official business, romance with an American—or an alien, for that matter—was nowhere on her agenda. Yet, it seemed as though the universe conspired to intertwine their fates, leading her down an unforeseen path. With Clark, she felt as if she were flying, liberated from the constraints of the physical world.

Their romance blossomed unexpectedly, catching Louise off guard with its intensity and depth. Drawn to Clark in ways she had never experienced before, she found solace in his arms, a sense of belonging she had longed for. His presence illuminated her world with warmth and affection. With him, she felt free, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, and nothing else mattered except the love they shared.

Clark was unlike anyone she had ever known—a kind and genuine soul whose love knew no bounds. His handsome features, more captivating than any Hollywood star's, never failed to draw her in. But it was his smile, warm and radiant like the sun breaking through the clouds on a stormy day, that truly stole her heart. Each time he grinned, it left her feeling lighter and happier than she ever thought possible.

Louise couldn't help but marvel at the simplicity and purity of their connection, a bond that seemed to transcend time and space. And when he kissed her for the first time, it was as though the entire universe had fallen into place, the stars aligning to create a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss. She melted into his embrace, her heart soaring as he whispered words of love and devotion against her lips. But it wasn't just the grand gestures that made their love story so special; it was the small, intimate moments they shared. It was the way he would brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch sending shivers down her spine. It was the sound of their shared laughter, echoing through the night like music to her ears. It was the way he would hold her close, as though afraid to let her slip away, his arms a sanctuary against the chaos of the world. It was the intimate conversations and stolen moments of affection. Each kiss, each touch, carried with it a promise of something more—a promise of love, of belonging, of finding solace in each other's arms.

Their first time making love was a symphony of sensation, a crescendo of passion and desire that echoed through every fibre of her being. With each movement, their skin brushed against each other, igniting sparks of electricity that sent shivers down their spines. Louise's breath hitched as Clark's lips found hers, his kisses tasting of longing and devotion. As they moved together, their bodies melding in perfect harmony, Louise's senses were overwhelmed by the sensation of Clark's skin against hers. With each kiss he bestowed upon her, each caress that left her skin tingling with desire, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her like a tidal wave and she surrendered to him completely, her inhibitions melting away in the heat of their shared passion. Each touch, each kiss, building to a crescendo of ecstasy that left them both breathless. In those moments of intimacy, they bared their souls to each other, their hearts beating as one in a rhythm of love and desire. As they reached the pinnacle of their ecstasy, Louise felt a sense of completeness wash over her, as if she had finally found her true home in his embrace. With him, she was more than enough, her scars and imperfections fading into insignificance in the light of his love. In that moment of bliss, as they lay tangled together in a cocoon of warmth and intimacy, Louise knew that their love was a force to be reckoned with, a bond that transcended time and space. With him, she felt as though the sky had become hers, a vast expanse of possibilities stretching out before her, all because of him. And as they basked in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Louise knew that nothing else mattered except the love they shared. With him by her side, she felt free, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, and she knew that their love would carry them through any challenge that lay ahead.

And then, one day, he confessed his love for her, his words like a symphony of emotion, filling her heart with a warmth she had never known. Not Louise Potter, the girl who had cheated death twice and faced unimaginable challenges, but plain, simple Louise, with her wild unmanageable hair and body which held numerous scars. She couldn't fathom why someone like him, someone who could have anyone he desired, would choose her. But with each kiss he bestowed upon her, each caress that left her skin tingling with desire, she realized that with him, she was more than enough. In the tender moments following his heartfelt confession, Louise found herself enveloped in a whirlwind of emotions, her heart overflowing with love and desire for the man who had captured her soul. As they embraced, their bodies pressed together in a passionate embrace, she felt a surge of electricity coursing through her veins, igniting a fire within her that burned hotter with each passing second.

His love gave new meaning to her life, infusing every moment with a sense of purpose and joy she had never known. It was as though the sky had become hers, a vast expanse of possibilities stretching out before her, all because of him. With him, she felt free, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, and nothing else mattered except the love they shared. Before Clark, Louise had been merely existing, moving through life's motions without truly feeling alive. But with him, it was as if the very essence of her being had been ignited, each moment brimming with vibrancy and passion. Every laugh they shared felt like a melody, harmonising perfectly with the rhythm of their hearts. And every touch, whether a gentle caress or an electrifying embrace, sent sparks flying through her veins, igniting a fire within her that burned brighter with each passing day.

Their love was a secret, a delicate dance between two souls destined to be together yet forced to conceal their affection from the prying eyes of the world. It took effort, stealth, and a fair share of clandestine rendezvous to keep their relationship hidden from the scrutinising gaze of their worlds—his as Superman, hers as a witch with a past that could never fully be erased. But in the quiet moments, they stole away together, their love blossomed, unfurling like a delicate flower in the warmth of their shared affection.

Louise's heart soared the day she met Clark's mother, Martha, for the first time. The warmth and acceptance she received from the kind-hearted woman filled her with a sense of belonging she had never known before. It was a moment of pure joy, a glimpse into the future they dreamed of building together—a future where they could love openly and without fear of judgment.

And when they finally moved into a cosy flat together in Metropolis, Louise felt as though she had found her sanctuary, her haven amid the bustling city. Every corner of their new home was filled with love and laughter, a reflection of the bond they shared and the life they were building together.

But perhaps the greatest moment of their shared happiness came when they discovered that she was pregnant. Clark's reaction was a whirlwind of emotions, a mix of worry and happiness that mirrored her own. In that moment, as they held each other close, Louise knew that their love was not just a fleeting spark, but a flame that would burn brightly for all eternity.

Was it truly only two days ago?

The memory seemed to stretch endlessly, a distant glimmer of happiness amidst the overwhelming despair that now consumed Louise. Her heart clenched painfully as she held onto Clark's lifeless form, his once lively eyes now empty and cold. Desperately, she reached out to touch his cheek, her fingers trembling with a futile hope for a response, but he remained unmoved as if lost to the world.

“Clark?” She spoke. “This isn't funny anymore. I know you can hear me.”

No.

He couldn't be... gone.

He was Superman. Kal-El.

He was supposed to outlive her.

But the warmth of his skin beneath her touch served only to mock the vibrant life that had been cruelly snatched away. No tears flowed from her eyes, though her soul felt like it was drowning in a tempest of emotions. It was as if a heavy shroud of grief had settled over her, suffocating her spirit and leaving her gasping for air. How could she even begin to mourn when the pain threatened to consume her whole?

The memory of his sudden departure played on repeat in her mind, a whirlwind of chaos and heartache that left her feeling utterly helpless. There had been no chance to save him, no opportunity to defy fate and keep him by her side. Now, sitting beside his lifeless body, Louise felt utterly powerless, her heart shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

Was this her punishment for daring to love so fiercely? For allowing herself to believe in a future filled with joy and promise. The questions tore at her soul, tormenting her with their cruel uncertainty.

As she sat there with Clark’s head in her lap, she felt the control of her magic slipping from her body. She sat there, engulfed in the suffocating embrace of her grief, Louise felt herself slipping into the comforting embrace of darkness. It was a brief respite from the unbearable weight of her reality, a fleeting moment of solace in a world fractured by pain and sorrow.

But even as unconsciousness threatened to claim her, one thought echoed loudly in her mind, a silent vow to the man she loved with every fibre of her being: 'I will find a way so we can be together. I swear it.'

When her eyes fluttered open, she found herself surrounded by a sea of faces, their voices blending into an indistinct murmur. But to her, they were mere echoes, insignificant whispers in the vast emptiness of her grief-stricken heart. All that mattered was the one person who had been her world, her life—Clark, her beloved Clark. And now, he had been ripped away from her, stolen from her grasp like so many others before him.

As she remained cocooned in the suffocating embrace of her sorrow, Louise didn’t bother to muster the courage to face the outside world. Amidst the muffled sounds of passing conversations, Louise caught disjointed fragments of dialogue drifting through the air like whispers in the wind. People came and went, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of sorrow and admiration, their words a tangled web of grief and reverence. They spoke of Clark, of Superman, their tones fluctuating between mourning and admiration as they recounted tales of heroism and sacrifice. The government's tribute to Superman only added to the chorus, amplifying the mixed emotions swirling around her. Yet, for Louise, it was all nothing more than meaningless noise, a harsh reminder of the vast emptiness that now consumed her soul. She felt detached, lost in her own world of grief, where the echoes of others' conversations faded into the background, drowned out by the deafening silence of her heartache.

Instead, she sought solace in the sanctuary of Clark's childhood bed, nestled within the walls of the Kent Farm. She lay there in silence, her gaze fixed on the ceiling above, her mind consumed by memories of happier times—times when Clark was still by her side, his laughter filling the air with warmth and light. But now, there was only emptiness—a void that threatened to swallow her whole. She longed to reach out and touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, but he was gone, lost to her forever. And so, she lay there, lost in the depths of her despair, her heartache a silent symphony of pain and loss. The world continued to spin outside, oblivious to her suffering, but for Louise, time stood still. All that mattered was the absence of the one she loved, the gaping hole in her heart that could never be filled. And as she lay there, enveloped in the darkness of her grief, she whispered his name into the void, a silent prayer for his return.

Louise felt as though she were moving through a thick haze, her senses dulled, and her mind clouded with grief. Faces blurred together, their features indistinct and nameless, but amidst the fog, there was one figure she recognized — Martha. The woman who had become like a mother to her over the past five years, the woman who had loved Clark as her son. But even as Martha reached out to her, offering comfort and solace, Louise felt utterly useless, unable to find the strength to even speak to the woman who was suffering possibly more than anyone else.

In a moment that pierced through the thick veil of numbness cocooning Louise's soul, Martha extended a small packet towards her. The simple gesture carried an unexpected weight, stirring a flicker of awareness within Louise's grief-stricken mind. With trembling hands, she accepted the offering, her fingers tracing the contours of the package as if hesitant to unveil its contents. As she gingerly tore away the wrapping, her heart drummed a frantic rhythm against her ribcage, anticipation mingling with the heavy fog of despair that clouded her senses.

Within the confines of the packet lay a symbol of undying love—a ring. Its presence sent a jolt of bittersweet recognition coursing through Louise's veins, a poignant reminder of the happiness she once held within her grasp. The solitaire gem nestled atop a delicate rose gold band shimmered in the dim light, casting ethereal glimmers that danced against the backdrop of her shattered world. It was a cruel irony, she thought bitterly, that such a token of devotion should arrive at a time when her heart already lay in ruins.

As Louise sat there, clutching the ring that Clark had left for her, she felt a surge of emotions overwhelm her like a relentless tide crashing against the shore. Tears blurred her vision, each drop a testament to the depth of her pain and longing for the man she loved. The weight of the ring in her hand served as a poignant reminder of the promises they had made to each other, now fractured by the cruel hand of fate. With trembling fingers, she traced the delicate contours of the ring, feeling its smooth surface against her skin. It seemed to pulse with silent energy, carrying the echoes of their love—a love that now felt both achingly real and painfully distant. As she held it, she couldn't help but feel the weight of their shared memories, each one a bittersweet reminder of what they had lost.

Suddenly, she felt the warmth of arms enveloping her, pulling her into a tender embrace. It was Ron, his presence a source of comfort amidst the storm of her grief. Beside him stood Hermione, her steady gaze a silent beacon of strength and support. Their combined presence offered a fleeting respite from the overwhelming sorrow that threatened to consume her. But even as they held her close, Louise remained lost in the depths of her anguish. Her thoughts were consumed by memories of Clark—the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his smile, the touch of his hand against hers. Each memory was a dagger to her heart, reopening wounds that had yet to heal. At that moment, all she could feel was the vast emptiness left behind by his absence, a void that was impossible to fill.

Louise found herself trapped in the labyrinth of her grief, where time seemed to lose all meaning. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, each passing moment a relentless reminder of the void that now consumed her existence. Along with her friends, even Martha, Diana, and Bruce offered their support, their worried faces a constant presence in her fractured reality. Yet, despite their efforts to comfort her, Louise could not escape the overwhelming longing for Clark—the ache of his absence gnawing at her soul like a persistent wound.

In the depths of her despair, Louise felt as though she had been cast adrift in a storm-tossed sea, her once-sturdy vessel shattered by the cruel hand of fate. The pain weighed heavily upon her, a suffocating pressure that threatened to crush her spirit beneath its unbearable weight. And yet, amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf her, a flicker of determination burned within her heart—a resolve to reclaim what had been taken from her.

With each passing day, Louise's longing for Clark only grew stronger, driving her to seek solace in memories of their time together. His smile, his touch, the sound of his laughter—all became precious treasures to be cherished in the vast emptiness of her grief-stricken existence. And yet, amidst the darkness, a glimmer of determination flickered within her heart. She knew what she had to do.

Alone in the suffocating silence of her grief, Louise clutched the ring close to her chest, feeling its weight pressing against her skin like a tangible reminder of the love she had lost. Each facet of the solitaire diamond seemed to catch the dim light, reflecting the fractured shards of her shattered heart. With trembling fingers, she traced the delicate curve of the rose gold band, her touch tentative yet reverent.

Closing her eyes, Louise drew in a shaky breath, steeling herself for what was to come. It felt as though the weight of the world rested upon her shoulders, pressing down with an unbearable heaviness that threatened to crush her beneath its relentless weight. But amidst the darkness, a flicker of determination burned within her, a beacon of light amidst the suffocating shadows of her despair.

In this solitary moment, she made her decision—a final act of defiance against the pain that threatened to consume her whole. With a silent prayer on her lips, she surrendered herself to the darkness, allowing it to envelop her in its cold embrace. This would be her last goodbye, her final surrender to the unbearable agony of her loss.

As she lay there, bathed in the soft glow of memory and longing, Louise felt a sense of peace wash over her. In this moment of surrender, she finally found solace—a fragile respite from the relentless torment of her grief. And with the ring clutched tightly in her grasp, she whispered a silent farewell to the world that had become too painful to bear.

Chapter Text

As he emerged from the depths of unconsciousness, the first sensation to greet him was a dull throbbing in his head, as if his brain were trying to push through a dense fog. His eyelids felt heavy as he attempted to blink away the haze, but the world remained obscured, as though shrouded in a thick veil. In that suspended moment between sleep and wakefulness, he found himself in a strange limbo, where time seemed to stretch endlessly. Colours swirled around him, blending into a kaleidoscope of hues that danced at the periphery of his vision. Shapes shifted and morphed, refusing to coalesce into anything recognisable. He reached out tentatively, seeking some anchor in this disorienting void. His fingers brushed against cool, smooth surfaces, but they offered no solace, no familiarity. Panic bubbled within him, threatening to overwhelm his fragile grasp on consciousness.

With each passing moment, awareness trickled back in drips and drabs, like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass. Yet, try as he might, he could not grasp hold of any solid memory, any fragment of identity to cling to. The people around him, their faces mere blurs in the swirling mists of his mind, only deepened his confusion. Their voices echoed hollowly in his ears, their words unintelligible whispers lost in the cacophony of his thoughts.

Who was he?

Where did he come from?

What should he do?

Where was he supposed to go?

These questions echoed endlessly in the recesses of his mind, taunting him with their unanswerable mystery. He strained against the oppressive weight of his foggy mind, clawing desperately at the edges of his consciousness in search of some semblance of truth. But the harder he tried to remember, the further elusive memories slipped from his grasp like smoke dissipating into the ether.

His mind felt like a labyrinth of fragmented thoughts and shattered recollections, each one leading to a dead end. No matter how much he tried, he was left feeling more lost than before. With each passing moment, he felt like a ship adrift in a vast ocean, without a compass or a map to guide him. The waves of uncertainty crashed over him, threatening to pull him under with their relentless force. He longed for something solid to hold onto, some semblance of familiarity to anchor him in this storm of confusion.

It felt like he was missing a piece of himself, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what—or who—it was. There was this lingering ache in his chest, a yearning for something familiar yet just out of reach. It was like trying to remember a dream upon waking when the details slipped away like grains of sand through his fingers.

Every sound and sensation bombarded him like a barrage of arrows, leaving him feeling like he was drowning in a sea of noise. It was overwhelming, like being caught in a whirlwind with no way out. He reached out, desperate for something to hold onto, but it felt like trying to grasp smoke.

In that bubble of isolation, he felt like he was watching the world through a thick pane of glass, separate and apart from everything around him. And in that separation, there was an emptiness, a void that echoed with the silence of his own thoughts. He couldn't help but feel a profound sense of loneliness, like a solitary figure wandering through a desert with no end in sight.

As he soared through the sky, carried by wings he didn't possess, a whirlwind of emotions swept through him. It was like being caught in a storm of feelings—confusion mixed with a hint of fear, all tangled up together. The landscape below rushed past in a blur, a patchwork of greens and browns interspersed with winding rivers and sprawling cities.

And when he spotted the symbol etched into the earth below, he couldn't resist the pull to investigate. Descending to the clearing, he felt like he was moving on autopilot, not sure how he got there. His eyes locked onto the simple 'S', and something stirred deep within him. It was like a distant memory trying to break through the fog of confusion, teasing him with glimpses of a past he couldn't quite grasp. But just as quickly as the memories came, they slipped away, leaving him frustrated and longing for answers. It was like trying to catch a fleeting dream, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold on. He wanted desperately to piece together the puzzle of his past, to understand who he was and where he came from. Amidst the confusion and frustration, there was also a sense of urgency—a feeling that time was slipping away, and he needed to find the missing pieces of his identity before it was too late. Until then, he knew he would remain adrift in a sea of uncertainty, searching for answers amid the unknown.

But before he could dwell further on the symbol or his missing memories, his reverie was shattered by the sudden arrival of others. Their presence jolted him out of his introspection, snapping him back to the reality of the moment. They landed not far from him, their sudden appearance startling and unsettling. He turned to face them, his mind buzzing with a mix of curiosity and confusion, noting the tension that crackled in the air like static electricity.

As he faced the four individuals, their expressions revealed a spectrum of emotions.

"He's back," declared the woman, her tone weighted with recognition.

He returned her gaze with a blank stare, his senses heightened to an uncanny degree. Through their transparent bodies, he could discern every detail—the intricate web of veins, the structure of bones, and the rhythmic pulsing of their hearts.

"He's not alright," murmured one of them, causing a palpable tension to ripple through the group. He observed how their heartbeats quickened in response, a clear indication of their intentions. Realisation dawned upon him—these individuals were not here as allies.

Without warning, one of them moved to attack, unleashing a blast towards him. Fueled by fury, he reacted instinctively, his muscles tensing as he effortlessly deflected the assault. The force of his retaliation was so powerful that it shattered the wall behind him, sending debris flying.

With a surge of cold resolve, all previous thoughts vanished, replaced by a steely determination. He moved with surprising agility without knowing how he did it. His body reacted on its own, defending him against the attackers by releasing heat from his eyes. The confrontation was quick but fierce. Despite the assailants' evident resolve to inflict harm, he found himself effortlessly overcoming their assaults, propelled by a surge of adrenaline that heightened his senses and sharpened his reflexes. It was apparent that even together, they posed no match for him, their efforts proving futile against his innate strength and resilience.

As the dust settled, the woman's voice broke the silence. She uttered a name—Kal-El.

It struck him like lightning, stirring something deep and primal within him. Faces flashed before his eyes, fleeting glimpses of people he couldn't quite place, and places he couldn't quite recall. Yet, amidst the confusion, there was a sense of clarity—a realization that he was more than just a nameless wanderer adrift in the void of his mind.

He was Kal-El.

With newfound determination, he pushed the woman aside, with unexpected force that sent her flying back and she landed on top of the vehicle behind her. The others who stood against him faced a similar fate, as he swiftly defended himself with decisive actions. Yet, as the dust settled from the skirmish, a new threat materialised—humans, fragile yet fueled by their pride. Their attacks only angered Kal-El further, and he unleashed his power upon them, swiftly ending their existence with ruthless efficiency.

During all the chaos, a man dressed in black stepped forward, drawing everyone's attention despite the confusion around them. Something about him rubbed Kal-El the wrong way, sparking an intense reaction he couldn't quite understand. He wondered if the man was a friend or an enemy, but in the end, Kal-El decided it didn't really matter. A sudden surge of anger filled him, drowning out his usual rational thoughts. Just as he decided that he deserved the same fate as others, the masked figure mentioned a name.

Louise.

Even though he couldn't remember the name at the moment, it evoked an overwhelming feeling of familiarity that went beyond his lost memories. It was as if a dormant part of his consciousness had been awakened by the mere mention of the name. Despite the fog of confusion clouding his memories, he felt a profound and undeniable urge to find Louise. It was a sensation that went beyond logic or reason, a primal instinct compelling him to seek out this mysterious individual. Though he couldn't recall any specific memories or experiences associated with the name, he sensed instinctively that Louise held the key to unlocking the mysteries of his past.

"Where?" Kal-El's voice, unfamiliar to his ears, came out as a raspy whisper filled with urgency, mirroring the chaos in his mind.

The masked man hesitated, his gaze flickering with a mix of apprehension and reluctance. But he relented, his words tumbling forth like stones cascading down a mountainside as he responded, “Smallville cemetery.”

Fueled by a newfound sense of purpose, Kal-El abandoned his initial plan of killing the man. Swiftly, he took flight, propelled by a sense of purpose that burned within him like a beacon in the darkness. Despite not knowing exactly where he was headed, he trusted his instinct to guide him towards his destination.

The sky split open around him as he flew, the world below nothing more than a blur of colour and motion. The wind tore past his face, biting and cold, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in his mind. Every heartbeat felt too loud, too fast — a rhythm he didn’t understand but couldn’t escape. He wasn’t flying toward anything. He was running from the confusion, from the noise inside his head, from the face of that man in black and the name that still burned like fire behind his eyes.

Louise.

He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t even know who he was. But the moment that name had been spoken, something inside him had shifted — something old, deep, and unexplainable. It wasn’t a memory. It was older than that, more instinct than thought. It felt like a heartbeat calling to another heartbeat, like something lost trying desperately to be found.

He followed the pull without question. He didn’t need direction. The name itself guided him, whispering through the fog in his mind, drawing him onward until the fields of Smallville stretched below.

When he landed, the silence was absolute. The earth gave slightly beneath his boots, soft and damp, and the scent of grass and soil filled his lungs. It should have been peaceful, but it wasn’t. The air felt heavy — charged with something he couldn’t name.

He looked around and froze.

A cemetery.

The word formed in his mind before he remembered what it meant. Rows of stone markers stretched across the field, grey against the dull green of the earth. The scent of rain and soil clung to everything — heavy, damp, suffocating.

Frowning, he surveyed his surroundings, a sense of déjà vu gnawing at his consciousness. There was a haunting familiarity here, a resonance that echoed through the depths of his shattered memories. He didn’t know why, but something in his chest tightened.

His feet moved before he could think, his boots crunching softly over dead leaves, his eyes scanning the rows of gravestones that stretched into the mist. The names meant nothing to him — hollow words carved into stone. Yet, his eyes drifted from stone to stone, blurring over unfamiliar names until one stopped him cold.

Louise Potter.

The world seemed to tilt. His heart — or whatever pulsed in his chest — seized. The name — that same one that had pulled him here — carved into the stone in quiet permanence. He didn’t remember her face, her voice, her laugh, but the sight of those letters hit him like a blow. The pain was sudden and absolute — a deep, tearing ache that started in his ribs and spread like fire. He didn’t understand it, but it felt like losing something he’d already lost a thousand times before.

The letters blurred, not from the rain, but from the sting behind his eyes. He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t know why the sight of her name made his knees feel weak or why his heart began to hammer painfully against his ribs — but it did. The ache was too real, too deep to be a stranger’s grief.

His knees gave out beneath him. The ground was soft, cool, alive under his palms. He pressed his fingers into it, feeling the grit and the damp seep into his skin. The contact was grounding and unbearable all at once. He didn’t know what compelled him — maybe instinct, maybe something older than that — but his hands moved to the earth above her grave, brushing it aside, as if touch could undo death. The soil was cold, unyielding, but he couldn’t stop.

He wanted to feel nothing — it would’ve been easier. But the ache grew sharper with every movement.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he imagined warmth — a hand in his, laughter in sunlight, a whisper against his ear. The image slipped away before he could hold onto it, leaving only emptiness behind. He pressed his palm against the ground harder as something inside him screamed to remember, but the harder he tried, the further it slipped away, until all that was left was a hollow ache and the unbearable certainty that he had lost something — someone — who once meant everything.

Though he couldn't remember her, the sight of her lifeless form sent a surge of anguish inside him, tearing at his soul with relentless force.

It was grief without memory — pure and raw. He didn’t remember loving her, but his body remembered. His heart remembered. And that felt like the loss of himself.

A strangled sound broke from his throat — half roar, half cry — echoing across the silent graves. It echoed through the still air, disappearing into the grey sky. The force of it startled him. He hadn’t meant to make a sound. It had just escaped — but for once, the sound matched the chaos inside him.
Tears burned his eyes. He didn’t understand them. The wetness, the heat on his skin — they felt alien, but right. They fell freely, cutting clean paths through the dirt on his face. He bowed his head, letting them fall onto the ground between his hands, onto her name.

He didn’t remember her, but the emptiness left in her absence hollowed him out completely. Every breath was heavy, a reminder that he was still alive when she wasn’t. Every heartbeat hurt, too human, too slow, too loud. He felt as though something essential had been carved out of him, leaving behind a shape that only she could have filled.

He stayed there, unmoving, his forehead pressed against the stone, eyes closed. The silence around him felt immense — vast enough to swallow him whole. For the first time since he had woken into this strange, broken world, he wished it would.

He didn’t know who he was, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the ache — the kind that came from loving someone so completely that even forgetting couldn’t erase it.

He longed to reach out, to hold her one last time and whisper words of love into her ear. But she was beyond his grasp, lost to him forever in a way that he couldn't bear to comprehend. In that moment of profound sorrow, he felt as though a part of him had died alongside her, leaving nothing but a hollow shell in its wake. The anguish settled in his bones, in the rhythm of his pulse, in every tear that fell into the earth that cradled her.

The wind shifted, cold against his back, carrying the scent of rain and something faintly sweet — flowers maybe, long dead but still clinging to the air. For a moment, he almost thought he could feel her there, just beyond reach, like sunlight on the edge of a storm. And then the feeling faded, leaving him alone with the silence and the weight in his chest.

He didn’t know how long he had been there. Minutes, hours—maybe days. Time had lost meaning somewhere between the aching silence and the hollow space inside his chest. The air hung heavy, pressing down on him, thick with grief and the scent of damp earth. Louise Potter’s name was etched into the stone before him, unyielding and final. He traced it again and again, until the tips of his fingers went numb. It was the only thing that felt real. Something inside him broke quietly, without sound or warning — like a thread snapping deep within his chest. The pain didn’t come as a scream or a storm. It came as a silence so deep it hollowed him out. It wasn’t just sorrow; it was annihilation. Every heartbeat felt like a betrayal. His body remembered something his mind could not — warmth, laughter, a light that used to guide him. But all of it was gone, leaving him stranded in a void that had no mercy.

He wanted to remember her face. He wanted to remember why her name hurt so much — why just seeing it carved into stone felt like something breaking inside his chest. But the harder he tried to reach for her, the faster she slipped away. Every thought, every desperate attempt to summon her from the fog, only deepened the emptiness clawing at his mind.

He didn’t notice the tears until they touched his skin. They were hot, burning trails against a body that no longer felt alive. He stared at them, confused, almost disgusted. Tears meant something human — love, loss, fear. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want to feel this. Yet no matter how hard he tried to stop, they kept falling, silent proof of something fragile still buried deep within him.

He pressed his palm into the earth, his fingers digging into the soil as if the world could somehow steady him — hold him together, give him something real to cling to. But the earth was cold. Lifeless. It absorbed his trembling, his pain, his confusion — and gave nothing back. The silence mocked him.

And then, somewhere between the pain and the emptiness, something inside him shifted.

Something inside him twisted. The grief burned too hot, too wild, until it began to harden.

Grief was human.

He was not.

Pain became pressure. Pressure became fury. Fury turned to ice.

When the voice broke the quiet, it felt like an intrusion, jagged and wrong. He looked up slowly. A man stood there — frail, fragile, mortal. Every inch of him screamed of everything Kal-El suddenly loathed. The man’s pitying eyes, his gentle voice — they made Kal-El’s stomach twist. The human moved closer, his hand trembling as it reached out, something inside Kal-El recoiled violently. The touch was a violation — soft, weak, human.

Kal-El’s mind went silent. No thought. No hesitation. Only the violent recoil of something ancient and powerful. A blinding surge of heat left his body before he could stop it, the air filling with the crackle of energy and the sickening scent of burning flesh.

And then — nothing but ash.

For a long moment, Kal-El just stared at it. At the smouldering remains of what had once been a man. The grief that had clawed at his chest moments ago was gone — or maybe it had simply turned inward, folding into itself until nothing remained but the void. He should have felt horror. Guilt. Something. But what filled him instead was emptiness so vast it was almost peaceful.

He rose to his feet slowly, every movement deliberate — not out of strength, but control. The storm inside him had not ended; it had simply gone quiet, like the aftermath of a world already destroyed. The kind of silence that feels endless. His eyes, once warm and alive, now reflected nothing. Just the dull, empty grey of a man who had forgotten what it meant to feel.

He looked once more at the grave. The name carved into stone twisted something deep inside him, something he couldn’t name. He didn’t know why it hurt — only that it did. That it always would. The ache was constant, heavy, like a wound that refused to close. But he would not let it rule him anymore. He buried it deep beneath the surface where no one could reach it. Where even he could pretend it didn’t exist.

Whatever had been human in him… had died here.

Among the ashes, the dirt, the silence — something inside him broke and did not mend. Humans shattered under grief. But he was not human. He did not break. He burned. The pain seared through every part of him until there was nothing left but ash and steel. He had become something colder. Something that could not love, could not mourn, could not bleed.

He thought of the woman — the one whose face he could no longer remember, whose name was a blade in his mind. The loss of her should have undone him. It did, for a time. But even that grief had turned to frost. He could not remember her voice, her warmth, or the way her eyes softened when she looked at him. He hated that. He hated the emptiness more than the pain. The pain had meant he was still something human. The emptiness reminded him he no longer was.

He turned his gaze skyward, the wind stirring around him. The sky above him split as he rose, the world below shrinking into insignificance.

Whatever had once tethered him to this planet — love, grief, humanity — was gone.

Clark was gone.

Only Kal-El remained.

In the days that followed, Kal-El's perception of humanity shifted, coloured by the lens of his own alien perspective. He watched the world around him with eyes that saw too much and understood too little. The humans scurried through their lives like insects tracing patterns in dust, mistaking noise for purpose, struggle for meaning. He could not comprehend them — their endless chatter, their tears, their laughter. To him, it was all the same: transient, fragile, forgettable.

They built their cities and their laws, worshipped their heroes and buried their dead, believing it all mattered. But when he looked at them, he saw the truth — they were fleeting sparks, destined to vanish before the universe even noticed they’d existed. They spoke of morality, of right and wrong, but to him, those words were hollow. What was morality to a creature who could crush mountains and silence thunder?

When they interfered — when they dared to reach toward him, to demand answers, trying to contain what they could not understand — he felt nothing. No anger. No pity. Only a kind of cold detachment, as though swatting away dust that dared to cling to his skin. Their weapons shattered against him like raindrops against steel. Their screams were brief. Their bodies — fragile, easily broken. He didn’t mean to kill them, not in any deliberate sense. It simply… happened.

They called it destruction. He called it inevitability.

Sometimes, he told himself he didn’t mean to. That their deaths were accidents — unfortunate consequences of their frailty. But deep down, he knew the truth: he didn’t care. Their lives were so brief, so inconsequential, that even mercy felt wasted on them. He had once been bound by their morals, by their fragile sense of right and wrong. But that part of him — the part that flinched at pain, that hesitated before killing — had died.

So he embraced the stillness. The cold logic of his nature. He was not one of them. He had never been. Their grief, their love, their fragile notions of good and evil — they were not his to bear. He was power incarnate, unbound by their limits, unshackled by their fears.

Kal-El no longer sought connection or understanding. He existed in the cold vacuum of his own purpose — a being untethered by conscience, unrestrained by sentiment. He had looked upon humanity and found it wanting.

They had worshipped him once. Now they feared him.

And perhaps, he thought, that was how it was always meant to be.

He was not one of them.

He had never been.

And now, finally, he no longer pretended to be.

They came to him — again — the woman, the man of the sea and the machine. Familiar shapes in an unfamiliar world. Their faces meant nothing to him, but something in their eyes — that pleading, desperate familiarity — scraped against the hollow inside his chest. It wasn’t recognition. It was irritation. They looked at him as though he owed them something, as though they had a right to speak his name.

Kal-El.

The woman said it like it should mean something. Her voice was calm but edged with sorrow, the kind that made humans sound fragile — breakable. “You do not want to do this,” she told him.

He almost laughed. The sound didn’t come, but the thought brushed the edge of his mind like a shadow. You do not want to do this. Kal-El knew that she spoke from a place of understanding, that she sought to appeal to the remnants of his humanity that lingered within him. He looked at her and felt… nothing.

Once, perhaps, her words might have reached him. Once, her compassion might have been enough to pull him back from the edge. But that man was gone. The one who hesitated, who cared, who believed in mercy — he had burned away with the rest of his humanity. What remained was something colder. Clearer. Unburdened by doubt or grief. They saw a man standing before them, but they were wrong. He was no man. Not anymore.

When the woman advanced again, rope in hand, her eyes bright with futile conviction, something inside him finally broke — or perhaps, finally awakened. He caught the golden tether mid-air, the metal hissing against his skin as he twisted it around his palm. Her strength met his, and it was almost admirable — almost — but she was still bound by compassion. Still weak. Breakable.

He pulled her toward him effortlessly, her feet scraping the dirt, and for a brief, fleeting instant, he saw the fear flicker in her gaze — the realisation that she could not stop him. His hand closed around her throat, and the sound of her breath struggling against his grip was intoxicating. It filled the air like music — raw, desperate, alive.

That was when the others intervened — the sea-born brute crashing into him with a roar, the machine firing some crude weapon that sparked harmlessly against his chest. They thought they were saving her. They thought they could save him.

He turned on them without hesitation. Power surged through him — blinding, pure, divine. His strike sent one flying, another to his knees. When the bat-shaped mortal dared attack from afar, the impact stung for an instant — not pain, but insult. His vision blurred red.

He seized the nearest body — the woman again — and used her like a shield, a weapon, a means to an end. He moved through them like a storm given flesh, a force that neither reason nor morality could restrain. Each strike, each cry, each shattered bone fed something deep and ancient inside him. The longer it went on, the less he felt the pull of the world beneath him.

And then entered the man in black — the one who thought he had a chance. The man stayed where he was; he didn’t run, but Kal-El could hear him. Hear everything: the rapid pulse hammering in his chest, the sharp intake of breath beneath the mask, the steady grind of willpower fighting against fear.

Kal-El descended like a storm breaking from the heavens, landing with a force that made the earth itself recoil. The air rippled around him. The others — the woman with the shield, the scarlet streak of lightning, the king of the seas — they were moving, shouting, but they blurred into insignificance. All he saw was the man in black.

Batman.

The name whispered through the void of his memory, stirring anger he could not explain. A phantom emotion with no origin — just pure, searing hatred. He didn’t remember why. Only that every part of him burned to destroy this man.

Kal-El’s hand shot forward, faster than sight. His fingers seized the front of Batman’s suit, crushing armour and fabric as though it were paper. He lifted him effortlessly until the man dangled helplessly above the ground. He could feel the frantic pulse in Batman’s throat, could hear the strain in his lungs as he struggled against a power that made him meaningless.

The man was trying to speak, words rasping through broken breaths. Maybe a plea. Maybe defiance. It didn’t matter.

Kal-El tightened his grip, slow and deliberate. The sound of straining bone, the smell of scorched metal. The man’s heartbeat faltered — and still, Kal-El didn’t stop. He wanted to crush him, erase him, end him. Not just the man, but everything he represented — weakness, defiance, humanity. He wanted the silence that would follow.

And then—

“Clark!”

The voice cut through his chaos like lightning.

A single word — small, human, fragile — yet it cleaved through the iron calm like a blade of light through fog. His body froze before his mind could follow. The air stilled. For the first time in years — or centuries, or moments; time had no meaning anymore — his heart stuttered.

That voice. It wrapped around him like gravity, dragging him down from the void. His head turned, slow, unwilling, as if afraid of what he might see — or remember.

The man he held — the one who had challenged him, whose heartbeat had roared like an enemy’s drum — suddenly didn’t matter. The sound of that pulse, once sharp and defiant, faded beneath the whisper of her.

He turned toward her — slowly, as though every motion fought against something ancient and cold — and the sight of her stole the breath from his lungs. Hair wild and bright against the dark sky. Eyes glistening — green, alive, familiar. He didn’t know why his chest hurt, why his vision blurred, why the air itself felt heavy. He only knew that he knew her.

But she was gone. She had been gone. He remembered that — the grief, the emptiness, the hollow ache that had never healed. She was taken from him, torn away by something cruel and vast. He had mourned her in every breath, though he no longer remembered her name on his tongue.

And yet — she was here.

“Please…” she spoke again.

Every part of him strained toward that voice, that face. The anger, the confusion, the godlike detachment — all of it fractured under the weight of something unbearable: need.

Her heart was racing. He could hear it — too fast, too human. His own heart stuttered in response. She was crying. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know why his own throat burned as if he might do the same.

And then she was moving — stumbling toward him, shaking, fearless despite everything he was. And he… couldn’t stay still. His body betrayed him, his control slipping through his fingers like sand. The world around them blurred. His fingers loosened, the man in black falling away forgotten. The ground blurred under his feet. The only thing he saw was her. Didn’t remember crossing the distance between them. The desperate urge to touch her, to feel that she was real.

“Clark…” she said again, voice trembling, fragile but defiant, cutting through the ruins of his rage.

And with that, the first crack appeared in the ice.

But before he could reach her, she collided with him — a rush of warmth, of breath, of everything he thought he’d lost. Instinct took over. His arms caught her, locking around her before he could even think. He held her like a drowning man clings to air, terrified that if he let go, she’d vanish again. His fingers dug into her back, trembling. She clung to him just as fiercely, nails biting into his skin as if to anchor him to this moment — and he let her. He needed her to.

Her body fit against his as though it had always been meant to, and something inside him cracked open. His face pressed into the curve of her neck, breathing her in — sunlight and rain-soaked earth, and that faint trace of lavender that had always meant home. His knees nearly gave out.

And then the memories came — not gently, but in violent, breathtaking waves that tore through him.

A woman laughing, sunlight caught in her hair like gold. Her eyes — bright, defiant, alive — squinting up at him beneath a city skyline that suddenly felt too small to hold them both.

A smile behind a coffee cup, steam rising between them, the world quiet for once.

The warmth of her breath against his skin as she whispered something meant only for him — something that had made him forget everything but her.

Rain. The smell of it. The sound of her laughter as it soaked through their clothes.

Her hand brushing his hair away while he pretended to sleep — because with her, it was too easy to forget who he was.

The way she said his name — Clark — soft, teasing, filled with a love he didn’t think he deserved.

Her lips — soft, sure, tasting like home and forever.

A clumsy dance in a dimly lit apartment, her laughter bubbling out when he stepped on her toes. Her heartbeat against his chest — wild, fragile, real.

Her fingers against his cheek, grounding him in ways gravity never could.

Her voice humming off-key in the kitchen, the sound of ordinary joy.

Her legs tangled with his under a blanket on a Sunday morning, the world outside irrelevant.

The way her eyes had looked when he first kissed her — as if he wasn’t a symbol, or an alien, or a god — just hers.

Her laughter muffled against his neck when he whispered something stupid, only to hear that sound again.

Her head rested on his shoulder while the city lights blinked below, her fingers tracing patterns on his palm.

The press of her hand against his heart — that quiet reminder that even he had one.

The softness in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The way she’d steal his jacket and grin, drowning in it, daring him to say something.

And the memory that shattered him most — the night he asked her to move in. Rain everywhere. His voice was shaking. Her laughter broke through the downpour as she said yes, kissing him like he was the only thing that had ever mattered.

Her laughter — bright, impossible. Her warmth — infinite.

And the whisper that lingered through it all, soft as breath, sharp as grief:

“Promise, you’d always come back.”

And now she was here — Alive.

Reaching for him again.

And he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

In that moment, he wasn’t Kal-El, the alien god standing above humanity — he was Clark. He was hers.

Something inside him broke. Something inside him gave way. A sound tore out of him — raw, human, broken — the first sob of a man who had forgotten what it meant to feel. His hands trembled as he pulled her closer, terrified that if he loosened his grip, she would fade back into the darkness that had swallowed him whole.

Her touch burned.

Her voice shook against his skin.

“Clark,” she breathed — and he shattered all over again.

He wasn’t Kal-El. Not now. Not here. Not in her arms.

He was Clark Kent.

The man who had loved her.

The man who still did.

She looked up at him, eyes glistening, her voice barely a whisper, “Let’s go…”

He didn’t think. Didn’t question.

He just obeyed.

The earth broke beneath them as he rose — her heartbeat thundering against his chest, his arms locked around her as though the universe itself might try to take her away again. The flames below flickered and fell behind them, swallowed by clouds and wind. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Because in his arms was everything he had ever been fighting for — everything he had lost, and somehow, impossibly, found again.

And as they vanished into the sky, for the first time in forever, Kal-El remembered what it meant to be human.

And Clark Kent remembered how to live.

The air smelled of soil and sunlight — sweet, heavy, alive. It wrapped around him like something half-remembered, half-dreamed. The golden corn swayed in the breeze, whispering secrets he used to know. Home. The word pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat, ancient and aching.

But none of that mattered.

Because she was in his arms.

Louise.

The name tore through him like light through darkness, scattering the fog that had choked his mind since his resurrection. For the first time since opening his eyes in that chaos — that void — he felt something real. The soft weight of her against him. The tremor in her breath. The warmth of her skin seeped into his own.

And with that warmth came pain. A tidal wave of feeling that hit so hard he almost couldn’t stand. Grief. Relief. Desire. Love. Every emotion he had ever buried, every heartbeat he had forgotten how to feel — it all came roaring back with her name.

He didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. He just looked at her — at the tears in her eyes, the disbelief, the love that burned so fiercely it felt like it might undo him. She was trembling, whispering something he didn’t quite hear.

And then — she reached for him.

That was all it took.

He bent his head and kissed her.

When her lips met his, the universe went silent.

Every sound — the rustle of the corn, the wind, even his own breath — vanished beneath the thunderous realisation that she was real. Warm. Alive. His.

The first breath they shared burned through him like sunlight piercing through ice.

Her kiss wasn’t just a kiss — it was a memory.

And suddenly, he remembered – How she always found him — grounding him when the world felt too heavy.

He remembered loving her.

He remembered being human.

Everything — the wind, the rustle of the corn, even the pulse of the earth beneath his feet — vanished beneath the chaos of her mouth on his. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was need. Raw, aching, human need. The kind that burned straight through bone and memory and made him remember what it was to be alive.

Her mouth was soft, trembling, alive against his, tasting of salt and tears. Her hands clutched at his face as though she could anchor him there, keep him from vanishing again, and he kissed her like he might shatter if she stopped.

Clark’s breath hitched, his body moving before his mind could think. One of his hands tangled in her hair, his fingers trembling as if the smallest mistake might make her vanish. The other slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him until he could feel every heartbeat — hers, his — colliding in wild sync.

She clung to him, her hands framing his face, her thumbs brushing away tears he hadn’t realised had fallen. Her touch was warm — too warm — and it burned through the cold that had lived inside him since he’d woken. He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, fragile and alive, and it terrified him how much he needed it. Needed her.

He deepened the kiss — not to claim, not to possess — but to remember. The taste of her lips, the sound of her breath catching between them, the way her body curved perfectly into his like a piece he’d lost and finally found again. He kissed her harder, desperate to make up for all the moments stolen from them, for all the times he’d forgotten the shape of her love.

Her mouth opened beneath his, and the world fractured — heat and breath and tears blurring into one endless heartbeat. He felt her gasp melt into his, her tears wet against his lips. The kiss was messy, unrestrained — a plea, a promise, a confession. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to draw a sound from him — low, torn, something between a groan and a sob.

When he pulled back, it was only because he had to see her. To see her. Her face, her eyes, the way her lips were swollen from his. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts — the same as his — and after what felt like years, he felt alive.

Their foreheads rested together, their breaths uneven, mingling in the space between them. She brushed her lips over his again — slower now, almost reverent — and his hands moved up her back, tracing every curve, every tremor, as if to remind himself that she was real.

Her hands were on his face, small and trembling, tracing him as though to prove he wasn’t a ghost. And when her fingers brushed his jaw, something inside him whispered that this — this moment, this woman — was the centre of his universe.

He whispered her name — not because he meant to, but because there was no other word left in him. It came out cracked, reverent. A confession. A prayer.

And in that breath between them — tangled, trembling, human — Clark Kent, last son of Krypton, understood something terrible and beautiful.

He could survive losing everything — his world, his people, his past.

But not her.

Never her.

Clark’s fingers tightened slightly around Louise’s as she pulled him toward the house — that old, sun-warmed place that still smelled faintly of hay, coffee, and his mother’s cinnamon pie. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, familiar and grounding, like an echo of a life he couldn’t quite remember but felt deep in his bones.

Louise’s hand fit easily in his, her thumb brushing against his knuckles in quiet reassurance. She glanced up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed emotion but softened by a smile. “You okay?”

He hesitated before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s all familiar… but distant. Like a dream I can almost touch.”

She squeezed his hand. “Then we’ll wake it up together.”

Inside, the air was warm, still carrying traces of his mother’s presence — the faint scent of vanilla, the gentle hum of silence that used to mean safety. He followed Louise upstairs to his old room. Everything was the same — the bookshelf, the faded curtains, the stack of worn notebooks on the desk. It was as if time had waited for him.

Louise knelt by an old box tucked in the corner. “She kept everything, you know,” she said softly, pulling out a few shirts and a red flannel that had seen better days. “Didn’t let anyone move a thing.”

Clark watched her quietly. The way she handled his things — careful, reverent — stirred something warm in his chest.

“She never gave up,” Louise added, holding up the shirt with a crooked smile. “Man of Steel, same old taste in plaid.”

He huffed a small laugh — soft, almost shy. “Guess I was a creature of habit.”

“Still are,” she said, tossing him the shirt.

Their fingers brushed as he caught it, a fleeting contact that lingered longer than it should have. The warmth of her skin grounded him in a way nothing else could. He slipped the shirt on, inhaling the faint scent of detergent and time.

“It feels…” He trailed off, struggling for the right word.

“Like coming home?” she offered gently.

He nodded. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

They stood in silence for a moment — not awkward, but heavy with the weight of unspoken things. Then, hesitantly, he asked, “Where’s…?”

“Martha?” Louise finished for him, her voice softening.

He nodded, his chest tightening.

“She’s okay,” Louise said, though her eyes flickered with something that said not entirely. “She fell behind on a few payments. Refused to tell anyone until it was almost too late.”

Clark’s jaw tightened. “She shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

Louise smiled faintly. “Your mom? Alone? Not a chance. She’s too stubborn to let the world see her fall.”

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “That sounds like her.”

“Yeah,” Louise said with a wistful laugh. “I asked her to come live with me in London for a while. She said — and I quote — ‘Louise, I’ve got roots deeper than the oak out front. You don’t just pack those up and cross the ocean.’”

Clark couldn’t help it — he laughed, a genuine sound that made Louise’s smile grow brighter.

“I take her to London every couple of weeks, though,” Louise continued. “Mostly to the Burrow — Molly and your mom have become partners in crime.”

Clark blinked, startled into a smile. “Mom and Mrs Weasley?”

“Terrifying duo,” Louise said with mock horror. “You should see them baking together. It’s like watching two generals plan a war.”

He chuckled, then fell quiet. The warmth in his chest shifted into something softer — gratitude, maybe, or longing. “You… you took care of her,” he said quietly.

Louise shrugged, though her voice trembled just a little. “She took care of me first.”

Clark looked at her then — really looked. The woman standing before him was the same Louise he’d always known, and yet… There was something new in her. Strength carved from loss. Tenderness, she didn’t try to hide anymore.

“I missed this,” he said softly.

She met his gaze, eyes glistening. “You think I didn’t?”

He took a step closer, his voice barely a whisper. “Louise…”

She shook her head, smiling through the tears that escaped anyway. “Don’t. You’ll break me.”

“I didn’t mean to…” he said, the words raw, unsteady. “I didn’t mean to – forget—”

“I know,” Louise whispered, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Silence fell — not awkward, but heavy. It carried everything they had lost and everything they had somehow found again.

Clark reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek and said, “Thank you.”

She let out a shaky laugh through her tears. “Don’t thank me, Smallville. Just—don’t go dying again, alright? My heart can’t handle another funeral.”

That earned a real laugh from him, rough but genuine. For a moment, the world felt whole again. But then, the quiet between them shifted — and the ache in his chest returned, sharper this time. Something didn’t fit.

He looked at her, really looked. Her eyes, her face, the tiny scar near her lip from that night in Metropolis. Everything was exactly as he remembered — except… she wasn’t supposed to be here.

“How?” he managed to choke out. His voice cracked, strangled by disbelief.

Louise blinked. “How what?”

He swallowed hard. “You were gone.”

Her brows knit in confusion. “Gone?”

“Dead,” he said finally, the word scraping his throat raw. The image of her tombstone slammed into him — cold marble, her name carved into it, the flowers he’d left. “I saw your grave, Louise.”

Her eyes went wide. “Clark,” she breathed, taking a step closer, “No. No, honey… you were the one who—” she stopped, shaking her head, her voice breaking,

He stared at her, every nerve in his body on edge. “Louise… when I woke up—when I came back—the first thing I saw was your tombstone.”

Her lips parted, confusion flickering across her tear-streaked face. “My what?”

“In the Smallville cemetery,” he said hoarsely, his voice trembling. “Your name. Your birthday. The date you—” He couldn’t finish. “I stood there for hours… I thought you were gone.”

Louise blinked rapidly, as if trying to process something completely impossible. “Clark, that can’t be right,” she whispered. “I’m right here. I never— I didn’t die.”

Clark frowned, confusion knotting his features. “But… I…”

Before he could finish, he froze. His breath caught.

A sound—soft, steady, rhythmic—echoed in his ears.

A heartbeat.

But not hers. Another. Smaller. Quieter.

His mind reeled, searching for the source. And then—memory hit him like lightning.

The bathroom light. Her trembling hands. The white stick with the two pink lines.

The way she’d laughed through tears and whispered, “We’re really doing this, Smallville.”

Five months. It had been five months.

His gaze dropped to her oversized sweater… and suddenly, he saw it. The gentle curve beneath the fabric. The subtle swell that he’d somehow missed in the chaos of their reunion.

The second heartbeat.

His throat went dry. His voice came out as a whisper. “Louise…”

She looked at him, eyes wet but smiling faintly. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You finally noticed.”

For a moment, all he could do was stare—at her, at the tiny rise beneath her sweater, at the miracle he could now hear. His hand trembled as he reached out, hesitating inches from her stomach.
He was terrified—of breaking the moment, of hurting them, of realising this was all a dream.

She noticed. Her smile trembled as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Go ahead,” she whispered. “She’s been waiting for you.”

He blinked. “She?”

Louise gave a small laugh through her tears. “Just a hunch.”

When she took his hand and pressed it to her belly, he felt it—the faint flutter, like a heartbeat against his palm. His breath hitched. Every wall he’d ever built inside himself crumbled in that instant.

A baby.

Their baby.

Clark could barely breathe. The words rang through his mind like a prayer, raw and impossible. He kept his hand there—over the soft rise of Louise’s belly—afraid that if he moved, the world would shatter again.

“You—you were alone.” His voice came out hoarse, cracking under the weight of everything he’d missed.

Louise shook her head immediately. “No,” she said softly, voice trembling but firm. “I wasn’t. Martha—God, Clark, she’s stronger than steel. She kept me sane when I thought I’d lost my mind.”

He tried to smile, but it faltered halfway. “Yeah… that sounds like her.”

Her lips curved into that small, watery smile he remembered — the one she’d used to hide the worst of her emotions. “And I had Hermione, Ron and the Weasleys,” she added, brushing at a tear with the back of her hand. “They never left me alone for a second. Between Martha’s cooking and Molly’s hovering, I didn’t even have time to fall apart.”

Then her voice dropped, gentled into something that wrapped around him like warmth. “And your baby kept me going.”

The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken. Your baby.

Clark froze, eyes falling to her hand — resting protectively over her stomach. His throat constricted. “Louise…” His voice came out like gravel, breaking under the weight of everything unsaid. “You—” He stopped, the words dissolving in the back of his throat.

She gave a small, trembling smile. “You always were better at saving the world, Clark,” she said. “I just tried to keep the little part of it we had left standing.”

He laughed — or tried to. It came out strangled, cracked. “You always did hold everything together when I couldn’t.”

Louise’s eyes softened, filling with tears that caught the light. “Not everything. Some nights… I’d sit on the porch with Martha, and she’d talk about you. About how you used to steal pie before dinner.”

Clark chuckled softly, the sound shaky but real. “Of course she did,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “She never could resist embarrassing me.”

Louise’s eyes softened, her smile breaking through the shimmer of tears. “Oh, she loved it. Said it was her mission to make sure I knew exactly what kind of troublemaker I was getting myself into.”

He raised a brow. “Troublemaker?”

“Mm-hm,” Louise said, folding her arms, teasing through the emotion in her voice. “Apparently, you once tried to fly off the barn roof at age seven because you thought you could ‘beat the sunset.’”

Clark groaned, running a hand through his hair. “She told you that?”

“She told me everything,” Louise said, laughing wetly. “How you’d hide your report cards in the chicken coop. How you’d pretend you didn’t like her pie so you could sneak an extra slice later.”

Clark couldn’t help but smile at that, warmth flooding through the ache in his chest. “Sounds about right.”

“She’d sit on that porch swing with her coffee,” Louise went on, her eyes distant but shining, “and she’d tell me, ‘He’s out there somewhere, Louise. My boy doesn’t stay gone forever.’ Every time I started to lose hope, she reminded me that you were too stubborn to stay dead. Said you got that from her.”

A laugh broke from him, quiet but real this time. “She’s not wrong.”

Louise tilted her head, smiling through the shimmer in her eyes. “She’s never wrong.”

Clark looked around the kitchen—the faint smell of cinnamon, the hum of old light fixtures, the weight of memory in every corner. “I’m glad you had her,” he said quietly.

Louise blinked fast, her lips trembling. “She’s the reason I made it, Clark. Both of us did. She kept me busy—helping on the farm, pretending everything was normal. It wasn’t, but… it helped.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing hers. “You two took care of each other.”

“We did.” Louise smiled faintly, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Though I think she took care of me more. She’d scold me for skipping meals, tell me to rest, and tell me to keep faith. Even when I didn’t have any left.”

Clark’s voice was rough when he spoke again. “That’s her. Always pretending she’s not the one holding the world up.”

Louise laughed softly, brushing her tears away. “You know, once—I was so angry, I blew up half the barn roof.”

His head snapped up. “You what?”

“Martha didn’t even flinch,” Louise said, smiling through her tears. “She just looked up at the hole and said, ‘Well, at least you missed the tractor this time.’ Then she made cocoa.”

Clark let out a choked laugh. “That’s… definitely her.”

“Oh, and she confiscated my wand after that,” Louise added, smirking faintly.

He laughed — a real one this time, warm and alive. “She confiscated your wand?”

“Yep. Said I couldn’t be trusted with ‘emotional magic,’ whatever that means.”

Clark’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter, but his eyes burned. “I wish I’d seen that.”

“She never judged,” Louise said after a moment, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She just… let me feel it. The anger. The grief. She’d sit there knitting like nothing was wrong and say, ‘You’ll see him again, honey. He’s just taking the long way home.’”

Clark’s throat tightened, and he had to look away. “She was right.”

Louise’s hand found his, squeezing tight. “Yeah,” she said, her smile breaking through the tears. “She usually is.”

He looked at her then — really looked at her — the glow in her eyes, the faint curve of her lips, the life that had gone on without him but never forgotten him. His heart ached with something fierce and grateful.

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

Louise smiled through her tears. “You took your time, Smallville.”

Clark let out a shaky breath, a half-laugh catching in his throat. Before he could find the words, she stepped into him, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt as if afraid he might vanish again. He wrapped his arms around her instantly, crushing her against his chest. For a moment, neither of them moved—just the sound of their uneven breathing filling the space between heartbeats.

Her forehead pressed against the base of his throat; he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of rain and home. His fingers trembled against her back, clutching tighter when she whispered his name, barely audible against his skin.

He closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek and vanishing in her hair. After everything, after death and silence and distance—they were alive again.

Clark stood in the middle of the field, the golden light of dusk stretching long shadows over the corn. The air smelled of earth and home. It grounded him in a way nothing else could — after everything, after death and loss and miracles — this was what peace felt like.

He closed his eyes, letting the whisper of the wind steady him. For the first time in months — maybe years — the weight in his chest loosened.

“Martha’s on her way back…” Louise called from behind him, her voice soft, carried by the breeze.

Clark smiled to himself. He could almost picture his mom — hands in her coat pockets, hair tossed by the wind, watching him with that fond, exasperated look she always had.

Without turning, he said lightly, “So, I take that as a yes?”

There was a pause.

“Huh?” Louise’s tone was puzzled, endearingly so.

He finally turned around, and there she was — hair loose and glowing in the last of the sunlight, cheeks pink, eyes curious. His heart did that stupid, impossible thing again — it hurt to look at her, because it was real.

“The ring,” he said, nodding toward the chain glinting around her neck.

Her hand went up to it instinctively. The small silver band with a diamond caught the sunlight, flashing briefly. “Oh.” Her breath hitched. “You remember this?”

Clark swallowed. “I bought it a month before I—” He faltered. The word died still felt strange in his mouth. “Before everything happened.”

“Yeah. I remember,” Louise let out a soft, broken laugh. “You were so damn nervous that week. I thought you were hiding something awful — like an alien invasion…” She hesitated, then added with a teasing lilt, “Or an affair.”

But the words hit closer to the truth than she wanted to admit. Back then, she had wondered — just for a moment — if he was going to leave her. The memory of that quiet dread still tugged faintly at her chest, though she kept it buried beneath the laughter.

Clark shot her a dark look, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt like before — the old, easy rhythm of teasing and tenderness layered over things they never said aloud.

“Seriously?” he muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“Well, you were distant,” she shot back with a small, crooked smile. “I didn’t exactly think you were planning a proposal.”

He smiled then, almost sheepishly, the tension in his shoulders softening. “I was hiding something,” he admitted quietly. “The box.”

Her lips curved into a trembling smile, eyes glistening. “You carried it everywhere,” she murmured. “Martha told me later. She found it under the seat of your truck.”

“I was waiting for the right moment,” he admitted quietly. “Guess I missed it.”

Louise shook her head slowly. “No, you didn’t. You just… postponed it.”

He looked at her, voice low. “You kept it.”

She nodded, fingers brushing the ring again. “Of course I did. Martha gave it to me a few weeks after the funeral. Said you would’ve wanted me to have it.” Her voice softened. “I didn’t wear it for a long time. I couldn’t. It felt wrong — like pretending you were still around when you weren’t.”

Clark’s heart ached. “Lo…”

Clark hadn’t expected his heart to ache this much just from hearing her voice again. It was softer now — still sharp with that familiar Louise bite, but warmer, tremulous in a way that made his chest tighten. She was standing by the window, one hand resting absently over the gentle curve of her stomach. His stomach twisted at the sight — a thousand emotions rising all at once: awe, disbelief, guilt, love.

Louise laughed softly, her voice catching. “I used to talk to it,” she said, brushing the sill. “Like a crazy person. Every morning, I’d put it right there and tell it about my day, like somehow you could hear me.”

Clark’s throat constricted. His voice came out rough, almost reverent. “Maybe I could.”

Her eyes shimmered, and she gave a breathy laugh. “Don’t say that, Smallville. I’m hormonal enough as it is.”

He smiled, the sound of her teasing both breaking and healing something inside him. “I think I can handle a few tears.”

Louise huffed out a wet laugh, brushing her hand across her cheek. “You sure? Because I’m six months pregnant and an emotional disaster. I cried because a commercial about puppies came on yesterday.”

Clark’s lips curved. “Puppies are powerful creatures. I’ve heard they can make even superheroes cry.”

“Don’t,” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare make fun of me. You don’t get to die and then come back just to tease your pregnant girlfriend. That’s not how resurrection etiquette works.”

“Noted,” he said with mock solemnity. “Rule number one: don’t make fun of hormonal miracles.”

“Exactly.” She sniffed and folded her arms, though a smile was tugging at her lips. “Rule number two: bring snacks.”

Clark blinked. “Snacks?”

She gave him a look. “Smallville, I’m six months pregnant. If you walk into this house without food again, I might cry, or possibly bite you.”

He grinned. “That’s… quite the threat.”

“It’s not a threat,” she said sweetly. “It’s a promise.”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted. Again. Any particular requests, or should I just bring the entire kitchen?”

Louise tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Hmm… chocolate. Pickles. Maybe pie. Oh, and those little pretzels I like. You know, the ones you always eat before I get to them?”

He raised a brow. “You mean the ones I bought for you that you swore you didn’t like?”

“I changed my mind,” she said quickly. “Don’t question the genius of a woman growing an entire human, Kent.”

He laughed, warmth flooding his chest. God, he’d missed this — her sass, her quick wit, the way her eyes sparkled when she was half-mocking, half-smiling.

“Fine,” he said softly. “Chocolate and pickles it is.”

“Good man.” She sighed dramatically, sinking onto the couch. “You know, if you weren’t so annoyingly perfect right now, I might actually be mad at you for dying.”

Clark’s heart stuttered at that — her voice was light, but there was a crack beneath it, one he could hear all too clearly. He knelt beside her, resting a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Her gaze softened instantly, guilt flashing across her face. “Hey. Don’t. I didn’t mean it like that.” She reached out, cupping his face. “I just… I can’t believe you’re here. I keep thinking if I blink, you’ll vanish again.”

He leaned into her touch, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere this time.”

“Good,” she murmured, blinking back tears. “Because I’m too tired to dig another grave. And also, I really like having you around.”

He smiled faintly. “That last part’s the real reason, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small grin. “You’re decent company. When you’re not brooding or saving the world.”

Clark chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I can brood a little less, if that helps.”

“Good,” Louise shot back without missing a beat, her lips curving. “Because right now, you’re on diaper duty for the first year as emotional penance.”

He blinked, incredulous. “First… year?”

“Maybe two if you keep questioning my food choices,” she added, mock serious.

He laughed, shaking his head. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Potter.”

Louise smirked, eyes glinting even through the shimmer of tears. “I’m a Potter, Smallville. We don’t do easy bargains.”

Clark smiled, something tender flickering behind his gaze. “Not for long."

She smiled at that but nudged his shoulder lightly and added, “Consider it payback. You get to save the world, and I get to make you change nappies.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I think I got the better end of that deal.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You won’t be saying that at three a.m. when someone’s screaming for milk.”

Clark grinned. “You’ll be there too, won’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Louise said sweetly. “Cheering you on from the bed.”

He couldn’t help it — he beamed at her, a laugh slipping out before he could stop it. For a heartbeat, everything felt almost normal again — the easy rhythm, the teasing. Then she looked at him — really looked at him — and the air shifted.

He saw everything in her eyes: disbelief, wonder, grief, love. So much love it nearly brought him to his knees.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I used to dream about this — you walking up the drive like nothing ever happened. I thought I’d gone mad when Martha told me. Kept waiting for someone to say it was another cruel joke.”

Clark took a small step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here, Lo.”

She let out a trembling laugh that broke halfway through. “You died, Clark. I watched them bury you. I sat by your grave until I forgot what day it was. And now you’re just—” she gestured weakly, tears spilling over, “—standing here, talking about snacks and diapers like you just came home from work.”

“I know,” he said quietly, his throat tight. “And I don’t have all the answers. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Louise’s lips curved into a weak, watery smile — the kind that came after too many tears and too much hope. “Good. Because I’m not going to handle another resurrection.”

Clark let out a soft, shaky laugh, his chest aching at how Louise she still was — all fire and sarcasm and tenderness rolled into one. He reached up, brushing away a tear from her cheek with his thumb, the touch lingering far longer than it needed to. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, alive. Real.

“Guess I’ll have to make this one stick, then,” he murmured.

Louise laughed — soft, watery, but alive. “See that you do, Smallville,” she said, her voice trembling with something between warning and promise. “Because if you pull another vanishing act, I swear to Merlin, I’ll drag you back myself and hex you into next week.”

He smiled at that — because that was her. Fragile, furious, luminous. His chest ached with everything he’d lost, and everything he’d somehow gotten back.

“Louise…” he began, his voice low, almost uncertain. “There’s something I never got to tell you.”

“I’m six months pregnant, hormonal, and still halfway convinced I’m hallucinating you—” She stopped when he stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again — something she thought she’d never feel. “If this is another resurrection secret, Kent, I swear—”

“I love you,” he said simply. The words were steady, unshaken. “I didn’t say it enough before. I thought I’d have time. Turns out I was wrong.”

“You bloody idiot,” she whispered, a tear slipping free.

He smiled faintly, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “I had a whole speech prepared, you know. I was going to do it properly. Flowers, dinner, maybe the Fortress if I could convince you it wasn’t too cold.”

She let out a wet laugh. “What were you going to say?”

He hesitated, then met her gaze — open, earnest, unguarded. “I was going to tell you that I didn’t need a fortress or a cape or a city. I just needed you.”

Louise blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, spilling over as a shaky smile curved her lips. “Then you should’ve asked me.”

“I’m asking now,” he said quietly, the corners of his mouth lifting in that small, boyish way she’d missed so much.

Her eyes searched his — steady, unflinching, blue meeting green — and for the first time since he’d died, she let herself believe. Believe that he was real. That he was here. That maybe, just maybe, they could start again.

She reached out, her fingers curling around his collar as she whispered, voice trembling with laughter and tears all at once, “Well then, Smallville... what are you waiting for?”

Clark’s heart pounded as her words hit him — the same mixture of laughter and tears that had always undone him. Without another thought, he reached up and gently tugged the chain around her neck. The small gold ring slipped free, warm from her skin, glinting faintly between his fingers.

Louise froze, her breath catching as he dropped to one knee — not out of ceremony, but instinct, reverence, love that had burned through death itself.

“Louise Potter,” he began, voice rough but steady. “You’ve been wearing this longer than I ever dared to ask you properly.”

Her laugh was small and trembling, breaking through a sob. “You daft sod.

“But…” He smiled through the ache in his chest. “I didn’t want to risk it. You might change your mind.”

“I might, yeah,” she sniffed, swatting at him even as her eyes shimmered.

He held the ring up between them. “So? What do you say?” His lips curved, teasing even through the emotion. “You look beautiful, by the way. Even with all the—”

“Don’t,” she warned, glaring through her tears. “My ankles have disappeared, Clark. I look like a Hufflepuff beanbag.”

He chuckled softly, reaching up to cup her cheek. “You look like home,” he whispered.

The words landed like a heartbeat between them. Louise’s lips trembled, her hand coming up to cover his where it rested on her face.

“Clark…” she whispered.

He looked up at her, eyes glinting with quiet hope. “Marry me.”

For a moment, the world stilled — the farmhouse quiet, the wind barely breathing outside. Then Louise let out a laugh, broken and wet, shaking her head.

“You better not die on me again, Kent,” she murmured, jabbing a trembling finger against his chest. “Because if I say yes — and you pull another heroic vanishing act— I swear to Merlin, I’ll drag you back myself—”

He grinned, relief breaking through the tension like sunlight. “Is that a yes?”

Louise’s eyes softened, her smile trembling but radiant. “It’s a yes, you impossible man.”

Clark slipped the ring onto her finger — a simple, human gesture that somehow felt greater than flying, greater than saving the world.

And when he stood, she didn’t give him a chance to say another word. Louise reached up, fisted her hands in his shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss — fierce, trembling, desperate. It wasn’t graceful; it was raw and human and alive. Salt from her tears mingled with his breath, her heartbeat racing against his chest. For one perfect, impossible moment, the world stopped — no graves, no ghosts, no lost time — only this. Only them.

Clark’s hands slid to her face, thumbs brushing at the wetness on her cheeks before he deepened the kiss, tender and aching. It was the kind of kiss that spoke in promises — I’m here. I’m real. I’m not leaving again. He kissed her like a man who’d fought his way through death just to remember what living felt like.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the quiet that followed. Her lips curved in a trembling smile, eyes shining through the tears.

“By the way,” she whispered, her voice soft and broken most beautifully, “I love you too, Smallville.”

Clark let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh — half wonder, half relief. His hand slipped down to rest over her belly, feeling the gentle flutter of life beneath his palm. Louise covered his hand with hers, and for a long, quiet moment, they simply stood there — two heartbeats, and one smaller one between them.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Looks like I’ve got more to live for than ever,” he murmured.

Louise smiled through her tears, her fingers tightening around his. “Good,” she whispered, eyes glinting with warmth. “Because we’re not letting you go again.”

He chuckled softly, the sound melting into her hair as he held her close. Outside, the evening light spilt through the window, wrapping them in gold. And for the first time since forever, it felt like peace — messy, fragile, beautiful peace.

Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was her. It was them. It was this.