Archive of Our Own ^beta

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You had the day off, which meant the apartment was yours in that rare, slow way you only got a handful of times a month. No alarms screaming at 5:30, no badge clipped to your collar, no voice in your ear rattling off codes before you’d even had coffee. Just you in Clark’s T-shirt you’d stolen from three years ago and never returned, barefoot on hardwood, letting the morning be quiet on purpose.

The kitchen looked like a small tornado had passed through it last night—two plates in the sink, a stray spoon on the counter, a paper towel roll that had been used and abandoned mid-dab. Nothing dramatic. Just evidence that two adults with impossible schedules had eaten something and collapsed together afterwards. You moved through the cleanup on autopilot, hair twisted up with a claw clip, humming under your breath while the kettle warmed. You wiped down the counters, stacked the plates, slid the dish rack into place. The routine was grounding in a way that was hard to explain to anyone who didn’t live in a world that constantly asked you to be on for other people.

Your phone buzzed against the counter. You glanced down expecting a group text from the ER about someone begging for a weekend swap.

Instead, it was Clark.

You snorted softly, thumbs already moving.

A second later, three dots blinked back at you.

You leaned your hip against the counter and did the mental inventory you always did when he asked. Milk. Eggs. The cereal you ate like a child because it made you feel normal. The fancy coffee he pretended not to care about but always finished first.

You typed, deleted, retyped.

Your mouth tipped up despite yourself. He did know you. He knew you so thoroughly sometimes it was funny; other times it made you feel like your chest might split open from how loved you were.

Unless the city needed him. Unless something caught fire in the wrong part of Metropolis or a bridge decided to be dramatic or some poor kid got stuck somewhere they shouldn’t have been. You didn’t need him to say the rest. You could hear it in the pause between messages as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

Your bit your lip, thumb hovering over the screen for a second before you sent it back.

You set the phone down and poured your coffee, letting the warmth seep into your hands. Somewhere down the hall, the building’s radiator made its usual clanking argument with the winter air. The city hummed faintly through the window—traffic, sirens far off enough not to be yours, a neighbor’s dog barking with full-body commitment. Life, happening around you without needing anything from you right this second.

That was the peace you’d built with Clark. Tiny pockets of normal. Simple routines. A shared grocery list. A movie paused halfway because he’d been called away and you’d insisted on waiting to finish it together. You both took those moments seriously, like they were something you had to protect.

It had been part of why you’d never gotten a pet.

You loved animals. Always had. Growing up, you’d been the kid trailing after every stray like you had a personal mission, hands full of whatever scraps you could sneak from the kitchen. In college you’d volunteered at a shelter on weekends between classes. Even now, on late nights walking back from the train, you couldn’t pass a scruffy cat on a stoop without crouching down and whispering hello like they could understand you.

Clark was worse.

Not in a reckless way, just... soft for anything small and alone. You’d watched him stop mid-stride on a crowded sidewalk because a dog was limping near a construction site. He’d crouched down like it was the most important thing on Earth, voice low and soothing, hands gentle even with all that strength packed into them. You’d seen his face light up over someone’s ridiculous three-legged mutt at a park like he’d been gifted a miracle. He was the kind of person who made room for creatures that didn’t know they were allowed to be safe yet.

Which, in Metropolis, meant he rescued a lot of them.

Your tablet chimed on the counter with the news alert you hadn’t bothered muting. You flicked it on while you sipped.

LOCAL: Superman rescues kittens from subway tunnel after morning commute delay.

You didn’t even have to open the article to picture it. The big blue blur dropping into a grimy maintenance hatch without thinking twice. Tiny, furious balls of fur held carefully against that crest on his chest. Some transit worker with their phone out, crying. Clark trying to look humble when he was obviously proud he’d gotten there in time.

You shook your head with a smile, half fondness, half “that man is going to be the death of me.”

“Yeah,” you murmured to nobody, leaning down to rinse your mug. “That tracks.”

You scrolled through the photo anyway because you were weak. There he was in the station under harsh fluorescent lights, cape dusty at the hem, hair mussed from whatever sprint had brought him there. Kittens the size of his palm tucked under his chin, glared at the whole world like they wanted to throw hands. Clark’s mouth was doing that soft little curve, with the dimples, he tried to hide from cameras and never could.

Your throat went tight in that dumb, familiar way. Pride, love, worry, all threaded together like they belonged in the same braid.

You and Clark had talked about pets for years. It always started with a want. A dog in a park. A kitten video. A passing moment of “we could totally do that.”

And then reality would sit down with you.

Your shifts ran over as a rule, not an exception. Clark got pulled away at random hours to save people. You both knew what it felt like to come home late and feel guilty about leaving anything alive waiting for you. You’d feel it in your gut when you opened the door to an empty place after a long day, and you’d imagine a pet on the other side of that door—ears pricked, tail thumping, stomach growling, wondering what it did wrong. Neither of you could stand that picture for very long.

“We wouldn’t be fair,” you’d say.

“I’d hate for them to be lonely. Not yet?” he’d say.

And you’d agree. ‘Not yet’, and then you’d both carry that little ache quietly like an adult does. You loved him more for choosing responsibility over want anyway.

Even though part of you knew you both could’ve made it work if you really pushed. 

So ‘not yet’ had become a kind of promise. A thing you tucked away with the other future-us ideas—plants on the balcony that wouldn’t die, a vacation longer than four days, maybe a bigger place someday if you could both ever stop moving long enough to look.

You were content with that. You really were. Your life was full, your marriage was beyond full, and the apartment already felt like a home because Clark was in it in every aspect.

Still.

There were moments like this—quiet kitchen, warm coffee, your husband’s romantic, sweet texts on your phone, a headline about him saving something tiny and helpless—that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t bother fighting anymore.

It wasn’t longing exactly. Not a hole. Just a soft place. A maybe. A little bit of wistful tucked into the back of your smile.

You set the tablet down, ran water over your hands, and looked around the kitchen again. It was clean now. Calm. Smelled like coffee and dish soap and the faint citrus cleaner you liked.

You checked the time, made a face at how late you’d slept in, and started scrolling through the streaming sites for the next series to watch. You decided you’d pull ingredients out for dinner later, like you had all day in the world.

Because today you did. Because your husband was coming home with groceries and those easy-peel oranges and dutch apple pie if the universe was kind. Because this was your ordinary, hard-won, incredible life.

So if there was any small part of fate revving its engine outside your door, you didn’t hear it yet.

.

You heard Clark before you saw him—the hallway door giving that familiar soft groan, the shuffle of shoes coming off, the faint clink of grocery bags bumping his knee. It was such an ordinary sound, and your body still reacted like it always did, turning toward it on instinct, heart doing that tiny lift it had been doing for years.

“Welcome home, baby,” you called, wiping your hands on a dish towel after finishing making dinner, expecting Clark’s broad shoulders in the doorway and a paper bag of oranges swinging at his side.

What you got instead was… a performance.

Clark stepped in little bit of a hot mess. Two grocery bags hooked over one arm, another in the other hand, his coat still half on his shoulders like he’d forgotten to finish putting it on. Glasses a little crooked, hair wind-tossed, cheeks pink from the cold—

—and he was smiling. Not his usual end-of-day tired-soft smile. This one was bright. Too bright. Sunny and wide and guilty in the way only Clark could be guilty while still looking like the world’s most earnest person.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“At you,” he said immediately, warm and way too chipper. “My love.”

Oh. Oh, he was laying it on thick.

You took a step toward him anyway because you were weak and because he was your husband and because he looked at you like any given Tuesday with you in it was a miracle.

Clark didn’t give you time to stay suspicious. He crossed the kitchen in two strides, dumped the bags on the counter with zero regard for eggs or gravity, straightened his glasses, and came straight to you like he’d been starving.

“Okay, before you say anything—”

“Say what—”

He kissed you.

Not a peck. Not a greeting brush of mouths. A full, anchoring kiss that made your thoughts slide sideways. His hands came up to your face, big and gentle, palms warm against your jaw. He tilted his head and deepened it like the apartment wasn’t a kitchen full of groceries and like there wasn’t a single other thing in Metropolis that could pull him away for the next ten minutes.

You made a very pleased sound. His mouth curved against yours and chased that sound again, slow and thorough and shamelessly affectionate. You went pliant in his hands by default because of course you did.

When Clark finally pulled back, your breath was a little ragged, your fingers half-fisted in the front of his coat. His forehead bumped yours affectionately, and you reached out to straighten his glasses.

“I missed you,” he murmured, as if you hadn’t texted him all day. As if he hadn’t kissed you like that because he needed to. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“Mmhmm,” you managed through the haze, blinking back into the room. “You missed me that much?”

“I miss you every day.” He confessed with a soft laugh, nose brushing yours. His hands stay at your waist. “How was your day off?” 

He kissed your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again, like he couldn’t resist looping back for more. His voice dropped lower—sweet, earnest, dangerous in the way earnestness could be when it was attached to a six-foot-four man who knew exactly how to make your knees go loose.

“Quiet,” you breathed, still beaming under his attention. “Productive. Also—”

Your gaze slid past his shoulder toward the counter.

Something small and dark was moving where it absolutely should not have been moving.

A tiny black cat had apparently been nestled in one of the grocery bags, and now it was climbing out like it had done this a thousand times. It hauled itself onto the counter beside you with quiet, nimble confidence, tail up like a question mark. It padded across the butcher paper, sniffed at a bunch of cilantro, then—completely unconcerned with your personal space—stepped right up to your hand.

“Um,” you trailed off.

The cat tapped your wrist once with a soft paw. Then leaned in and head-butted your knuckles, a firm little hello, pay attention to me that made your whole brain blue-screen.

Clark went very still behind you.

Like maybe if he held his breath, you wouldn’t notice there was a whole extra creature in your kitchen.

You turned slowly, eyes going from the cat—now sitting primly by two boxes of dutch apple pie —to your husband’s face.

“Clark Joseph Kent,” you enunciated, flat and suspicious.

“Mm?” he blinked, innocent as a church hymn. His hands stayed on your waist like cuffs. His smile stayed way too bright.

You pointed at the counter without looking away from him. “Why is there a cat on my pie?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” he blurted.

You blinked. “It looks like a cat is doing quality control on the produce we just paid for.”

“Okay, yes, but—” he lifted a finger like he was about to deliver a courtroom argument, “what it is is… Just hear me out—”

“Clark.”

“I’m serious. It’ll be brief. To describe the ….little situation.”

You glanced back at the cat. It was grooming one paw with the calm arrogance of something that had never known a lease.

“A little situation that purrs?”

Clark’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Okay, so, just—hear me out for two seconds, okay?” he rushed, speed-talk engaging before your skepticism could harden. “I was on my way home, I had the groceries, I was being very normal and civilian and not doing any heroics!”

You made a high-pitched noise of doubt.

“And this little guy was outside the store,” he continued, nodding toward your countertop guest. “And I mean outside. In the cold. And he… followed me.”

“You brought him into the store with you?”

“No!” Clark scoffed, scandalized. “He followed me after. Like, on the sidewalk. He just kept… keeping pace. Every time I stopped, he stopped. Every time I started walking again, he—” Clark spread his hands helplessly. “He just… came with me.”

The cat chose that exact second to stroll a few more inches along the counter, sniff the paper bag handles, and then sit right next to your cutting board like it had a standing invitation.

You stared at it. It stared at you back with slow, confident blinks. Then you looked at your husband.

Clark was already nudging one of the bags farther from the counter’s edge, already tucking a carton of eggs more securely out of paw range. A man rearranging groceries around a cat like this was normal. Like he’d done it before. Like he fully expected to keep doing it.

He caught your look. Straightened too quickly. Smoothed his coat like he hadn’t just been caught red-handed nesting.

“I wanted you to meet him,” he insisted, earnest to the bone. “That’s all.”

Your suspicion tried to flare. Your heart tried to melt. Both were working overtime.

“You wanted me to meet him,” you repeated, slow and helpless.

Clark’s face went soft in that way that always got you—open, hopeful, trying not to push. He leaned in, brushed a kiss to your shoulder, then to your cheek. Touch-feely. Extra sweet. Covering ground. Softening the battlefield without even meaning to.

“I know what we said,” he murmured, like he’d read the thought on your forehead. “I remember. This isn’t me… sneaking a pet past you. Not at all.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I just couldn’t leave him out there.” His thumb traced the edge of your hip in a quiet, soothing circle. “He was cold, and he was alone, and he—” Clark’s gaze slid to the cat, and his voice gentled on instinct. “He seemed like he’d already decided he wasn’t alone anymore.”

The cat, as if to prove his point, leaned over and bumped its head against your forearm again. Then, with complete confidence, it flopped down on the counter right in your space, tucking its paws under itself like a loaf.

Clark cleared his throat. “See? ”

You opened your mouth to argue. Your body, unfortunately, had already started to fold.

Clark didn’t let you sit in the tension for long. He couldn’t, really. Even when he was trying to be sneaky, he was still Clark—too earnest, too open, too incapable of letting something important sit between you like a closed door.

“Okay,” he said, drawing the word out like a breath. “Okay. I’ll explain fully. I just—”

He reached past you to grab the nearest grocery bag, then paused, hands hovering for half a second like he wasn’t sure if you were about to swat him or kiss him. You didn’t do either. You just watched him.

Clark took that as permission and slid in closer. Not fully crowding you, just… there. Warm and familiar at your side, shoulder brushing yours as he started unpacking. He inevitably bumped your hip with his on the way, like he couldn’t help lining himself up with you in the kitchen. Like the room made more sense that way.

“Tell me,” you muttered, still skeptical, still folding, “how we went from ‘orange’ to ‘cat on my cutting board.’?”

He made a small, guilty noise and pulled the oranges out first, setting them down safely away from the feline loaf. “In my defense, the oranges were a success.”

You huffed, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “Good. I’ll be sure to put that on your headstone. He died a hero. He brought home citrus.”

Clark snorted, eyes crinkling. He leaned in and kissed your cheek like payment for the joke. “I’m trying to live long enough to be scolded properly by my wife, thank you.”

“Mm. You’re doing great so far.”

He set out the milk, the eggs, the coffee he liked. Familiar things. Grounding things. Like he was reminding both of you that this was still your normal kitchen, your normal evening, even with a tiny black wild card parked on your counter.

The cat blinked at him, then at you, entirely unbothered by being the center of a marital improv show.

Clark cleared his throat and tried to steer back to the point. “So. This little guy has been showing up for weeks.”

You stilled a fraction. “Weeks?”

He nodded, quick and a little sheepish, and started lining cans along the counter like he was stacking evidence. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry, and because I really didn’t want you to think I was… planning to spring a pet on you.”

Your brows rose. “You mean like you’re currently doing.”

He pointed at you with a carton of eggs. “See? That’s why I was scared.”

“Oh please, Superman,” you rolled your eyes, but he was smiling again, softer this time. Not guilty-sunshine. Just that warm, in-love look he got when you teased him and he got to live inside it.

“Okay,” he said, returning to unloading. “First time I saw him was on a rooftop by the Financial District. I was up there after—” He caught himself, glanced at you. “After work.”

You made a noise that was ninety percent sure, Kent.

Clark’s mouth did that tiny “don’t start” line and he bumped your shoulder with elbow as he reached for a loaf of bread. “Anyway. Rooftop. He was sitting right on the ledge. Just this little black silhouette against the sun. I thought he belonged to someone.”

“And he didn’t?”

“Apparently not.” He tried to be casual, but his voice had already gone gentle. “I crouched down, did the whole ‘hey, buddy, you okay?’ thing. He stared at me like I was the one trespassing. Then he let me pet him.”

“Clark,” you said dryly, pulling out a jar and setting it in the pantry, “stray cats don’t just let anyone pet them.”

“I know,” he admitted. “That should’ve been my first clue.”

You shot him a look. He shot you a helpless one back—I’m honest, I can’t help it—and then leaned over to steal a quick kiss at the corner of your mouth. Fast, sweet, a little nervous. Like he was checking the temperature of the room with his lips.

“That was time number one,” he continued. “After that, I figured, okay, if I see him again I’ll do something. But I didn’t even get a chance to look for him because he found me first.”

“How?”

“Fire escape.” He said it like it was both absurd and inevitable. “Two nights later I’m leaving the Planet late and I hear this mrrp from the alley. I look up and there he is. Just… perched on a fire escape rail like a little gargoyle. Watching me. Like he figured out who I was.”

You paused with a pasta box halfway to the shelf. “So this cat has been stalking my husband.”

Clark laughed under his breath, ducking his head like the idea was ridiculous and flattering at the same time. “It felt like it. I picked him up, checked his collar—nothing. No tag. I carried him three blocks to that shelter on Ninth.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.” He folded a dish towel over the bread like he was tucking it in. “Gave him to the front desk, explained where I found him, asked them to call if anyone came looking.”

“And then?”

“And then the next morning…” He held your eyes, like he already knew how it sounded. “He was back. Sitting on a lamppost outside the Planet. Like he was waiting for me to clock in.”

You stared. “Clark.”

“I’m not kidding.” He lifted his hands. “I swear on my… on my journalism degree!”

“That’s not a real swear, you’re just sentimental about paper.”

“Sweetheart, I cried when I got that degree!”

“Yeah, I was there.” You reminded him, nudging his side. “I took pictures of you ugly-sobbing in front of your cap.”

He looked mock-offended. “I was overwhelmed! Also you promised to delete those.”

“I promised to consider deleting those.”

His laugh came easy, warm, and he tried to hide it by leaning down to nudge his forehead against your shoulder. It was a quiet, married gesture—you’re killing me, I love you—and you felt some of your remaining resistance loosen another notch.

He kept talking, quieter now, more earnest.

“I tried everything after that. I left food in the alley where I’d seen him. I tried to shoo him toward the shelter. I took him to another one across town, thinking maybe he’d stay if it wasn’t familiar.” He shook his head a little. “Every time I thought it was solved, he’d just… reappear. Rooftops, fire escapes, the park by Centennial. One afternoon I landed on a balcony after patrol—” another glance, another kiss, “and he was sitting on my cape. Like he’d been waiting there the whole time.”

The image hit you so fast you actually smiled in spite of yourself. “Sitting on your cape.”

“Exactly. Like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle.” Clark’s voice went so soft you could feel it rather than hear it. “He just looked at me like… there you are.”

You glanced at the cat again. It was still loafed on the counter as if the story was a lullaby it had heard before. It blinked once at you, slow and smug.

Clark watched you watching him. You felt it even before you looked up: that careful, hopeful attention, the way he steadied himself for your reaction the same way he braced for a gust of wind.

“I think I’m his person,” he confessed.

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

He winced a little, like he realized how ridiculous it sounded. “Which is a sentence I didn’t expect to say.”

“Baby…”

“I know, sweetheart.” He rushed it, but his hands stayed gentle at your side, and he didn’t pull away. “I know what we said. I remember.” The words landed with real weight, not a dodge. “We agreed. No pets. Not yet. Because our schedules. Because it wouldn’t be fair. I haven’t forgotten.”

You swallowed. The fact that he was naming it first—owning it—made it harder to hold onto your shared “no” out of pure principle.

He took a breath and bumped your hip again, softer this time, like he was anchoring himself to you.

“But he’s…” Clark’s gaze flicked to the cat and back, and his voice went almost reverent. “He’s alone. And he’s choosing us.”

There it was. The line that wasn’t an argument, just a truth. A small creature deciding your husband was safe, deciding you were safe by extension. Deciding, somehow, that he belonged in the orbit of your life.

Clark met your eyes like he’d accept a no, truly. Like he’d carry the cat back out into the cold if you said you couldn’t do this. But his whole face was hope. Bare and boyish and devastating.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead you reached out, almost without thinking, and smoothed the front of his coat where he’d wrinkled it with all his nervous rearranging. Your fingers lingered there. You felt his exhale shudder a little under your palm.

“You’re really something,” you murmured.

His mouth quirked. “Me or the cat?”

You looked at the little black loaf on your counter. “Yes.”

Clark’s laugh was small, relieved, and he dipped his head to kiss you again—not a distraction this time, just gratitude. A soft press of lips that said thank you for hearing me, thank you for being you, and maybe thank you for being the kind of person who might say yes anyway.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, forehead leaning to yours.

“Also,” he added, trying for light, “he likes you.”

You deadpanned. “He likes my pie.”

“He headbutted your hand.”

“He headbutted my hand on my counter. There’s an obvious power dynamic issue here.”

Clark grinned, rubbing his thumb along your hip in that slow, affectionate circle. “So what you’re saying is you respect him.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t twist my words to suit your cat agenda, Mr. Kent.”

“My mistake, Mrs. Kent,” he said softly, like he couldn’t help it. Like the word was still a gift he liked saying out loud.

Your chest did that dumb, warm thing it always did when he used it in that tone. He saw it. Of course he did, and he smiled at you like he already knew you were halfway there.

You should’ve held the line anyway. On principle. On the pact. On the very reasonable, very adult list of reasons you and Clark had repeated to each other for years like a mantra.

You even opened your mouth ready to do it.

“Okay,” you began, drawing the word out like you were bracing yourself. “He’s cute. He’s obviously… very into you.” You tipped your chin toward the counter-cat, who looked like it was casually auditioning for a statue exhibit. “But we have to be smart about this.”

Clark nodded immediately, like he’d been waiting for that tone. “Of course.”

You pointed with one hand while the other was still caught in the front of his coat. You hadn’t meant to keep holding him. Your body just forgot to let go when it wanted him near. “Schedules.”

“I know.”

“Travel.”

“I know.”

“Superman chaos.” You said it with feeling, because that wasn’t just an abstract concept. That was your husband disappearing mid-dinner sometimes, coming back with ash on his cape and apology in his eyes. That was nights you fell asleep on the couch waiting and woke up to his forehead pressed to yours like a confessional. “You’re not exactly predictable, oh husband of mine.”

His mouth twitched. “Right as always, my wife.”

“And safety,” you added, softer. “We don’t know his history. If he’s sick. You haven’t figured out if he’s chipped. If someone’s looking for him.”

Clark’s face softened even more, the way it did when you went nurse-voice. Not amused. Not defensive. Just listening.

“We agreed we wouldn’t do this until life calmed down,” you finished, the words heavy with memory. “And life hasn’t calmed down.”

You expected a push. Something persuasive and a little desperate. Clark didn’t do any of that.

He just stepped closer—slow, careful—until your toes were almost touching his boots. His hands found your waist again, not trapping, just anchoring. He rubbed his thumbs along your sides in those steady, soothing little circles he used when you were exhausted and your thoughts were sharp-edged.

“I hear you,” he said softly. “And I hope we can make this work.” His eyes held yours, calm and sure in the way that made your throat go tight. “We’ve always been good at that.”

You hated how true that was. You hated how the simple conviction of it chipped at your resistance. You looked past him at the cat. The cat looked back at you.

Then it stood, stretched like it was warming up for a marathon, and padded to the edge of the counter with the slow, dramatic grace of something that had never once worried about being unwanted.

It hopped down.

Not clumsy. Not timid. A clean, confident leap to the floor.

It sniffed the air, did one lazy circle by your chair, and then—without asking anyone’s permission—jumped onto the couch in the next room like it had already memorized the layout.

It didn’t hover. It didn’t hide. It just… existed. Independently. Like it wasn’t waiting for someone to tell it how to be a housecat. Like it already knew.

Clark watched it go with a fond little exhale.

You watched it go with a worried one.

“Case in point,” Clark murmured, almost teasing. “He’s not helpless. He’s just… choosing.”

The cat climbed straight into Clark’s lap when your husband sat down, like gravity had been invented for that exact purpose. It kneaded once, twice, then curled and started purring—loud, steady, a full-body motor that filled the room.

Clark blinked down at him, helpless and delighted. “Oh my gosh.”

“Don’t ‘oh my gosh’ me,” you warned automatically, though your warning had about as much bite as a marshmallow.

Clark’s hand went to the cat’s head on instinct. Gentle. Tender. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch something this small. Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

The cat leaned into it, purring harder. That made his expression go weirdly tender, like a light had turned on behind his ribs. He didn’t say anything. He just reached out and snagged your hand, tugging you down beside him on the couch.

You went, because again: weak. Married. In love. All the usual crimes.

Clark laced your fingers together and pressed your knuckles to his mouth. A small kiss. A grounding one. Then another, like he couldn’t help collecting them. His thumb traced over your ring absentmindedly, the way he did when he was thinking hard or feeling soft.

The cat blinked up at you from Clark’s lap, then blinked again, slow and deliberate.

You stared back. “You are very comfortable here.”

The purring didn’t even pause.

Clark’s mouth quirked, but he kept his eyes on you. He was trying not to look too hopeful. It wasn’t working. His hope leaked out of him like sunlight.

You sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. He can stay for the night.”

Clark froze like he hadn’t heard right.

You shot him a look. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, bub.”

His smile cracked wide anyway. “You just said he can stay.”

“For tonight.” You lifted a finger. “We still need to check for a chip, get him to a vet, make sure he’s okay, and see if anyone’s looking for him.”

“Absolutely,” he said quickly, nodding hard. “Vet. Chip. All of it. Whatever you want.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t sound so excited about my responsible conditions.”

“I’ll try not to be thrilled,” he promised solemnly, and then immediately ruined it by leaning in to kiss you. A slow, grateful kiss that tasted like thank you more than anything else.

The cat, apparently deciding that was the correct family arrangement, stood up and walked a tight circle on Clark’s thighs before positioning itself right in the space between you two. It settled there like a bridge. Like a referee. Like this was how the couch worked now.

You stared at the tiny curve of its spine. “He just… inserted himself.”

“He’s very proactive,” Clark whispered, like he was scared to interrupt the purr.

You tried to stay stern for another sixty seconds. You made it maybe seventeen.

“Ugh! Why is he so tiny!” you blurted five minutes later, leaning closer to get a better look at his paws. “Oh my god, Clark, look at his ears. They’re too big for his head!”

Clark’s lips twitched. He tried to press them together to hide it. Failed. His grin broke anyway, bright and relieved.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed.

“Shut up, let me observe,” you said without heat, reaching out carefully. The cat sniffed your fingers, then nudged them like well, finally. You scratched under his chin in a cautious little stroke.

He melted.

Your whole face softened before you could stop it.

Clark watched you do it for a beat too long. His gaze went all warm and stunned like he was watching a sunrise happen in his living room.

Then he got up quietly to put away the rest of the groceries before you could catch him staring.

You followed him to the sink under the excuse of rinsing your hands. The water ran warm over your knuckles. You stood there, thinking about schedules and safety and vows you’d made in a very different season of your life.

Then Clark came up behind you.

No words at first. Just his body slotting into yours like it was muscle memory. His chest against your back, his arms folding around your waist. He tucked his chin over you head and breathed you in like he needed the reminder that you were here.

You let yourself lean back into him, just a little. Let his warmth hold you up.

“You don’t have to say yes to make me happy, ya know,” he murmured into your hair, so gentle it almost hurt. “I mean it. I just… wanted you to meet him.”

You turned your head enough to catch his cheek with your lips. A quiet kiss. A married one. “I know, baby.”

His arms tightened for half a second, squeezing affectionately and carefully. You glanced over your shoulder toward the couch. The cat was sprawled now, purring, belly half-up, paws loose, like it had clocked your decision and decided to take a nap on it.

.

After dinner, you ended up on the floor before you fully realized you were moving there.

It happened in that natural way things happened now—no big discussion, no formal agreement, just the quiet logistics of two people who were used to making space for each other. Clark grabbed a clean plate and fork, you found a small bowl you didn’t mind sacrificing to cat saliva, and somewhere in the shuffle the three of you migrated from couch to kitchen tile like that was always where the scene was supposed to land.

The cat followed with the solemn purpose of a tiny supervisor.

Clark tore off a couple small pieces of the rotisserie chicken he’d brought home—plain, no skin, no seasoning. You watched his hands as he did it, because you always did. Big fingers, careful movements. The same hands that could hold a car door off its hinges without thinking twice, now pinching chicken into pieces the size of your thumbnail like it was delicate work.

He set the plate down between you. The cat sniffed once, checked your faces like it was waiting for a cue, and then tucked in with an enthusiasm that was somehow both polite and ravenous.

“Oh, buddy,” Clark murmured, voice going soft without him noticing.

You filled the water bowl at the sink and slid it over, holding it steady while the cat took a few quick sips between bites. Your fingers stayed there even after he started drinking like you were afraid the bowl might float away. Like if you let go too soon you’d spook the moment.

You didn’t say that out loud. You didn’t have to. Clark was right there beside you, knee bumping yours on the tile, shoulder grazing yours when he leaned in to nudge the plate closer. Every so often, he’d look up and catch your eye—like checking in, like sharing a secret—then go back to watching the cat eat with quiet, ridiculous pride.

It felt domestic in a new way. Not new like unfamiliar, but new like a door opening in a house you already lived in.

Parental, in the softest sense. Teamwork. Tiny care tasks split without discussion because that was how you and Clark worked by default. He’d feed, you’d steady. He’d fuss, you’d watch for signs. Two people who spent their lives taking care of others, suddenly looking at each other like, oh. look at us. doing it again.

And Clark was glowing.

Not in the way the tabloids meant when they said it. In the way you meant when you knew him well enough to recognize the exact tilt of his head when he was quietly stunned by his own happiness. You’d seen that look before, in a handful of moments that lived in your bones.

The first night he asked you out almost half a lifetme ago, voice too eager as he pretended he was asking like it was no big deal, piercing blue eyes betraying how much it mattered.

The day he got his job at the Planet post-graduation, sitting outside your shared apartment with his hand locked around yours so tight you’d laughed, the awe of his own dream happening right in front of you.

The second he went down on one knee, presented a hand-made ring, and asked you to marry him, breath shaking like the whole world had narrowed to your face, your answer.

The way he’d looked at you at the end of the aisle on your wedding day—bright-eyed, overwhelmed, like you’d stepped out of the yellow sun and straight into his life.

It was the same look now.

Just gentler. Quieter. Like he was trying not to scare the future away by saying it too loudly.

You swallowed around the sudden warmth in your throat and looked down at the cat again instead, because if you looked at Clark for too long you might say something you weren’t ready to say yet.

The cat finished eating, licked its mouth, and sat back on its haunches with a satisfied little mrrp, tail curling around its paws like a comma.

You heard yourself speak before you’d decided to.

“If he’s not chipped,” you started, voice level on purpose, practical on purpose, “if no one claims him… he’s ours. Long term.”

Clark’s head snapped up. For one heartbeat he just stared at you, stunned, like you’d handed him something precious and he didn’t want to grab it too fast. Then his mouth softened into that hopeful smile you’d been watching all evening.

“Sounds like a great plan.”

You nodded once, as if you were signing paperwork. As if your chest wasn’t doing cartwheels.

“It’s probably already too late, but don’t get attached yet,” you warned, because you had to say it. You had to give your own heart a seatbelt. “Not until we know for sure.”

“Of course,” Clark said immediately, too earnest to tease you about it. “We’ll do everything right. I promise.”

You inhaled slowly, feeling like you were stepping into a river you already knew the current of. “He’s going to need a name for the vet,” you added, sliding right into the next practical item because that was how you coped. “Just in case. Something to call him. For… you know. The future too.”

Clark’s relief flickered across his face so fast you might’ve missed it if you didn’t live with him. He reached over and took your hand, squeezed once. Not hard. Just… present.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Yeah. A name.”

His thumb rubbed over your ring in that unconscious way of his and your resistance softened another notch without asking your permission.

Clark leaned back a little, looking at the cat like he was studying a riddle. The cat blinked up at him, smug as royalty.

“We should pick something that fits,” he murmured. “Something… him.”

“Try not to be too heroic about it,” you said lightly, because your heart was still wobbling and you needed to keep one foot on the floor.

Clark shot you a quick grin. “No promises.”

He tried a few anyway.

“Shadow?” he offered, and made a face at himself. “Eh, too… broody.”

“You’re not naming a cat Shadow,” you vetoed. “That’s a hedgehog name.”

“Right, right.” He looked back down at the cat, who was now inspecting your sock like it might be edible. “Midnight?”

“That’s a horse.”

“Onyx?”

“That sounds like a perfume.”

He laughed under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck, a little flustered. “Okay, fair. I’m bad at this.”

“Baby, you’re not bad at this,” you admonish automatically. “You’re just—”

The cat chose that exact moment to spring onto the windowsill and yowl at the glass like it was auditioning for tragedy. Long, dramatic, absolutely convinced the whole building needed to hear about its suffering.

Clark froze. Then his lips pressed together like he was trying not to laugh.

You stared at the cat. The cat stared intensely at a pigeon outside like it had insulted his bloodline.

“Oh my god,” you muttered with a grimace. “He’s such a drama king.”

Clark’s eyes lit in real-time. You could watch the thought click into place, like the nights he struggled over an article, and it finally came together.

“He is,” he whispered, delighted. “He really, really is.”

You snorted. “Black-clad, sharp little teeth, ready to fight the first thing that looks at him wrong…”

Clark’s head tilted, still staring at the cat. The corners of his mouth started to climb like he’d just found treasure.

“Wait,” he snapped his fingers, soft and excited all at once. “Wait, no— that’s it.”

You looked over. “That’s what?”

He glanced at you, gaze bright and boyish and stupidly in love. “It has to be Tybalt.”

You blinked. “Wha—”

“Tybalt,” he repeated, like he was testing how it felt in the room. “Because he’s absolutely going to pick fights with trash cans. Because he’s already acting like the Prince of Cats. Because—” Clark looked back at the windowsill where the little black terror was still mid-monologue. “—because listen to him.”

Your mouth fell open for half a second.

Then you laughed, helpless. “Of course you would pull Shakespeare out of your back pocket like that.”

Clark ducked his head, sheepish and pleased. “You set it up.”

“I did not set it up. I complained. You’re the one who went full lit-major.”

He scooted closer so your shoulders touched, like he couldn’t help sharing the warmth of the moment physically. “So… Tybalt?”

You let the name sit there between you, solid and right, and felt yourself smiling before you could stop it.

“Tybalt,” you agreed.

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding something for a long time. “Tybalt Kent. The Prince of Cats.”

You snapped your head toward him with a snort. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he asked innocently, already grinning.

“Kent is on hold until we know for sure, you dork.”

“I’m just saying he looks like a Kent,” Clark argued, utterly unreasonable. “He’s got the cheekbones.”

You bursted out laughing at your husband’s silliness. He leaned in and kissed you before you could say anything ele. Slow and grateful, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything except to say we’re doing this together. Like he’d just vowed something without needing to make a speech about it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against your shoulder for a beat.

Behind you, Tybalt hopped down from the sill and padded straight into Clark’s lap, curling up against his stomach as if to settle the argument. As if to say, don’t worry, I’m already yours.

Clark went still around him, one hand automatically cupping the small body, protective even in rest.

You watched them together, and your smile showed up the way it always did when you looked at Clark—like you couldn’t help it, like it lived on your face.

Only now it warmed your chest in two directions at once.

You looked at your husband. You looked at the tiny creature who had chosen him. You felt your whole life quietly tilt toward a new shape, and somehow, you were already in love with it. 

If the universe wills it….

.

The next morning felt like the first day of a new routine you were pretending wasn’t happening yet.

You both tried to be normal about it—coffee, breakfast, Clark rinsing out the little bowl you’d used for chicken last night like it was no big deal, you pulling your hoodie on and checking your phone for the vet’s hours. Tybalt shadowed every step of it with the alert patience of someone who expected to be included. He wove around your ankles. He hopped up on the couch arm to watch Clark put on his glasses. He trailed you to the bathroom and sat outside the door like a tiny bouncer.

“Alright,” you told him, crouching to scratch under his chin, nurse-voice automatic. “So here’s what we’re doing today. We’re going to the vet. We are going to be brave and polite and not hiss at anyone.”

Tybalt blinked at you like he understood every syllable.

Clark stood a few feet behind you, still in sweats, coffee in hand, looking at you like you’d hung a new star in the kitchen. “You do that voice with him,” he said softly.

“What voice?”

“That one.” His mouth quirked. “The one you use when you’re taking care of someone and trying not to scare them.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “He’s a stray cat, not a trauma patient.”

“And yet,” Clark said, nodding down at Tybalt, “he’s leaning into it.”

The vet clinic was a small neighborhood place tucked between a bakery and a hardware store. When you walked in, Tybalt rode in a carrier Clark held like it was a bomb he’d rather take the hit from than set down wrong. He kept checking the latch every ten seconds. You pretended not to notice.

The waiting room smelled faintly like disinfectant and dogs. A couple people looked up and smiled at Clark, like they always did, like they couldn’t help it. He smiled back in that polite, boy-next-door way that still made you feel irrationally proud.

The receptionist leaned over the desk, cooed at the carrier, and then paused halfway through typing.

“Black cat, right?” she asked, squinting at your intake form. “Short hair, gold eyes?”

“Yep,” you said.

She flicked her eyes up to Clark, then back to the carrier. “This might sound strange, but… I think Superman brought this same cat in two days ago.”

Clark’s coffee almost went down the wrong way.

You felt his whole body go stiff beside you. Not panic, exactly—just that oh no, I’m about to be perceived sweat you knew too well.

The receptionist kept going, totally unaware she was holding a live grenade. “Superman said he found him on a rooftop. We tried to do a shelter hold, but the cat bolted before our paperwork was even finished. Twice.” She laughed like it was cute. “We didn’t think we’d see him again. This little Houdini.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He then made a face, as if considering that name….

You cut in smoothly before he had to attempt civil lying at a vet clinic. “Oh well,” you said, calm as anything. “This lil guy’s… pretty dramatic.”

The receptionist smiled. “Well, at least he’s back. We’ll check for a chip and do a full exam. If nobody claims him, you’ll need to wait three days after a hold before you can officially adopt.”

You nodded, anticipating the conditions. “Three days. Got it.”

You crouched by the carrier again and put two fingers through the grate so Tybalt could sniff you.

“Listen, Ty,” you told him quietly, like he was one of your patients who kept ripping out their IV. “Three days. That’s all you have to do. Be good. Don’t escape. Don’t make me or Clark come chasing you through Midtown. We’re going to wait and see, and if nobody comes for you… you’re ours. Okay?”

Tybalt gave a small, solemn meow and bumped his head into your fingers.

Clark exhaled behind you, long and shaky. You heard the gratitude in it without needing to look.

The three days were not the worst three days of your marriage. Not even close. But they were a special kind of suspense.

You both went through your workdays half normal, half buzzing. You texted each other updates like a pair of teenagers waiting on exam results.

At home, the apartment felt emptier than it had any right to. You kept looking toward the couch expecting a black blur to be there. Clark kept pausing mid-step like he was about to trip over a cat that wasn’t underfoot.

On the second night, you caught him staring at the empty spot on the windowsill where Tybalt had screamed at pigeons.

“You miss him,” you sighed, a little sad watching your husband wallow.

Clark blinked like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing. “I— maybe a little.”

You didn’t tease him. You just slid your hand into his and squeezed. You missed him too, which felt ridiculous because he only spent one night, but inevitable all at once.

By the third day, anticipation had turned into this low, humming thread under everything you did. You were charting at the nurses’ station when you were told your husband was in the ER lobby. You excused yourself, and Clark greeted you in that same too-cheerful, too-innocent smile he’d worn the day he brought groceries and chaos home.

He’d somehow made the ER registration desk look like a romantic destination. Coat shrugged over his shoulders, glasses fogged slightly from coming in out of the cold, hair doing that wind-tossed curl you liked. Blue eyes bright. Hands empty like he hadn’t come to drop anything off—he’d come for you.

“Hi,” he greeted softly as you pulled him to an alcove down the hall.

“Hi,” you answered, and your whole body went light because you could feel this moment coming the way you could feel a storm in your bones.

“Okay, before you say anything—”

“Say wha—”

He kissed you.

Right there between the vending machines and a gaggle of interns trying very hard not to stare as they walked by. A deep, thorough kiss that made your brain skid. His hands found your waist like they had a claim there and he wasn’t shy about it. You gripped his coat, the ER disappearing for eight impossible seconds.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, forehead grazing yours. “I got an important call,” he murmured.

Your heart did a full lift, pressing your hands on your chest. “You mean…”

His grin went softer, breathless in a way that didn’t have anything to do with running. “The hold cleared. Nobody claimed him.”

Hope hit you so clean and bright you actually made a sound.

“Yeah?” you whispered, you gripped his wrist.

“Yeah.” He laughed quietly, joy practically spilling out of him. “We can bring him home. Today.”

You were trying to keep yourself calm, keep it professional, keep your feet on the floor. You failed on all counts, and hugged him fiercely. 

Clark lifted you into his own embrace. “We’re doing this, sweetheart.”

“You realize,” your voice was muffled and fond, “that we’re going to be those people who buy him a stupid little bed he won’t sleep in and talk about him like he’s a roommate.”

Clark kissed the side of your neck—one soft press that made your knees go even looser. “I mean,” he said, pretending to think, as he lowered you down, “he did move in without paying rent.”

You elbowed him lightly. “Clark.”

“What?” His smile was in his voice. “We’ll negotiate his lease .”

You sighed again, but this time it came with a smile you didn’t bother hiding.

“Okay,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “Okay. We’re doing this.”

Clark’s breath shuddered out against your shoulder like he’d been holding it all day. Like the whole city could fall away and this would still be the thing keeping him steady.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You stood on your toes and cupped his face. “Don’t thank me yet. He still might bite your toes.”

Clark’s blue eyes were bright. “Worth it.”

“Hopeless,” you muttered, and kissed him again because the universe willed it.

.

Months later, you stopped thinking of it as “doing this” at all.

It was just… life.

Tybalt followed Clark room to room like he’d been hired as a personal assistant. He tried to ride his shoulder whenever Clark was standing still long enough. He developed a habit of sitting on Clark’s desk chair while Clark typed, meowing sharp, decisive opinions at the screen like he was a co-editor.

“Alright,” Clark would murmur, dead serious, tapping the keyboard. “You don’t like that lead?”

Mrrp.

“Too sensational?”

Mrow.

“Okay, okay, we’re rewriting. You’re right.”

Sometimes you’d walk by and see Tybalt sleeping on the cape like it was his birthright, curled in a little black loaf on that bright red fabric. Clark would keep glancing at him with that dazed softness, like he couldn’t believe the world had handed him something so small to protect.

Other times you’d come home from a shift exhausted enough to forget your own name, and find Tybalt curled on your scrubs in the laundry basket like he’d been waiting there all day. He’d blink up at you, slow and patient. You’d scoop him up automatically and tell him you were okay, you were home, you were safe now—like he was your patient and your comfort all at once.

Clark talked to Tybalt the way Pa used to talk to him back in Smallville. Quiet little narrations of the day. Gentle scolds with a laugh under them. “There’s my buddy,” he’d say, scratching behind Tybalt’s ears. “You watching out for her while I was gone?”

And somehow, without realizing it, you started doing the same thing. Catching yourself telling Tybalt “good job” in that calm, steady tone you used on anxious kids in trauma bays. Saying, “hey, hey, it’s okay,” when a storm rattled the windows. Reassuring him like you reassured the world.

The biggest change wasn’t the cat, really.

It was what he forced you both to do around him.

You and Clark started coming home earlier when you could. Turning invitations down when you didn’t have to say yes. Letting the apartment be your destination instead of your pit stop. You made room. You made time. Not because Tybalt demanded it—he didn’t. He was independent as ever. But because the shape of a little family required room, and once you made it, you realized you’d needed it too.

.

Almost a year later, you lay sprawled across Clark in bed, cheek on his chest, his hands resting over you like a shelter. Tybalt was tucked on his sternum, a warm black ball between you, purring so steadily it had become part of the quiet soundtrack of your life.

Clark kissed the top of your head. His fingers traced your spine in lazy, familiar lines. You listened to the purring, to Clark’s heartbeat under your ear, to the city outside finally leaving you alone for the night.

“I love this so much,” you said quietly.

His hum turned into a question. “Yeah?”

“We slowed down.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “We made room.”

His eyes warmed, understanding what you weren’t saying yet and giving you all the space in the world to say it anyway.

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight in the best way. “Clark, I think…I want the picture to get bigger, too. If you want that. If you’re open to it.”

The hand along your back went very still. Clark tucked his head down to look at you. You stared back, studying his face —not shocked, not scared, if anything, he was glowing.

You’d known that look. It lived in your bones.

First date. Interview at the Planet. Engagement. Wedding. Tybalt. 

“When?” he asked, voice low and careful.

Your mouth wobbled into a shy grin. “Soon?” A beat, your thumb tracing the edge of his collarbone. “If the universe wills it...”

Clark’s breath left him in a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Okay.”

You searched his face. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated, and kissed you like the word was a promise he’d already started keeping.

Then, with absurd tenderness, he scooped Tybalt off his chest and held him up like he was negotiating with a king.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered. “You don’t mind sleeping in the living room tonight, right?”

Tybalt blinked at him, slow and deeply unimpressed. Then gave one dramatic, put-upon meow.

Clark grinned. “Thanks, Ty. You’re the best.”

He slid out of bed, padding to the doorway with Tybalt tucked against his shoulder, and set him gently just outside the room. 

“G’night, Ty,” you called, unable to hide the giddiness laced in your voice. Tybalt meowed back as if 'goodnight, mother', then trotted off down the hall—tail high, mission accepted.

Clark watched him go, shook his head fondly, then turned back to you with that bright, helpless love on his face as he closed the door.

“Hi,” he greeted softly as he slid back next to you, like your hope was something he wanted to hold with both hands.

You slid closer without thinking, curling into him until there wasn’t room for worry anymore. “Hi.”

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a gentleness that still made your stomach flip even after all these years. “We don’t have to rush anything,” he murmured, forehead resting on yours. 

You smiled, your breath catching a little. “Clark, I’m the one who said soon. I want this with you.”

He grinned, sheepish. “I want this with you, too.”

You kissed him first. Just a short, soft press—then another, deeper, your fingers slipping into his hair. He made a sound that was half laugh, half exhale, and pulled you closer like he’d been waiting all day to come home to exactly this.

The purring down the hall faded into the background. The city did too. There was only warmth, and steady hands, and the way Clark looked at you like he could build a whole life from a moment.

His mouth brushed yours again, lingering. “I love you,” he said against your lips.

“More than words," you breathed back, and you both let the rest of the night take you both somewhere quiet and sure and familiar.

Outside your door, your first baby slept down the hall. The Prince of Cats, who changed your whole life by simply choosing Clark. By choosing you.

Inside it, the two of you finally let the world wait, to let that love expand.

If the universe wills it...