The evening sun dipped low over Smallville, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, like a village dusk after a long day of work. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine from nearby gardens. Gwen Stacy's house sat at the edge of a quiet street, its white porch glowing softly in the fading light, a cozy beacon in the stillness. Inside, the faint clink of dishes and the hum of a radio drifted out, mixing with the chirps of evening crickets.
Clark Kent stepped onto the porch, his boots scuffing lightly against the wooden boards. He'd been coming here more often—too often, maybe. At first, it was just study sessions, books and notes spread across Gwen's dining table. But those hours had stretched, filled with laughter, teasing, and glances that lingered a beat too long. Clark wasn't naive. He saw the way Gwen's smile softened around him, the way she leaned closer when they talked, her blue eyes holding his like she was searching for something. It was slow, subtle, but undeniable.
And he wasn't the only one who'd noticed.
Captain George Stacy had spent years on the police force, his instincts honed by countless nights chasing leads and reading people. He could spot trouble in a glance—the twitch of a liar's mouth, the flicker of a thief's eyes. When Gwen first brought Clark home, George had dismissed him as just another kid, a study buddy for his brilliant daughter. Gwen was smart, driven, her future mapped out with college and ambition. She didn't need watching.
But weeks turned into months, and Clark's visits became a habit. Study sessions bled into late evenings, Gwen's laughter ringing through the house, her voice brighter when Clark was around. George watched from the sidelines, his gut twisting. It wasn't just fatherly protectiveness—it was something deeper, a cop's intuition that wouldn't shut up.
Clark was too smooth, too confident for a teenager. He never faltered, never seemed out of place, his answers always just right. And the way Gwen looked at him—like he was more than a friend—set off every alarm in George's head. She was slipping, her focus shifting, and Clark Kent was at the center of it.
Clark raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before his knuckles hit wood. George Stacy stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His police uniform was gone, replaced by a plain shirt and jeans, but his stance screamed authority. His gray eyes locked onto Clark, sharp and unyielding.
"Clark," he said, his voice flat, giving nothing away.
Clark nodded, his expression polite but relaxed, like he'd expected this. "Captain Stacy."
A beat of silence hung between them, heavy as the evening air. Then George stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click. His boots thudded on the porch, and he faced Clark, his gaze steady.
Clark raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Here we go.
George didn't waste time. "You've been spending a lot of time with my daughter," he said, his tone even but firm, like he was stating a fact in a courtroom.
Clark leaned casually against the porch railing, his posture loose. "We study together," he said, his voice smooth, meeting George's eyes without a flicker.
George's jaw tightened, just a fraction. "That all?"
Clark's smirk grew, subtle but deliberate. "For now."
The air shifted, tension coiling like a spring. George's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping low. "Listen, kid," he said, stepping closer, his words measured. "I don't know what you're after, but Gwen's got a future—college, a career, big things. She doesn't need someone dragging her off course."
Clark tilted his head, his smirk unfazed. "You think I'm a distraction?"
George didn't answer right away. He studied Clark, his gaze piercing, like he was trying to peel back layers to find the truth underneath. "I think you're trouble," he said finally, his voice hard. "The kind that sneaks up when you least expect it."
Clark almost laughed, the irony sharp in his mind. If George knew who he really was—what he could do—he'd be more than just worried. But Clark kept his face calm, his smile easy. "You don't trust me," he said, not a question.
"No," George said flatly. "I don't."
Clark's eyes glinted, his voice low and steady. "Then it's a good thing Gwen's old enough to make her own choices."
George's shoulders stiffened, his hands flexing at his sides. He opened his mouth to fire back—
"Dad."
Gwen's voice cut through, sharp and exasperated. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her blonde hair catching the porch light. Her blue eyes flicked from her father to Clark, narrowing as she took in the scene. "Really?" she said, her brow arching. "This is what we're doing now?"
George sighed, his posture softening just a touch. "Gwen, I'm just—"
"No," she interrupted, stepping onto the porch to stand beside Clark. Her voice was firm, but her eyes held a trace of warmth. "You don't get to decide who I hang out with."
George's jaw clenched, but he didn't snap back. "I'm looking out for you," he said, his tone quieter now, almost pleading.
Gwen's expression softened, but she didn't budge. "I know, Dad. But I can handle myself."
The porch fell silent, the crickets' hum filling the space. George looked at Clark one last time, his gaze heavy with warning. Clark met it with a calm smile, unbothered, like he was playing a game he knew he'd win.
Finally, George exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine," he said, his voice clipped. He turned and walked back inside, the door closing with a thud.
Gwen let out a long breath, turning to Clark with a small, lopsided smile. "You handled that better than I thought," she said, her tone light but her eyes searching.
Clark's smirk returned, his voice teasing. "Your dad's a cop. Starting a fight wouldn't exactly win me any points."
She rolled her eyes, but her laugh was soft, like a bell in the quiet evening. "He'll come around," she said, nudging his arm. "Eventually."
Clark chuckled, leaning closer. "Or he won't."
Gwen grinned, shaking her head. "Either way, that's not your problem."
His eyes locked onto hers, his smirk softening into something warmer, more deliberate. "No," he said quietly. "I guess it's not."
But she was. Gwen was a piece in his game now—someone he could pull closer, shape, maybe even keep. She didn't know it yet, but Clark was patient. He'd wait.