✩𝒪𝓁𝒾𝓋𝒾𝒶✩ @love1salaserquest - Tumblr Blog

Aug 3

The Bed Budget

Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Wife!Reader | 9k Summary: Every quarter, you and Clark, this time with baby Viola gnawing on a teether, sit down for the 'Kent Financial Wellness Check': groceries, bills, your daughter's essentials… and the Bed Budget. You and Clark have to admit it might be time to invest in sturdier furniture, because you can't help being wildly, enthusiastically in love without bankrupting yourselves on platform beds. Tags: Domestic Fluff, Kent OC Baby, GirlDad!Clark, Nurse!Reader Romantic!Clark, Husband!Clark Is a League of His Own, Implied and Blunt References to Sex, Married Idiots In Love, Responsible Financial Discussion

Mrs. Kent Diaries

(Check out Viola In His Arms)

Clark sat at the dining table, his laptop open in front of him, a shared Google spreadsheet already color-coded within an inch of its life.

Two mugs of coffee sat between you—his with a splash of cream, yours black — but both had gone lukewarm over half an hour ago. Outside, the city moved around you, but in here, the world had shrunk to cells, numbers, and the little, precious weight cradled against his chest.

Viola lay sprawled along his forearm, cheek pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, gnawing determinedly on a blue teether. Every few seconds, her tiny fist thumped his sternum like a drum. Her dark curls stuck up in soft tufts, and her socks were already half off from repeated enthusiastic leg kicking; one hung from her toes, close to slipping free.

Next to him, you were cozy in Clark’s oversized Metropolis U crewneck, legs tucked under you, thick hair piled up in a loose bun that had already started to tilt. You held a pen between your teeth, the pages of your notebook covered in neat columns and tiny notes in the margins.

"Okay, sweetheart," Clark clapped his hands and rubbed them together, trying for his "serious finance face," which you claimed looked exactly like his "constipated article draft face." "Kent Financial Wellness Check, Q2. You ready?"

You waved your pen around in mock enthusiasm. "As I’ll ever be, baby. For two people who did not choose lucrative careers…"

"…we sure do like having electricity," he finished with you with a grin.

Viola squealed at the same time, teether slipping slightly. A string of drool hit Clark’s shirt, and unphased, shifted her higher, rubbing a slow circle on her back, replacing the teether.

He clicked on the first tab. "Groceries."

Green for "essentials," yellow for "questionable choices," red for "what were we even thinking."

You leaned forward, blinking at the screen. "Is that… three different orders labeled ‘delivery emergencies’?"

"In our defense," Clark said, "two of those days I was on a deadline and a city crisis somehow no one in the Justice Gang had time to deal with. One of those days, you had a double shift. Your text said, and I quote: ‘if I stand up, my spine will crumble.’"

A fuzzy image of that week came back—him stumbling in at midnight, you half-asleep on the couch, both of you too wrecked to even look at the stove. You snorted and flipped back a page in your notes, hunting. "Uh-huh. And what about this one that’s just labeled 'smiley-face'?"

He winced. "…That may have been the same week. Lois mentioned a limited-time burger pop-up near the Planet and I thought, you know, morale boost."

"So that’s three ‘delivery emergencies’ and one ‘morale boost,’" you nodded, already dragging your pen to the margin.

He watched you start to write, squinting to read upside down. "Are you writing that down?"

"Future us," you narrated slowly as you scawled, "please do not order takeout four times in one week because Lois said there was a limited-time burger pop-up near the Planet."

"At least Lois has good taste," he muttered. "Terrible timing, but good taste."

Viola shifted, pressing a palm flat against his chest and gurgled as if ‘taste’ triggered her. He bounced his knee gently, supporting her head with his other hand, and the motion settled her. She gnawed the teether harder, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.

Clark moved to the next category. "Baby stuff."

There was a lot of yellow there. Rows and rows of tiny numbers that felt harmless when you hit "checkout" at 2 a.m. late-night shopping, but looked monstrous when they all sat in one column, judging you.

"Okay," he muttered, scrolling. "Formula. Bottles. Different bottles because the first bottles were apparently ‘not her personality.’ Purees. More purees. Teething rings. Bibs. Why does someone her size need eighteen pairs of socks?"

"She doesn’t," you countered, voice going instinctively softer as you glanced at Viola. "She needs eighty. Half of them disappear into the void the second they go in the washer. Somewhere there is a hell dimension that is just unmatched baby socks and hospital pens."

Viola made a soft humming noise and kicked against his forearm, like she agreed. Her half-on sock wobbled on her toes.

"And what is this?" he asked, scrolling further. "Three different types of pacifiers?"

You winced. "Okay, that one’s on me. I liked the little cartoon stars. It was cute…at the time."

Clark smiled despite himself, watching the way your mouth curved even as your brows pinched at the total. "We’ve got her diapers covered. Her food is fine. We finally found a bottle she won’t toss out the window. And the pediatrician said she’s thriving. That’s what matters."

Viola had her teether now clutched in her hands, and was now testing the quality of Clark’s T-shirt collar with a tight little fist. She squealed when the fabric stretched, delighted with her own strength.

"You hear that, Little Miss Vi?" you cooed, reaching over to smooth a hand over her wild curls. "You’re our tiny, adorable money pit. The best money pit."

"Don’t insult the investor," Clark murmured with a grin. He shifted her up and pressed a noisy kiss to her cheek. She smelled like baby lotion and leftover milk, and her skin was warm against his mouth.

You snorted. "Oh, I’m sorry. Our tiny, adorable operations manager."

"Miss Vi," he corrected solemnly, tapping her nose. "Distinguished baby of the house, funding allocation manager—oh—"

She had slapped his chest with her open palm, fingers splayed, leaving a faint damp handprint on his shirt. The hit bounced harmlessly off muscle, but she looked very proud of herself.

"MISS VI," you sang in warning, drawing it out.

Her head jerked toward you. Her blue eyes went huge and bright. She squealed, high and delighted, then flailed both arms and smacked Clark’s chest again like a drum.

You laughed. "Hey, hey—be nice to Daddy," you scolded gently, smoothing a hand over her back. "He’s the one funding your sock habit."

You leaned in, resting your chin briefly on Clark’s shoulder. Viola let out a happy babble, trapped between both of your bodies, and drooled contentedly onto his shirt instead.

"Putting it in the notes," you said, scribbling something on the paper. "Line item: Miss Vi’s Reign of Financial Terror."

Clark glanced at your handwriting and shook his head, smiling. Terror or not, if she needed sixteen more pairs of socks, you’d both figure it out.

He moved down the list. "Rent. Utilities. Food. Press credentials renewal," he pointed at a blue row with his cursor, "that’s me. Monthly nursing association fees, that’s you."

You wrinkled your nose. "I love that I have to pay money to show my enthusiasm for my career."

He grunted in sympathy. "At least the Planet isn’t charging me to complain about my job yet."

He scrolled, checking the totals. The numbers weren’t comfortable, but they weren’t terrifying either. Tight, not desperate. A spot on the line where he knew a lot of people would still trade places with him—steady roof, fridge with food, lights that came on when you flipped the switch, a baby with full cheeks and strong lungs. He tried to hold onto that when his chest clenched at the column of expenses.

"Bills look doable," he decided after a beat. "If we watch the impulse stuff, we’re fine. Maybe we can finally start setting aside more for a real vacation fund. Something with an ocean for you and a lot of yellow sun for me."

Your head snapped up, eyes lighting as you giggled. "Beach trip where I get to see my husband shirtless. In public? Say less."

He snorted. "You see me shirtless every day."

"Yeah, yeah," you said. "But I want witnesses."

Viola let out a loud, garbled "Gaaaah," flailing her hand against his chest again like she was seconding the motion. Her sock finally gave up and slid the rest of the way off her foot, landing in his lap.

"Look, she’s already practicing for the beach," you laughed.

He shook his head, picking up the tiny sock and placing it next to your notebook so it wouldn’t vanish into thin air. Then he clicked to the next sheet. More tabs, more colors. He felt your focus shift—not on the screen, but on him. You did that sometimes when things started feeling heavy, like you were keeping an eye on his internal barometer.

"Clark, how are we doing?" you asked quietly.

He kept his eyes on the laptop a second longer, tilting his head. "On… what?" he said, glancing up. "You, me, or the mortgage?"

"You, me, and our little cuddle-bug currently drooling on your clavicle," you said. "I dropped to part-time for Viola. You’re juggling the Planet and Superman duties. We’re tag-teaming childcare. Ma and Pa are a plane ride away. My parents are…" You trailed off, lips pressing together, that old ache passing through your face. "It’s a lot. I just want to make sure we’re not pretending it isn’t."

He let his hand settle over Viola’s back. Her heart beat steady and strong under his palm, a rhythm that felt like the center of everything. It always calmed him, even on days when nothing else did. You and her—that was the part that made sense when the rest didn’t.

His Polaris and Canopus.

"It is a lot," he agreed. "Some mornings I wake up and I feel like I’m already behind—on writing, on patrol, on sleep. And then I come home, and you’re trying to stretch yourself into three people so I don’t have to worry about you when I go out into the fray."

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, softer.

"But I also know that every time it feels like too much, it’s still… us. It’s still you and me and now her. Even when we’re wiped, we’re doing it together. Like always."

That pulled a small, real laugh out of you. Your shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the tension easing out of your neck. You ran your thumb along the edge of your notebook, watching his face instead of the numbers.

"So… we’re okay?" you asked, finally glancing up. "You’re okay?"

He met your eyes and didn’t look away. "We’re more than okay, darlin’," he said, guiding your hand toying with the corner of your notebook up to his lips to briefly kiss your knuckle. "We’re tired and under-caffeinated and I still haven’t called customer service about the internet again—"

You grimaced like you’d bitten a lemon. You gently cradled his chin with your thumb and index finger. "Clark, you promised you’d do that last quarter."

"I did. And I will," he groaned, feeling the weight of all the minutes he’d spent on hold with bad jazz looping in his ear. "I just need… three consecutive hours of patience and no collapsing bridges."

"High bar," you said dryly.

"Extremely," he agreed. "But we’ll get there."

You watched him for another beat, then leaned into him, hand braced near his mug, laptop, pens, and notebooks. He met you halfway. The kiss was quick, familiar, and warm as his coffee should’ve been—your mouth soft, your free hand curling in the front of his soft and dribble-damp shirt.

Between you, pressed to his chest, Viola let out a sharp, delighted sound and kicked against his thigh like she was cheering. One tiny heel nailed him in the side and you on the bicep.

He huffed a laugh against your lips. "Your daughter’s heckling us," he pointed out.

"Your daughter’s a romantic," you answered fondly.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours for a second. From this angle, he could see the little cowlick in Viola’s hair, the way her fist had found the fabric of your sleeve and refused to let go.

"See?" you murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice low. "We’re a great team."

He smiled, that deep, genuine kind that came with a warm bloom in his chest. "Best one I know," he said.

Clark looked down at her, then at you, and felt the same thought hit him it always did when he got a full view of the two of you at once:

Whatever the spreadsheet said, he was absurdly, ridiculously rich.

At least, that’s what he thought—right up until he nudged the trackpad and scrolled down to the next tab.

"Okay," he said, more to himself than to you. "Let’s see what’s left… miscellaneous."

You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspicious."

"It’s not suspicious," he said, opening the tab. "It’s—organized."

A column of charges appeared. Your gaze skimmed down the list of dates and vendors, and then stopped. Clark watched the exact moment your expression slid from curious to amused.

There, highlighted in muted orange, was a single line item with its own subcategory:

BED BUDGET.

He winced. "…and finally," he managed, palms stretched as if presenting a new idea to Perry, "the Bed Budget."

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the heel of your hand. "Baby, you have to stop calling it that."

"Honestly, it’s the only recurring purchase with a higher rate than the electric bill," he said weakly.

Viola made a soft, unhappy noise and kicked once against his ribs. Clark adjusted her, tucking her closer, one big hand cupping the back of her head. She fussed, then resettled, breath puffing damp against his neck. He smoothed a thumb along the curve of her tiny ear, the way the pediatrician had showed you both, and watched your mouth twitch like you were trying not to smile.

"I mean," you said, lifting your head to rest on on your palm, "we could just call it ‘home repairs?’"

"Normal people don’t have to replace their bedframe as often as we do, sweetheart" he countered.

"You’re right." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Normal people also don’t have to factor in their husband's superstrength. Party of one, right here!"

He felt heat creep up the back of his neck. "Sweetheart, that’s not—"

You flicked the line with the tip of your pen with a deep sigh. "Scroll. Let’s see the damage this time around."

He scrubbed his jaw and did as he was told.

The column expanded, revealing a depressing set of near-identical transactions. Same store name. Same shipping charge. Different months, some more frequent than others.

The memories hit in quick flashes.

The time you’d just staggered home from a string of brutal day shifts, dark circles under your eyes, hair still smelling faintly like antiseptic and sweat. He’d been late back from patrol. You’d barely seen each other all week. The second the door shut, you’d walked straight into his arms like your body knew the path by muscle memory. Ten minutes later, the frame had let out a long, furious groan and then snapped at the center slat. He’d ended up on his back, you sprawled on top of him, both of you wheezing with laughter on a mattress that had dropped a full inch.

A replacement had died on a "just one more paragraph" night—Clark finally breaking through a month-long knot in an article. You’d climbed into his lap to "reward the most incredible journalist," as you put it. At the peak of your third celebration, there’d been a crack loud enough to startle him into checking for structural damage in the building. You both received a noise compliant from your blushing landlord the following week.

One event still made his ears burn. You’d come home after a day you’d only summed up as "awful." He’d caught the way your shoulders sagged when you thought he wasn’t looking, the way your smile didn’t reach your eyes, sad and with unshed tears. He’d decided that his girl was going to feel better by the end of the night. The universe, apparently, had agreed a little too enthusiastically. The corner leg had sheared off. You’d ended up half on the mattress, half clutched onto his chest, wheezing with tears in your eyes from hysterical laughter while he apologized to the floor and your downstairs neighbor with motification.

And another time… post-baby. You’d gotten four hours of unbroken sleep for the first time in weeks. Morning light had barely started leaking around the curtains; Viola was still out in her bassinet out-cold. You’d looked at him over the pillow, sleepy and soft and wicked all at once, and smugly siad, "We have thirty minutes before she remembers she’s a tyrant." The headboard had not survived under his grip.

And the most recent one—only last week. Viola had finally, finally taken to a semi-predictable nap schedule. You’d both stood over her crib like scientists observing a miracle, then snuck back to your room, Clark flying the both of you and grinning like teenagers. It was the middle of the day, sunlight striping the bed. You’d meant to "just make out a little."

It had not stayed "a little."

The central support bar had snapped with a shriek, leaving the whole frame tilted. Viola slept peacefully in the next room, completely unaware her parents had just committed structural homicide again.

Later, with you yawning against his shoulder and Viola fussing on your chest for her next feed, Clark had pulled up the furniture site on his phone and, out of habit more than sense, hit the same "reorder" button he’d used the last time.

Now the broken frame was still limping along in your bedroom, one leg propped up on a stack of old nursing textbooks.

Clark exhaled, rubbing his thumb over the trackpad. The list of dates and order totals blurred a little. "This is… not a flattering pattern," he grimaced.

You snorted, a lot smug, and very little apologetic. "I don’t know. I’m pretty flattered."

"It’s just cheap wood," you added, louder, like you were talking to the ceiling to convince yourself. "Poor craftsmanship. Shoddy design. Not rated for excessive joy."

"Yes," he said quickly, voice a pinch higher, latching onto that like a lifeline. "Exactly. Wear and tear. Bad engineering. Not like I’m an engineer myself, but yeah."

You leveled your pen at him, elbow propped on the table. "And the part where you’re an alien with the strongest bones on the planet? Definitely has nothing to do with it, right?"

He could feel his face heating again. He’d faced international crises and press scrutiny with less embarrassment than he felt sitting at this table surrounded by spreadsheets and baby toys.

"I’m careful," he tried to convince himself, and even to his own ears it sounded defensive.

You hummed, your convictions wavering. "Mmm. So careful there’s a permanent scuff line on the wall where the headboard keeps slamming." You tilted your head toward the bedroom like you could see the damage from here. "We are never seeing that security deposit again, baby."

He groaned quietly and scrolled further, more to have something to occupy his hands than because he wanted to see more incriminating evidence. The identical order confirmations stared back at him like a row of smug faces.

"Clark," you started, calmer now, amusement and fondness softening the denial. "You realize we’ve been buying the same bedframe. Every time."

He squinted at the screen, then searched up the item ID on his browser. He knew the answer, he just…wanted to make sure.

Product details: same model number, product code. Same marketing photo of a tasteful, innocent-looking bed that had no idea what it was in for. Everything else lined up like a bad joke.

"Oh, good gosh," he muttered, dropping his forehead onto Viola’s.

"It’s like we’re trapped in a mattress-themed Groundhog Day," you clicked your tongue, shaking your head. "Order, assemble, destroy, repeat."

Viola picked that moment to let out an impatient little whine, as if picking up on her parents' displeasure. Her fingers flexed against his chest, bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. Clark’s focus snapped away from the screen; he instinctively jostled her, bouncing his knee and rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, voice dropping into that soft register that seemed wired directly into her nervous system. "You’re okay, Little Star."

She settled almost immediately, her tiny body relaxing against him.

"You know," you said slowly, eyes gleaming as the mischief slid back in, "maybe if my husband wasn’t so—"

You shifted in your chair, leaning in a little, voice dropping. "—determined to see how many times in one night he could make me forget my own name—"

The teether chose that exact moment to bounce off the edge of the table. Clark’s hand shot out without him thinking, catching it before it hit the floor. He set it back on the table. Then, belatedly, his brain caught up to what you’d been about to say. He turned his head and looked at you. You met his stare with the sweetest, most innocent smile you owned.

He coughed, shifted Viola higher, and covered one of her ears lightly with his palm like that would somehow shield her from innuendo. "We are not discussing that in front of our daughter," he hissed, scandalized.

You raised your eyebrows. "Our daughter who cannot say more than ‘gaaa’ and ‘buh’ yet?"

"She’s very advanced," he defended stiffly. "She picks up on things. You know this."

Right on cue, Viola blew a heroic spit bubble against his neck, then patted the wet spot with her little palm.

You laughed, bright and unbothered. "Am I wrong? To say that," your voice dropped again, "we would not have needed a baby budget tab or this adorable little cuddle-bug right here—" you reached over and tapped the tip of Viola’s nose, making her blink and squeak "—if your… enthusiasm hadn’t been so effective."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. This, he thought, was the real test of his superhuman endurance—not lifting space stations, not heat vision, but surviving you with his dignity intact.

"You’re enjoying this," he accused.

"Immensely," you said without a hint of shame. "You save millions of people every day, but the thing that finally takes you out is ‘bedframe expenses.’"

He opened his eyes and couldn’t even argue. Instead, he dragged his attention back to the ridiculous numbers. Underneath the embarrassment, though, the truth sat there.

He cleared his throat. "It keeps happening," he reasoned slowly, "because it’s the one place we keep… meeting in the middle."

He glanced up. You were watching his face deep in thought, pen resting loose between your fingers.

"You’re at the Planet, or you’re out there," you started off waved your hand up in the air, to the sky beyond the kitchen window. "I’m at the hospital. We’re trading off shifts like a relay race. Half the time, we’re just… handing the baton back and forth."

He nodded. He’d felt it too, that dizzy pass-off—your fingers brushing his in the doorway as you came home and he went out, the quick kiss in the hall while one of you was already turning away, the nights where the only time you were all three together was fifteen minutes on the couch before someone fell asleep sitting up.

"So when we finally land in the same place," you went on, "we hold on. Maybe a little too hard for the structural integrity of mid-range furniture. But I’m not sorry about that."

He looked back at the repeated charges, the ridiculous label he’d given the category, then down at the tiny heel of Viola’s foot pressing into his ribs. Her toes curled, gripping at his shirt like a rock climbing wall.

The brief shame ebbed instantly, replaced by tenderness that spread through his chest and settled there.

"It’s not just the bad days," he said. "It’s when things go right, too. The article finally clicking. You coming home and not smelling like feet or blood." He shrugged one shoulder carefully so he didn’t jostle the baby. "Either way, I want you close. I like making sure you feel it, too."

"Same," you squeezed his knee, smiling. "If the worst thing that happens to us is we blow through a few bedframes because we’re still crazy about each other? I’ll take it."

Viola stirred again, letting out a contented little sigh, and Clark felt her small weight settle fully against him. Busy or not, scheduled to the minute or running behind, this was the part that made everything else make sense.

"Okay," you said at last, tapping the ‘Bed Budget’ label with your pen. "Maybe the name stays. Just so future us remembers what this actually is."

"A poor financial decision?" he tried with a cheeky grin.

"A reminder," you corrected, snorting, "that we didn’t let life and work and superhero nonsense turn us into roommates. That we’re still crazy about each other. Even if it means we have to explain to our accountant why we’ve bought the same piece of furniture four times in a quarter."

Clark huffed out a laugh. "I’m not explaining that to anyone, sweetheart."

You smirked, mischief slipping back in. "Don’t worry then. I will. In detail."

Viola chose that moment to let out a bright, random "Gaaaah," smiling against his collarbone like she was chiming in on the bit.

Clark sighed and bent his head, pressing a kiss into the soft fuzz of her hair. "Traitor," he murmured, but his voice was nothing but fond.

Your phone's ringtone cut through the quiet.

Clark’s head snapped up. Your phone buzzed across the table, skittering a little between the mugs and the edge of the laptop. Viola startled at the sound, fingers flexing against his chest, then settled again when his hand automatically started that slow, soothing rub on her back.

You glanced at the screen, eyebrows climbing, and then turned it so he could see.

Furniture store. Oh. Of course it was.

For half a second, neither of you moved. The spreadsheet glowed accusingly in front of him. The memory of that late-night "just reorder it, we’ll deal with it later" click sat like a weight in his gut.

"Speak of the devil," you whispered, already starting to grin, eyes going bright with the kind of delight that spelled disaster for him.

Clark felt something in his chest tighten. "We could… not answer?" he offered weakly.

"That’s a coward’s way out, Superman," you said immediately. There was no heat in it at all, just way too much amusement for his liking.

The phone kept buzzing, jittering against the wood. Viola squealed at the movement, reaching one chubby hand toward it like she wanted in on the action. Clark sighed, shifted her higher on his arm so she couldn’t grab it, and wiped his free hand quickly on his sweatpants like that would somehow make him sound less guilty.

He hit accept.

"Put it on speaker," you mouthed.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the icon. Speaker meant no escape. It meant you would witness every second of your shared humiliation in high definition. But maybe this is the intervention you two needed.

He swallowed and tapped the icon. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mr. Kent!" a bright male voice came through, cheerful in the particular way of someone who was absolutely not the one about to be mortified. "This is Eric from Citywide Furniture Delivery. Just confirming we’re dropping off the king platform frame tomorrow between ten and two—same building, same floor?"

Clark could feel every muscle in his body go tight. Not a generic call center voice. Eric. With a name. With history.

"Uh, hi Eric. You got that right," he coughed. "Same building, same floor."

Beside him, you were already folding over your notebook, shoulders shaking. You turned your face away, one hand clamped over your mouth, the other curled protectively around Viola’s back where she sat in his lap, caught between her parents, thrilled by the noise and having no idea her father wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Clark started to pace without thinking—tight little loops between the table and the counter, bare feet padding loud on the hardwood. It was the same rhythm he fell into at the Planet on long calls with sources: think and move, move and think. Except right now, his brain wasn’t producing anything useful. Just a steady chant of ah geez, ah geez.

Viola made a curious little "nnnh" noise at his jostling, then a fussy one when his arm shifted wrong. Clark’s instincts overrode everything else. He broke stride just long enough to adjust his grip and pass her across to you, the handoff practiced and easy.

You took her like you’d been waiting for it, palms firm and sure at her ribs. She immediately curled into you, tucking her cheek under your chin. Her fingers bunched in your shirt, tiny knuckles whitening as she clung, and she let out a happy, breathy sigh that puffed warm against your throat, her inherited dimples peeking.

"Great!" Eric said cheerfully in Clark’s ear. "We’ll be there in that window. Elevator’s still the one that likes to stick on your floor sometimes, right?"

Clark’s soul briefly left his body. "Uh… yeah," he squeaked. "That’s the one."

You shifted in your chair, adjusting Viola higher as she nibbled on her fist. One of your hands rubbed absent circles on her back while the other came up to cover your mouth. From where he stood, Clark could see your eyes crinkling above your fingers.

"We’ll try not to ding the hallway wall again," Eric went on. "Your landlord and maintenance guy gave us that look last time."

You made a strangled, choked sound that was absolutely not a cough. Viola startled at the noise, then immediately giggled—just a bubbling little sound, pleased and clueless, picking up on the energy in the room if not the content.

"That’d be appreciated," Clark managed, voice thin.

"Oh, and we’ll bring an extra hex key this time," Eric continued. "You two always wanna check the bolts yourself now, right?"

Always.

Clark could feel the heat in his face climb another ten degrees. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand as he resumed his loop, the phone held out in front of him like it might bite. You were nearly doubled over now, shoulders shaking, Viola along for the ride and patting your collarbone like she was applauding.

Clarkbwondered, briefly, if he could develop a sudden, selective hearing loss that only applied to this conversation.

"Uh… yeah," he gulped. "Yeah, that’s us."

You finally got enough air to chime in. "This is Eric, right?" you asked, voice still wobbly with held-in laughter. "You said you’ve come around before?"

"Oh hiya, Mrs. Kent," Eric greeted, like you were old friends. "Yeah, a couple times this year already, actually. Have you talked to the store about any warranties on this model? It doesn't seem to be holding up well for you guys?"

You pressed your forehead briefly to Viola’s hair. She squeaked, then reached up and patted your jaw, confused but delighted that she’d become a pillow and a laugh prop at the same time.

Clark glared at the laptop screen, the words BED BUDGET hovering in his peripheral vision like a neon sign.

In the background of the call, another voice called out, slightly muffled but still way too clear: "Hey, is that the bedframe couple? They’re on the route again?"

You and Clark were slack-jawed.

Your eyes lifted to his over Viola’s head. Dawning horror on your face. Dawning horror on his. Equal parts mortification and the absurd, rising urge to laugh until you cried because what else could you do?

We have a reputation, his brain supplied helplessly. We have a reputation we have a reputation.

Again? your expression added, even if your mouth didn’t say it. He said again?

Eric chuckled, clearly having heard his coworker. "Don’t mind him," he said easily. "We just try to keep track of tricky buildings. Your place with the tight corner, the twentieth-floor with the narrow stairs, that one elevator still in service, buying frames a little too big for—uh…" He faltered for half a second, then pivoted hard. "Anyway. Hey, is that the little one I hear?"

Viola had started babbling, bright nonsense syllables spilling out as she gnawed on her fingers. Her voice piped through the speaker, high and happy, like she was trying to join the conversation.

You shifted her slightly so her face turned toward the phone. "That’s her," you cheered, pride bleeding through every word. "Little Miss Vi."

"Aww," Eric said. "I remember when she was just a bump. Last time we saw her, she was starting to roll over. What’s she up to now?"

Clark blinked, as if this unprovoked intervention couldn't have made things more clear.

He looked at his daughter, at her wild little curls and drool-damp chin. At the way her fingers had found your necklace he gifted you years ago. Then at the phone clutched in his hand.

These delivery men had watched it happen, Clark realized. Not the whole story, but enough markers. The timeline of his growing family, measured not in holidays or anniversaries, but in deliveries and awkward hallway encounters. A bedframe where you joked about all the extra space. Another when you were waddling and complaining about your back, a hand pressed instinctively to your lower spine. A time when you’d sent him a selfie of your swollen ankles and Clark nearly flown a couch halfway across town to make you more comfortable. The post-baby reorder he’d placed one-handed while you dozed against his shoulder and Viola cried for her next feed.

He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. "She’s… good," he said finally. "She’s, um… sitting up. Teething now… yelling at us a lot."

"Future boss," Eric accepted. "Love to hear it."

You bit down on your smile.Your daughter gurgled like she agreed with her promotion, then abandoned her first and tried to eat your hair.

Clark cleared his throat, desperate to get off the call before someone offered them a punch card. Buy five beds, get the sixth free.

"We, uh… just really value good sleep," he blurted. "Anyway. Thanks for the call, Eric. We’ll see you tomorrow."

"Sounds good, Mr. Kent. Mrs. Kent. Bye, Boss," Eric said enthusiastically. "We’ll bring that extra hex key."

The line clicked off.

The fridge hummed, a siren wailed faintly outside, Viola was making quiet, content little "mmh" noises as she kneaded hair gently, but the room felt like someone had hit mute on the world as you and Clark stared at each other.

Clark set your phone gently back on the table. He blinked at it, hollow. Then at you.

You stared back, eyes wide, mouth formed into a grimace, teeth bared.

And then, inevitably, your gazes slid in unison to the laptop.

The spreadsheet glowed innocently. BED BUDGET sat there in bold letters, like it wasn’t the punchline to half your current embarrassment and apparently your public image with at least one delivery crew in Metropolis.

You exhaled first, a little disbelieving huff. "We are insane, baby."

"We’re absolutely insane, sweetheart," he agreed.

Viola chose that exact moment to let out a delighted squeal, flapping her arm against your chest. Her legs kicked against your stomach like she’d just heard the world’s funniest joke.

You and Clark both turned to look at her at the same time, as if she’d done it on purpose.

"Traitor," you said in unison. Viola giggled harder, eyes shining, as if pleased she’d nailed her cue.

Clark sank back into his chair, raking a hand through his hair until it stuck up worse than before. "Okay, sweetheart," he puffed out a breath. "It’s clear we cannot keep doing this."

You bounced Viola lightly on your knee to keep her from latching on the corner of your notebook inches away. "Buying bedframes?" you asked.

"Being personally known by furniture delivery," he clarified. "I’m Superman! I protect Metropolis, and somehow my legacy is ‘that guy with the wife who keeps pulverising platform beds.’"

You snorted. "To be fair, the wife helps."

"That is somehow not comforting," he said, though his mouth tugged up at the corner.

Viola chose that moment to grab your fingers and try to pull them into her mouth this time. You shifted her higher on your lap, guiding her teether back into her hand instead. Clark’s eyes tracked the movement automatically—baby, you, baby again—like he couldn’t decide which one he wanted to stare at more.

"So what’s the plan then, Mr. Finance Committee?" you asked, wiggling Viola’s fist gently until she giggled. "We clearly need a new strategy."

He dragged the laptop closer, pulling up the browser with one hand while the other rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck.

"We could finally invest in something heavy-duty," he suggested. "I could get Gary at the Fortress to fashion something that could handle a lot worse than us. I could…"

He trailed off, already picturing it. Reinforced alloys. Weight distribution calculations. Supports that looked like normal human furniture but could probably withstand a small earthquake and at least three overenthusiastic reunions.

You watched his eyes go a little distant and shook your head, amused. "And how exactly are you going to fly a bedframe from Antarctica into the middle of downtown Metropolis without anyone noticing?" you frowned. "Amazon Prime doesn’t cover ‘imported from Kryptonian ice palace.’"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Okay, that was fair.

"We could say it’s a… very modern imported art piece," he tried.

"Clark Kent," you said gently, like you were humoring a very earnest, very dorky man you happened to be madly in love with. "Love of my life. Father of my child. You can barely sneak in a pizza box without Mrs. Reyes down the hall asking if you’re eating enough."

He sighed, swiping a hand in the air as if striking that bulletpoint out. "Okay. Fortress bedframe is out."

You shifted Viola now onto your hip; she immediately turned so she could watch Clark, eyes wide and curious. "Or," you went on, "we downshift. Simple low platform, keep the fun on the mattress. Less leverage. Less catastrophic failure."

"Or," he countered, "we accept our fate, move the mattress to the floor, and save everyone the trouble."

You wrinkled your nose. "We live on the twentieth floor. What are the chances you end up going through the actual floor? ‘Sorry about your chandelier, Mr. Wu downstairs, my husband got enthusiastic.’"

Clark made a face. "They already think I walk too loudly as it is."

You winced. "Yeah, that noise complaint email was rough." You hesitated, then added with a tiny smirk, "To be fair, it wasn’t just your walking that night."

"You are relentless," he groaned.

Clark leaned over and brought one big hand up to cup over Viola’s nearest ear, like his palm could somehow censor his next suggestion.

"We could… keep you on top," he offered suddenly, desperate to contribute something useful, and immediately wished he could shove the words back into his mouth.

Your head snapped toward him, that slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. "Oh? Keep me on top, you say?"

Panic flared. Clark gently cupped his other hand over Viola’s other ear now that the damage was very much done.

"I just mean—less strain on the frame," he rushed out, voice pitched an octave higher. "Gravity. Leverage. Physics, darlin’."

"Mmhm. Physics," you hummed, clearly unconvinced. Your smile turned smug. "Honey, we could draw diagrams and run simulations, but it wouldn’t matter." You nudged his knee with yours. "No matter what position we end up in, you can’t hold your enthusiasm back for long."

He made a strangled sound and made sure his palms were still secure around his daughter’s head. Viola blinked up at him with her big blue eyes, delighted with her new little echo chamber, and squealed just to hear herself.

"You are impossible," he hissed, amusement laced in his voice.

"And you’re way too into me, Mr. Kent," you smirked, far too pleased with yourself.

He didn’t bother denying it. Couldn’t, really—not when your hair was falling out of its knot, his crewneck smudged with saliva, and your daughter with his smile and eyes and your nose and laugh was happily clapping in your lap. He just sighed fondly and turned the laptop fully toward you both.

"C’mon, let's stop this insanity. Step one: stop re-ordering the same disaster. Help me pick something that doesn’t break the second we look at each other funny."

You shifted your chair closer to his, closing the space between you. "And step two: accept that this is the funniest problem we could possibly have."

Your knee bumped his knee again with a grin. Viola had migrated back to Clark’s lap, a warm, squirmy bundle propped on his lap. She reached out and smacked her hand against the bottom of the screen, leaving a tiny smear of drool on the bezel.

Clark pulled up the familiar furniture site, fingers moving quickly across the keys. "We should at least see what else is out there," he drawled. "Something with better slats. Higher load rating. Maybe center support legs?"

You tipped your head. "Did you just say ‘load rating’?"

He glanced at you. "If we’re going to have a dedicated budget line for this, I’d like to know what we’re paying for."

He clicked into a promising listing. His eyes went straight to the specs—weight capacity, material type, slat spacing. He did the math automatically, converting it to the kind of impact he knew the frame would get from the two of you. It was weirdly satisfying, applying Fortress-level problem solving to bedroom furniture.

You, naturally, went straight for the photos.

"Ooh," you said, pointing. "Look at that headboard. Simple, clean lines. And it probably won’t squeak every time you breathe."

He squinted at the image. "Solid panel. Fewer joints to loosen. Could help."

"Mm," you said thoughtfully. "I kind of like the squeak, though."

He blinked. "You… like it?"

You shrugged, blushing. "It’s like our own little soundtrack. Lets me know you’re having a good time."

Heat climbed up his neck, too. "I think there's other ways I communicate that," he muttered.

"Sure," you waved a hand, far too innocently. "But the bed shrieking like it’s tattling on us is fun too."

He shot you a look. "You complain about it every time."

"I complain about the landlord hearing it," you corrected. "Different issue."

He shook his head, fighting a smile, and scrolled to another option. This one had metal legs and a solid center beam. "This one’s rated up to eight hundred pounds," he pursed his lips, crossing his arms highly considering. "Steel frame, reinforced joints."

"That's hot."

He snorted. "You think everything is hot if it survives us."

"That’s not true," you protested, mock-offended. "I also think it’s hot when you do taxes without crying."

He couldn’t argue with that, either.

He clicked to another listing. "Okay. Weight capacity: six hundred pounds," he recited. "That seems—"

You squinted. "Okay, but do they mean static weight? Or ‘withstands two overworked parents trying to make the most of an eighteen-minute nap window’ weight?"

"Good question, sweetheart," he said, rubbing his chin. "Let’s check the reviews."

He opened the comments. One of the top ones read: Very sturdy—survived my three kids jumping on it. Highly recommend.

You and Clark exchanged a long, unimpressed look over Viola’s head.

"Darn, our problem is not children, sir," you snapped your fingers.

"No, it is not," Clark agreed.

You let your head tip briefly against his shoulder, careful not to squish Viola, who had now decided his forearm was a climbing wall. Clark adjusted automatically, arm curving around both of you. Laptop, baby, spouse—his whole life in a three-foot radius.

"We’ll figure it out," you said, voice softer. "Heavier frame, better slats, maybe actually using the warranty this time instead of just panic-reordering."

"And fewer repeat purchases," he added. "For the sake of our bank account and our reputation with delivery guys."

"And if all else fails," you said, straightening just enough to look at him, "we pivot to hammocks."

He stared at you. "Absolutely not."

"Kidding," you added. "Mostly."

He shook his head, but the smile was already creeping back. He turned his head and brushed a quick kiss against your temple, his lips lingering in your hairline.

"Pretty sure there’s not a weight capacity on this planet that accounts for how much I love you," he breathed. "But we’ll try."

Viola squealed like she’d heard the important part, kicking her heels against your stomach and slapping the table with her free hand.

You looked down at her, then up at him. "And there’s our stress tester," you said. "Built-in quality assurance."

Clark laughed under his breath, pulled the laptop a little closer, and kept scrolling—with one arm always anchored around the two people he was trying to make all of this work for.

He flipped to another tab, then paused, a thought catching him mid-scroll. "We should also… think long-term," he said slowly.

You glanced up from zooming in on yet another headboard. "How long-term are we talking?"

"I was thinking more… ‘Vi’s going to be a toddler before we know it’ long-term."

That got your attention. Your expression softened, lines around your eyes easing. "Yeah," you agreed quietly. "She is."

He could see it almost too clearly: a slightly bigger version of his daughter toddling into your room at three in the morning, dragging her favorite blanket, black hair sticking up in staticy tufts. Climbing or floating up the side of the bed with fierce determination, throwing herself between you, starfished across both your chests, kicking him in the ribs and drooling on your pillow. Something warm and steady settled under his sternum.

"She’s half-Kryptonian," he went on. "We need a frame that can handle nap pile-ups. And possible jumping. And the occasional… accidental launch."

You puffed out a tiny laugh. "No more test-launching our child, please."

"That was one time," he defended himself lightly.

"Luckily she floated long enough for us to catch her," you sighed at the memory.

His chest tightened, just a little. His mind flicked back to your pregnancy without his permission—how your body had started doing small, impossible things it wasn’t built for. Jumps that took you a little too high. Glasses that seemed lighter in your hand. The way you’d had to sit down halfway through a grocery run because your heart was pounding like you’d sprinted a mile.

"It wasn’t easy for you," he said quietly.

You seemed to follow his thought, because your hand came across the table on instinct, fingers brushing his wedding ring. "Hey, we got through it," you said earnestly. "And we got our Little Star out of it."

He squeezed your hand, thumb pressing into your knuckles.

He’d been terrified, even if he hadn’t always said it out loud—watching you carry a child made half of him and the yellow sun he’d spent his whole life under, when your cells had only known a weaker, filtered version of that power. There had been times you’d glowed with static, little sparks jumping off your skin when you’d kissed him, and he’d smiled and joked, but gone very still inside.

And even then, some stubborn, quiet part of him wished this wasn’t a one-time miracle for him. Couldn’t be. If he was brave enough to do anything twice, it would be this with you. Only if you wanted to.

He cleared his throat. "If we ever… decide to do that again," he swallowed, voice rough, "maybe we should have furniture that’s not going to give out on us at the slightest provocation."

You watched him already heading his thoughts. You rubbed his ring again. "When Vi’s a little older," you assured. "When we’re ready."

"Yeah," he grinning. "When we’re ready."

You smiled back, and just like that, the heavy edge of the memory eased. "In the meantime," you added, "I like the idea of a bed that can survive two very in-love idiots and a baby with a possible future jumping problem."

"Future siblings and nap pile-ups," he said, rolling the words around in his mouth. They sat in his mouth like something he very much wanted.

Viola gurgled on his lap and flapped a fist, smacking his chest. He looked down at her tiny, serious face and felt his heart flutter.

He was about to click on another listing when a different realization hit him as the internet connection cut out for just a second.

"Oh darn," he muttered with a tsk.

You raised your eyebrows. "What? What’s wrong?"

"I still have to call the internet company," he moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If the Wi-Fi cuts out one more time while I’m on a deadline, I’m going to end up throwing the router into the sun."

You perked up, which was not the reaction he’d expected. "Think of it this way," you hummed. "If the internet keeps going out, that’s less streaming, less entertainment, and more… bedframe testing. Like the old days when seeing a woman’s ankle was just too much to handle."

He barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, the sound sharp and surprised. The vibration of it ran straight through his chest into Viola’s small body. She jumped, then let out a delighted squeal. One tiny fist smacked the table for emphasis, teether dangling from her other hand, ready to launch again.

"See?" you cooed, smirking. "Boss Lady Vi agrees. For science."

Clark shook his head, still chuckling, one big palm smoothing over the back of your daughter’s romper until she settled back into happy wiggles. "…maybe we can live with occasional outages," he said finally.

You grinned. "Look at you, compromising."

You leaned over to the laptop, nudging his hand aside. "All right," you said. "If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. Forget what I said about keeping this label."

You clicked back to the spreadsheet, scrolled to the offending tab, and highlighted the cursed label. BED BUDGET blinked at you both. You thought for a second, then deleted the words, and typed carefully:

STRUCTURAL INVESTMENTS. You added, in smaller letters in the next cell: (Earthquake Preparedness Division).

Clark grinned, leaning back in his chair. "That works."

You sat back, satisfied. "No more re-ordering the same doomed frame," you declared, summarizing your new plan. "If we’re spending money here, it’s intentional."

He nodded, feeling a lightness at the simple act of renaming. "Got it."

You flipped back to the browser, navigated to the order status page, and pulled up the scheduled delivery for the old model. "Okay," you said. "We cancel this one, pick the new one, and apologize to Eric for messing up his route."

Clark winced, imagining yet another conversation with the man who knew too much about his sleeping arrangements. "I’ll email. Less chance of me dying of embarrassment mid-sentence."

You laughed. "Cowardice accepted just this once."

Between the two of you, it didn’t take long. You canceled the duplicate order, clicked through reviews, weighed specs, and finally settled on a new frame—steel, center supports, quiet headboard, and a weight rating that made Clark feel mildly hopeful.

He double-checked the confirmation, made sure delivery was set, and closed the laptop with a decisive click.

"Okay," he gathered Viola’s hands in his, clapping them gently. "Kent Financial Wellness Check, Q2 as concluded. Meeting adjourned!"

You saluted him with your pen. "Successful meeting as always, baby. Looking forward to next quarter’s agenda. Preferably with a noticeable decrease in bedframe-related expenses."

Viola squealed like she was seconding the motion, smacking her palm against Clark’s chest.

The new bed frame arrived the next week.

Clark built it with the same focus he used on big rescues—careful, methodical, following every human instruction step, even the ones he could’ve skipped. He tightened each bolt just enough, resisting the instinct to overdo it. Viola supervised from her play mat, rolling onto her side and squealing every time a piece of metal clinked against another.

By the time you both dropped the mattress on, it felt… solid. Not indestructible—not in his world—but solid enough he didn’t immediately picture the floor giving out.

That night, after the full bedtime gauntlet—bath, bottle, and babbling—Viola finally sighed herself to sleep, fists tucked to the sides of her face. You and Clark lingered at the crib, shoulder to shoulder, watching her chest rise and fall.

"Little Star’s asleep," you whispered.

"For now," he whispered back, lacing his fingers through yours as you slipped out and eased the door mostly shut.

Back in your bedroom, the new bed sat there like a challenge. You and Clark stopped at the threshold. For a second, you just looked at it.

"Feels weird," you said. "Approaching a piece of furniture like it’s a wild animal."

"It has a documented history of turning on us," he mumbled. "Caution is warranted."

You stepped closer, fingers skimming the new headboard. "Looks good, though. Very… structurally invested."

He snorted. "Strictly for boring, practical purposes," he agreed, wagging a brow. "No ulterior motives at all."

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes bright. "We should probably test it," you suggested, your voice pitched high and teasing. "For science."

"For improvements to the Financial Wellness Check," he countered.

"For earthquake preparedness," you added.

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "I love you."

"I love you," you smiled, tugging at your mouth as you crook your index finger in a slow, unmistakable come-here.

He closed the space between you in two easy steps, like there was nowhere else he’d ever been headed.

The night blurred—laughter against his mouth when your knee bumped the frame and it didn’t wobble, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, his hands mapping familiar curves beneath your waistband. Nothing frantic, but there was a pulse of urgency under everything—weeks of half-finished kisses and falling asleep mid-sentence finally cashing out.

The bed creaked, sure, but differently now—lower, steady, like it was complaining out of habit, not actually failing. You moved together, braced and careful at first, then now– forgetting to be cautious, trusting the bolts, the beams, and the simple fact that if something did give out, you’d still land tangled up in each other.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Clark registered every creak, every protesting strain of metal. But mostly he registered you—the way your eyes went heavy and hungry, the way your breathy laugh punched straight through his chest, the way you gasped "Clark" over and over again, and made every other sound—bed, building, city— drop dead.

Viola’s wail came through the baby monitor like a starter pistol the next morning.

Clark surfaced fast—his baby crying, yellow sun sneaking through the curtains, your leg tangled with his, your breath warm against his chest. And under all of it: the new bed. Solid. Level. No sag, no tilt.

He grinned before he even opened his eyes.

You groaned into his neck. "Tell me that’s not my alarm."

"It’s worse," he mumbled. "It’s our boss."

"Fired," you muttered. "She’s fired."

Your hand slid over his stomach as you pushed yourself up. He felt the little catch in your breath and was awake, fully, in an instant.

"You okay?" he asked, propping himself on an elbow as he studied your face.

You shot him a sleepy, exasperated look. "My boobs are killing me," you breathed through the ache. "Vi’s late for breakfast."

He winced in sympathy. "Right. Okay. We should…" He glanced at the headboard, then back at you, smugness creeping in. "For the record, frame’s intact."

You squinted at him. "Don’t gloat."

"A little gloating," he shrugged, running a hand through his riot of curls. "Scientifically justified."

You sighed, but your mouth curved as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, hunting for your pajama shorts you’d discarded last night. He reached out and snagged his own sweats from the floor, pulling them on.

As you tugged one of his T-shirts over your head, you mumbled, "I’ll put it in my notes… passed one stress test. But all good experiments need more than one trial."

He laughed, warmth flooding his chest. Crossing the room, he caught you by the back of the neck, leaned down, and stole a quick, deep kiss.

"With what we’ve got going on," he mumbled against your mouth, "I think we’re always going to break a few things along the way. As long as it’s just furniture, I can live with that."

You smiled into another kiss, then broke away, already heading for the door. "Come on, Kent," you tossed over your shoulder. "Our tiny traitor awaits."

You padded down the short hallway together, still half-warm from sleep, the monitor’s crackle guiding. Clark eased the nursery door open with his shoulder, and the wail spilling out dulled to a softer, hiccuping cry.

Viola was in her crib, face scrunched, fists clutching the air. The moment you both leaned over her—your hand smoothing her blanket, Clark’s shadow falling across the rails—her cry stuttered into a confused little gurgle. Her blue eyes blinked open wider, taking you both in, and her mouth wobbled into something that wasn’t quite a smile yet, but close enough to make Clark’s heart squeeze.

"There she is," you cooed, scooping her up. "My demanding little supervisor."

"Good morning, Miss Vi," Clark brushed a kiss over her sleep-tussled curls. "Just so you know, the structural investments performed admirably."

She let out a loud "Buh!" and latched onto your shirt.

The rest of the morning unfolded in the familiar rush.

You in the kitchen in your scrub pants and his old hoodie, making coffee one-handed while balancing Viola on your hip. Clark measuring grounds and pouring water, bumping your shoulder every time he passed. You stealing his mug for a sip, him stealing it back for a kiss, and getting baby fingers in his hair for his trouble.

You grabbed your bag, checked your badge, shoved our feet into sneakers. Clark stood at the door with you, his laptop already open with his assigned article draft, baby toys scattered nearby, ready for his "work from home" shift that meant drafting articles with one eye and playing peekaboo with the other.

"Internet company," you reminded him with a sing-song voice, jabbing a finger toward his phone on the counter.

He groaned. "Right. The jazz."

"Think of the outages," you teased. "More field tests."

He paused, then exhaled. "Fine. I’ll call. After I feed our tiny tyrant and get two paragraphs done."

You tipped your head up and he bent to meet you half-way, kissing your cheek, then your lips. "You’re a good man, Clark Kent. I love you."

He returned the endearments and watched you go off to work after stealing one more kiss.

Viola’s laughter chimed from the doorway as you did a goofy little wave just for her. The promise of another "stress test" some night soon tucked itself into the corner of his smile.

The bedframe might or might not survive the year, but hopefully the quarter. The Wi-Fi might cut out. The budget would need revisiting, again and again, probably.

But as he shifted Viola on his hip and reached for his phone to be put on hold by the internet company with unfavorable jazz, Clark felt very certain about one thing:

Some structures were worth reinforcing. And some—like this messy, ridiculous, joyous life with you and Viola, his Polaris and Canopus—were already stronger than anything he could build.

🏷️ Tags: @sphynxx @untilmynextstory @his-orsacchiotta @animegamerfox @dreaming-starlet

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