The Kent farmhouse stood quiet under a late afternoon sun, its white walls glowing softly against the endless stretch of cornfields. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of hay and earth, like a village market winding down after a busy day. Inside, the kitchen smelled of fresh bread and coffee, the faint creak of the floorboards echoing as Martha Kent leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, her green eyes fixed on Clark.
He sat at the table, lacing up his boots, his movements slow and deliberate. Farm chores—fixing fences, hauling feed—were piling up, but Clark didn't care. That was Kara's thing, her way of clinging to this simple life. He had bigger plans.
Martha sighed, rubbing her temples. "You know, there's a whole list of chores you haven't touched," she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and resignation.
Clark smirked, barely glancing up. "And there's a whole world out there I haven't seen."
She arched a brow, her lips twitching despite herself. "I'll take that as a 'no.'"
Clark stood, stretching his lean frame, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. "Come on, Mom. I'm just heading into town."
Martha's gaze softened, but there was a weight behind it—a silent acknowledgment of the secret they shared, the kisses they hid from the world. "Just… don't stay out too late," she said, her voice quieter now, less a warning than a plea.
Clark paused, catching the shift in her tone. She hated what they did, the line they kept crossing, but she never stopped him. He stepped closer, his smirk fading into something softer, more deliberate. He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a slow, deep kiss. Martha tensed, her hands gripping the counter, but she didn't pull away. Her breath hitched, unsteady, as he lingered.
When he stepped back, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes avoiding his. "You're a dangerous boy," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Clark's grin returned, wide and unapologetic. "And you love it."
With a wink, he grabbed his jacket and slipped out the door, leaving Martha alone with her racing heart. He was off to see Gwen, and nothing—not chores, not guilt—would slow him down.
Kara Zor-El wasn't blind. She'd watched Clark change over the months, his focus drifting further from the farm, from her. He'd stopped caring about the life they'd built here, sneaking off to town like it was his real home. It grated on her, a quiet anger building in her chest. He was hers—her cousin, her family—and he was slipping away.
She couldn't take it anymore. That evening, as the sun dipped low, she stormed into his room, slamming the door open with a bang that rattled the walls. Clark lay on his bed, one arm behind his head, a book dangling lazily in his hand. He groaned, not even looking up. "Ever heard of knocking?"
Kara ignored him, her boots thudding as she stepped closer, her blue eyes blazing. "You think I don't see it?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. "You're sneaking off, ditching everything for that… human."
Clark raised a brow, his smirk slow and deliberate. "Gwen?"
Kara scoffed, her hands balling into fists. "Don't say her name like she's special."
He sat up, stretching with a lazy confidence that only fueled her anger. "Why do you care?" he asked, his tone light but pointed.
"Because you're being reckless," she shot back, stepping into his space. "She's weak, Clark. She's human. You're wasting your time on someone who'll never matter."
Clark's smirk didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened, catching the crack in her armor. "Oh, really?" he said, standing now, his voice dropping low. "What about Natasha?"
Kara froze, her breath catching. Clark's grin widened, predatory. "Don't play innocent, Kara. I see how you look at her—always defending her, protecting her. You're already wrapped around her finger, aren't you?"
Her jaw tightened, her eyes darkening. "That's not the same," she said, her voice low, almost a growl.
Clark stepped closer, closing the gap until they were inches apart. "It's exactly the same."
For a moment, they stood there, the air thick with tension, neither backing down. Then Kara huffed, turning away, her ponytail swinging. "You're an idiot," she muttered, heading for the door.
Clark's grin followed her. "And you're a hypocrite."
The door slammed shut, the echo ringing in the quiet house. Clark lay back down, his smirk lingering. He'd hit a nerve, and he knew it.
Smallville's streets glowed under the evening light, shop windows casting warm reflections like lanterns at a festival. The air was cool now, carrying the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional laugh from kids biking past. Clark met Gwen outside the library, her blonde hair loose, her jacket slung over one shoulder. It wasn't a date—not officially—but the way she smiled when she saw him felt close enough.
They wandered through town, their steps slow, the world fading around them. Gwen talked about her dreams—leaving Smallville, studying science, building a life bigger than this quiet place. "I want to make a difference, you know?" she said, her voice bright but wistful. "Not just rot here forever."
Clark listened, his hands in his pockets, his gaze steady. He didn't say much, just nodded, letting her words fill the space. It wasn't that he cared about her plans—not really—but he liked how she lit up, how her passion made her real.
They ended up at a small diner, its neon sign buzzing faintly, the smell of burgers and fries spilling out. Inside, the booths were worn but cozy, the jukebox playing an old tune that felt like it belonged to another time. Gwen slid into a seat across from him, her eyes catching the light.
"I don't get you," she said suddenly, leaning forward, her chin resting on her hand.
Clark smirked, sipping his soda. "That's what all the girls say."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. "I'm serious. You're… weird. One minute, you're all distant, like you don't care about anything. And then—" She paused, her gaze searching his, a little shy. "You're like this. Present. Real."
Clark tilted his head, his smirk softening. "Like what?"
Gwen shrugged, her cheeks pink. "I don't know. Like you actually give a damn."
He held her gaze, letting the moment stretch, his voice low. "Maybe you just bring it out of me."
Her flush deepened, and she looked away, muttering, "Shut up." But her smile stayed, soft and unguarded.
They talked late into the night—about school, music, the stars—nothing heavy, just easy. For the first time in ages, Clark felt a flicker of something normal, like he could be just a guy, not a schemer with a universe in his pocket. It was strange. Nice, even.
Past midnight, Clark slipped back into the farmhouse, the floorboards creaking under his boots. The house was dark, but Martha was awake, sitting in the living room, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. She didn't speak, just watched him, her green eyes unreadable.
Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know, I'm late," he said, his voice light, testing her mood.
Martha stayed silent, her hands folded in her lap. Then she stood, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. Before he could say another word, she pulled him into a kiss—deep, lingering, her fingers curling into his jacket. Clark froze, caught off guard, then leaned into it, his hands settling on her waist.
When they broke apart, Martha's breathing was shaky, her eyes conflicted. "I hate this," she whispered, her voice raw, like she was fighting herself.
Clark's grin was soft, almost tender. "No, you don't."
Her lips parted, as if to argue, but no words came. She sighed, turning away, her shoulders tense. "Go to bed," she muttered, her voice barely audible.
Clark watched her walk away, his smirk returning. She could deny it all she wanted, but the truth was clear. She was his—maybe not fully, not yet, but she was already caught in his orbit.
He headed to his room, the night's events replaying in his mind. Gwen, Kara, Martha—each a piece in his game, each pulling him in different directions. He'd cross any line to keep them close. And he'd enjoy every second of it.