House of El: Reforged

Kent Farm – Living Room

Mid-Morning Nine Months Later

It was too quiet.

Which, in a house containing three twenty-one-month-old toddlers — one of whom could levitate, one of whom could hex the thermostat, and one of whom had recently tried to potty train the cat — meant that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Martha Kent froze halfway between folding laundry and chasing a rogue sock that had taken flight (again — she suspected Hadrian, but Zatanna had been suspiciously humming "Defying Gravity" all morning). She blinked up at the ceiling.

There was peanut butter on it.

She stared at the sticky smear above the doorway, sighed through her nose, and muttered, "Of course there is."

Across the room, Zatanna was spinning in wide, dramatic circles like a baby ballerina casting forbidden spells. Her pigtails flew in perfect chaos. She clutched a sandwich in one hand, and her free arm was stretched dramatically to the heavens.

"Nomel yletelpmoc! Nomel yletelpmoc!" she chanted, like a tiny cult leader in a sparkly tutu.

Hadrian, shirtless and wild-eyed, stood atop the coffee table with one sock, a red cape, and a thick streak of glitter running down his chest. He struck a pose, hands on hips.

"I am Gandalf the Beige," he announced, "and I shall not nap!"

Neville was missing. A rustling sound from the toy bin suggested he'd either declared himself King of the Block Castle or was napping inside a plastic cauldron again. Martha made a mental note to check for both.

She grabbed the broom, considered using it on the peanut butter, then reconsidered. Maybe it could be an art piece. She could call it Childhood, as Experienced Through Despair.

Before she could utter a single sigh, the front door creaked open.

"Ma?" came Clark's voice, soft and rich and slightly hoarse. "We're home."

Martha turned, already smiling.

Clark Kent stood in the doorway like a god carved from cornfields and Sunday mornings. He held a pink bundle in his arms with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts or birthday cakes made by six-year-olds.

His face — strong, stubbled, and utterly smitten — was lit from within.

Lilly stood beside him, looking like she'd just survived the miracle and the battlefield of childbirth with nothing but dry shampoo and raw sarcasm.

She wore Clark's flannel button-down like a trophy, her red hair piled in a chaotic bun. A takeout coffee cup was clutched in one hand, her eyes bright and exhausted.

"Everyone freeze," she said. "We're holding a newborn and I haven't slept in two days. Any sudden movement and I will cry and possibly throw something magical."

Hadrian popped up from behind the couch like a prairie dog.

"Even the hedgehog secret?" he asked, horrified.

Zatanna gasped. "You promised, Hadrian!"

Clark chuckled low in his throat, eyes flicking to Martha.

"We'd like you to meet someone," he said. "Ma… this is Roslyn Martha Kent."

Martha's breath caught. Her hand went to her chest.

"Roslyn," she whispered. "You gave her my name?"

"She earned it in the womb," Lilly said, stepping forward and peering down at the bundle. "You try growing a half-Kryptonian demigoddess with a left hook that almost cracked my rib during an ultrasound."

Martha stepped closer, slowly, reverently.

Clark shifted the tiny bundle toward her, gently passing over his daughter like she was the last miracle left in the world.

"And," Lilly added with a little smirk, "I vetoed Supergirl Prime: The Reckoning. You're welcome."

"She's so small," Martha murmured, brushing her fingers across Ros's cheek. "And look at that hair! She's got the Kents' cowlick already."

"And the El family jaw," Clark added.

"And a death glare that suggests she might one day rule a planet," Lilly said, flopping down onto the couch like she'd just won a war. "God, I missed sitting. Is this what air feels like?"

Zatanna crept forward, eyes wide with wonder. "She looks like a cinnamon bun."

"Is she magic?" Neville asked, now half-asleep in the toy bin and blinking slowly like a bear waking up from hibernation.

"She's family," Clark said simply.

Hadrian crawled onto the couch beside Martha, leaning over with wide, reverent eyes.

"Can I hold her?" he whispered. "I swear on my plush phoenix I won't drop her. And I only flushed one sock this week."

Martha chuckled, heart full to bursting.

"Alright," she said. "Sit still. No flying. And no poking."

Hadrian nodded solemnly. "Scout's honor."

"You've never been in scouts," Zatanna muttered.

"I could be," he replied, indignant. "I'm very outdoorsy. I eat dirt daily."

Lilly groaned into her coffee cup. "Sweet Rao, he's going to teach her how to eat gravel."

"Don't worry," Clark said, settling beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Ros will have three older siblings to keep her safe."

Lilly leaned against him with a sigh, already drifting into a half-doze.

"Correction," she murmured. "Ros will have three magical chaos goblins with a collective attention span of a goldfish on espresso."

"You're not wrong," Martha said dryly, cradling the baby close. "But somehow, it works."

Outside, the golden Kansas sun bathed the wheat fields in honey. Inside, laughter and baby coos filled the warm, farmhouse air.

Hadrian leaned close to Roslyn and whispered something only the two of them heard. Zatanna leaned on Martha's leg and began humming again. Neville padded over sleepily, Hippogriff in hand.

Clark rested his chin on Lilly's head, eyes full of peace.

And upstairs, the peanut butter remained stuck to the ceiling — a quiet, sticky monument to life, love, and the daily miracle of raising extraordinary children in a very ordinary home.

—

The house was mercifully quiet. The kind of quiet that tricked you into thinking you could catch your breath, only to remind you that motherhood had other plans.

Lilly shuffled down the hallway, the soft thud of her socked feet barely registering on the old hardwood. Her flannel robe, too big and perpetually disheveled, swung open as she cradled a lukewarm coffee mug like a lifeline. The shirt beneath read "I Survived Another Tuesday," which was ambitious considering it was more like 2 AM on a Wednesday now.

Her body protested with aches in places she didn't know could ache, but that was the price for carrying, birthing, and now, somehow, running a small war zone disguised as a family.

She reached the nursery door and paused.

Voices.

Small, hushed voices.

Lilly cocked her head, narrowing her eyes like a hawk hunting for squirrels.

"Hadrian?"

She pressed an ear against the door, heart tightening.

"She looks like Mum," came the low voice, that unmistakable blend of childlike wonder and something way too old for a little boy.

"Not this Mum. The first one. From before," Hadrian said.

Neville's sleepy murmur followed: "Yeah. You think she'll remember us too? One day?"

Lilly bit back a breath, her fingers curling into fists.

"No," Hadrian whispered. "Not like we remember. But maybe... maybe part of her will. The part that knows stories. The part that still likes treacle tart and hates potions essays."

Neville snorted softly. "And the part that thinks exploding snap is an extreme sport."

Lilly's chest ached in a way only a mother could understand — that sharp tug of hope and terror, hope that maybe the pieces could fit this time, terror that the cracks were still there.

She stepped back silently, just as a soft thud sounded from inside.

"She's lucky," Neville continued, voice muffled but earnest. "She gets to grow up with both of them. With us. Not like last time."

Hadrian's voice cracked the silence, full of haunted memory.

"I still dream about the cupboard. Sometimes."

A heavy weight settled in Lilly's gut.

"She still doesn't know, does she?"

"I don't think so. She's smart, though. She's... her. But maybe she doesn't want it to be true. I don't blame her."

Lilly swallowed hard.

"Do you think we're supposed to protect her?" Neville asked.

"Like we couldn't protect everyone else?"

Hadrian's answer was soft, almost prayer-like.

"This time, we're not alone. We've got Dad. We've got her. Maybe this time, we get to be kids. At least a little."

The weight of those words hit Lilly like a punch to the ribs.

She pressed her palm against the door, trembling.

Then, the unexpected.

A quiet cough behind her.

She turned.

Clark.

His silhouette was calm, the quiet hero she'd come to know — strong, steady, but full of silent heartbreak. His eyes, always the clearest window to his soul, softened when he saw her.

"You heard," she whispered, voice cracking.

He nodded, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her. The world righted itself in that instant.

"I thought I was past this," she said, tears spilling over. "I thought maybe Frank and Alice had them. That Sirius and Remus... that they got to live. To laugh. To grow old."

Clark's voice was a low rumble, steady as the earth beneath them. "We're not going to let it happen again. Not this time."

Lilly leaned into him, her tears soaking into his shirt. "I'd do anything to rewrite their story. But I can't. All I can do is be here now. For them. For Ros."

Clark kissed the top of her head, voice filled with quiet resolve. "And that's enough. We'll give them what they never had: a childhood. A family. A future."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes red but fierce. "And peanut butter," she added with a watery laugh, "preferably not on the ceiling this time."

Clark smiled, the kind that could light up the darkest nights. "Deal."

Together, they moved to the nursery door.

Inside, two little boys — Hadrian and Neville — were curled up on beanbags, watching over Roslyn like tiny guardians. Ros let out a small gurgle, her fingers twitching in sleep.

Lilly's fingers trailed through Hadrian's curls as she whispered, "You're home now, boys. This time, we get it right."

Clark flicked off the light, leaving only the soft glow of the nightlight.

Outside, the stars held their vigil.

And inside, the Kent family dreamed — of hope, of healing, and second chances.

—

Clark stepped down the stairs with the practiced caution of a man who had survived everything from Kryptonian invasions to toddler tornadoes. His boots barely made a sound on the hardwood, but then—pop! A marshmallow-y explosion echoed from the living room.

He froze mid-step.

The sofa lay upside down like a giant turtle flipped on its back, cotton stuffing spilling from every seam. Fluffy white marshmallow bits clung to the curtains and carpet like some sticky, sugary blizzard had just passed through. And smack dab in the middle of the chaos was Zatanna, her tiny frame almost completely covered in marshmallows and glitter, looking like a toddler who had lost a very glittery fight.

Clark's brow furrowed. "Zatanna, how—"

Before he could finish, a high-pitched giggle filled the room. Hadrian was midair, clinging to a curtain rod as if it was his personal zip line, his chubby little legs kicking wildly. "Look! I'm flying! Super-Hadrian to the rescue!"

Clark gave a resigned sigh. "Hadrian, please don't—"

Zatanna interrupted, marshmallow-coated finger pointed like she was about to deliver the performance of her life. "Neville did it! It was all Neville! He's the marshmallow monster!"

Neville, clutching a crayon that glowed suspiciously red, scowled fiercely back at her. "Did not!" His voice cracked in defiance, but there was a tremor of uncertainty. "I was just... testing... the crayon's energy output. For science!"

Clark blinked. "Science?"

Before Clark could respond, a sharp voice came flying in from the kitchen. "If it's Hadrian again, tell him he is not allowed to fly unless he finishes his applesauce and conjugates three Latin verbs!" Lilly's tone was razor-edged but affectionate, the perfect mix of exasperation and motherly command.

Clark glanced toward the kitchen entrance, spotting Lilly leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, her red hair a vibrant halo. "Lilly," Clark said, a half-smile playing on his lips, "you might want to add 'stop destroying the living room' to that list."

Lilly shot him a mock glare, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you should add 'supervise your son' to your superhero résumé, Clark."

Clark chuckled, stepping fully into the living room just as Hadrian zoomed past him like a furry missile and slammed headfirst into the curtains, sending more fluff fluttering to the ground.

"Oof!" Hadrian grunted, sitting up and looking adorably stunned.

Martha appeared behind Clark, her presence calm but firm, embodying the gentle strength Clark had always admired. "Hadrian," she said softly, smoothing a stray marshmallow off his cheek, "I know flying feels like the most fun thing ever, but maybe not inside the house?"

Hadrian's face scrunched. "But I'm Super-Hadrian!"

Martha smiled. "You are super, but superkids clean up their messes too."

Zatanna clapped her marshmallowy hands, glitter sparkling in the light. "And Neville is the marshmallow monster! He's been stealing my magic!"

Neville, now sitting on the floor with his glowing crayon, gave a theatrical gasp. "I only borrowed it! For research!"

Clark crouched down, eyes kind but serious. "Research is good, Neville. But next time, let's ask before we redecorate the living room with marshmallows, okay?"

Neville nodded, though his face was still suspiciously crayon-streaked.

Lilly folded her arms tighter, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I'll add that to the contract I'm drawing up: no marshmallow redecorating without explicit parental consent."

Clark shook his head, laughter bubbling up despite the chaos. "Welcome to the Kent household."

—

The sun spilled golden across the Kent farmyard, birds serenading the morning with chirps and whistles that could've been mistaken for a symphony — if only the chickens weren't about to crash the concert in an extremely unusual way.

Zatanna, decked out in a frilly tutu that swirled every time she twirled, stood in front of the chicken coop with a serious expression—and a wand that looked suspiciously like a purple chopstick she'd "enchanted" during breakfast. Her socks did not match. One was striped neon green, the other bright orange, and she wore them with the confidence only a four-year-old could muster.

"Revivo Pollo Maximus!" she shouted, arms flung wide like a tiny conductor summoning a magical storm.

Neville, standing beside her with a sticky handprint on his face and his usual skeptical frown, blinked. "Zatanna, you're trying to resurrect the chickens?"

Zatanna's grin stretched ear to ear. "Try? I am doing it, silly."

From inside the coop came a clucking chorus — but it wasn't just any clucking. The chickens glowed faintly, a ghostly shimmer outlining their feathers, and their clucks sounded suspiciously like Gregorian chants. Somewhere between eerie and adorable, the farm's usual calm had shifted into a supernatural poultry concert.

Clark arrived quietly, hands on his hips, taking in the spectacle with that practiced Superman calm. "Why exactly are there glowing zombie chickens performing what sounds like a medieval choir?"

Before Zatanna could answer, Lilly appeared behind him, phone in one hand and a resigned smile tugging at her lips. Her red hair was perfectly tousled, her tone cool but laced with dry humor.

"Cancel dinner reservations for the next week," she said into the phone, voice calm as a monk sipping chamomile. "The Kents have... ghost chickens now."

Clark gave her a sideways glance. "You're surprisingly composed about this."

Lilly smirked. "Years of parenting taught me that some days, you just don't fight the glowing chicken apocalypse. You cancel plans and get the fire extinguisher ready."

Martha came out of the house, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her voice warm but firm. "Zatanna, sweetie, chickens are wonderful, but they're not meant to glow. Or sing Gregorian chant. Or, well, do whatever this is."

Zatanna's eyes sparkled. "But they're magical! Like us!"

Martha smiled softly. "Magic's wonderful, but sometimes it needs a little... grounding."

Neville crossed his arms, still watching the glowing chickens with a mix of awe and mild concern. "I'm going to need a very detailed explanation when this is over."

Clark crouched down to Zatanna's level. "Okay, little sorceress, what happens if we try a different spell? One that doesn't involve summoning a poultry choir?"

Zatanna considered, then waved her chopstick wand decisively. "Okay. Next time: Silentium Cluckus."

Clark sighed, a small smile breaking through his Superman calm. "Maybe next time, we'll start with just a 'please don't glow' spell."

Lilly shook her head, muttering to herself, "Four years old, and already commanding undead chicken armies. This family's never boring."

—

Clark hovered just above the golden wheat fields, arms folded like a seasoned coach watching his rookies fumble their first plays. The late afternoon sun caught the sharp angles of his cape and the faint glint in his eyes—a mixture of patience and "Oh boy, here we go."

"Hadrian!" Clark called out, voice calm but firm. "What did I say about flapping your arms? You're not a bird."

Hadrian, suspended midair about two feet off the ground, flapped his arms enthusiastically, cheeks flushed with determination. "I'm accelerating my lift arc, Dad! Mom said centripetal force is key to mastering flight!"

Clark blinked, confusion flickering. "Mom said what now?"

Neville was nearby, floating in a slow, lazy spin like a weather balloon caught in a gentle breeze, his face slightly pale. "Dizzy," he admitted in a small voice, wobbling as the world turned too fast.

Clark glanced at Neville with a faint smile of sympathy. "Maybe take a break from the spin cycle, little buddy."

From behind them came a tiny, determined toddle—Ros in a fuzzy green dragon onesie, one footed in magical mischief, clutching a glitter-encrusted spellbook upside down.

"Expelli-whoopsie!" she chirped, waving the book wildly.

Suddenly, Clark's iconic cape shimmered, then transformed with a ridiculous fluff into a flamingo boa, complete with pink feathers and a comically curved neck.

Clark's eyes went wide, and he bellowed, "LILLY!"

Lilly appeared at the edge of the field, crimson hair wild but eyes sharp as ever, arms crossed in classic no-nonsense mode. "Tell Hadrian he's banned from the sky and the sofa. Also, no more glitter anywhere near the spellbooks. Especially from Ros."

Clark sighed deeply, the weight of being Superman—and dad—clearly settling on him. "Noted, Lilly. But remind me again why the kid thinks he's building an actual flying machine with his arms?"

Lilly smirked. "Because he's six, Clark. Six-year-olds think everything's possible. And they're usually right. Eventually."

Martha stepped out from the farmhouse porch, wiping her hands on a towel, her voice calm but firm, carrying the steady warmth Clark always relied on. "Hadrian, honey, flying is amazing—but maybe use your hands for steering, not flapping. Like a real superhero."

Hadrian grinned, landing gently beside Clark, and puffed out his chest. "Okay, Captain Mom and Dad. I'll work on the steering. But I still think centripetal force is magic."

Clark chuckled, ruffling Hadrian's hair. "Magic and physics. You've got the best of both worlds."

Ros toddled up, clutching the spellbook to her chest like a precious treasure, then grinned up at Clark. "Flamingo cape funny!"

Clark laughed—a rare, warm sound—and shook his head. "Yeah, kiddo, pretty funny."

Lilly called out from the kitchen window, "Dinner in twenty. And if you kids don't quit flying or spinning, I swear, you're eating glitter soup."

Clark exchanged a tired, affectionate glance with Martha. "Welcome to the Kent family's afterschool aerobatics."

—

Lilly found Hadrian perched on the barn roof for the third time that week, legs dangling like he owned the place, eyes faintly glowing with that unmistakable spark of trouble.

"I'm not coming down," Hadrian announced, voice smug. "I sneezed a hole through the porch swing."

Lilly didn't even blink. "And that's your official grounding."

Hadrian's grin widened. "I'm also hovering."

Lilly folded her arms, a slow, amused smile curling the corner of her mouth. "Then you're hover-grounded. Now get down before your dad comes home and delivers another 'lecture about responsibility' that puts the whole Justice League to sleep. Oh, and help Ros with her rune homework. She's been trying to explain to me why those symbols look like ancient angry faces."

From the edge of the yard, Zatanna floated up, her pigtails glowing softly, eyes glittering with curiosity. "Think I could enchant my vision to go X-ray like yours?"

Hadrian snorted. "You just want to cheat on your test."

Zatanna gave him a sly wink. "Obviously."

Lilly brushed a strand of her fiery red hair behind her ear, voice low and dry. "If you two start X-raying the dishes or the mailman, I swear I'll turn your textbooks into heavy, very boring paperweights."

Just then, Clark appeared in the doorway, already slipping into mild "dad mode," that perfect blend of calm authority and gentle firmness. "Responsibility means doing your homework, keeping the house in one piece, and not sneezing destructive holes through the furniture."

Hadrian groaned dramatically but folded his wings and flew down to the porch, landing beside Ros, who was sitting cross-legged with her rune book open and a very serious look on her face.

Martha followed close behind Clark, her voice warm but steady. "And remember, kids, magic is powerful. It's not a substitute for common sense — or a way to avoid chores."

Hadrian gave a sheepish smile. "Got it, Mom. No more 'porch swing explosions.'"

Ros looked up, beaming. "I'm gonna make my runes glow tomorrow!"

Zatanna floated beside her. "And maybe enchant a snack while you're at it."

Lilly shook her head, lips twitching. "Snack enchantments are not part of the homework."

Clark chuckled. "Maybe next time."

—

Age 10: Neville's First Heat Vision Accident

There was a new dent in the kitchen ceiling. Clark stared at it as if it might explain the meaning of life.

"Do I even want to know?" he asked Lilly, who was sipping coffee with the unbothered air of a woman who had seen worse.

"Neville sneezed. The lasagna exploded. So now we're having cereal."

Neville peered out from under the table. "I'm cursed. My eyeballs are weapons."

Clark crouched down, ruffling Neville's hair. "Buddy, it's okay. I once welded a school bus to a telephone pole by accident."

Lilly grinned from her seat. "And then your father said it was 'modern sculpture.'"

Clark muttered, "You liked that sculpture."

Lilly leaned in, smile warm but teasing. "I liked you, you idiot."

—

It had, once again, escalated quickly.

The tree—an old birch near the driveway—was no more. What remained was a smoldering crater with several flaming leaves drifting through the air like confetti at a divorce party.

"Okay," Lilly said slowly, arms folded, sunglasses pushed up on her head, "so just so I'm clear, was the tree asking for it, or...?"

Zatanna stood ten feet away, hands slightly smoking, mascara slightly smudged, and shoulders hunched in teenage gloom. "It was symbolic, okay?" she muttered. "I was channeling the heartbreak hex. Emotionally."

"Emotionally?" Clark repeated, stepping up beside Lilly, brow furrowed. "You emotionally blew up a forty-year-old tree?"

Zatanna sniffled, cheeks pink with both shame and hormonal fury. "Lorenzo ghosted me. We were writing poetry in Latin, Uncle Clark."

Clark blinked. "Lorenzo from...?"

"Italy. He was my pen pal. He stopped responding three days ago. I'm assuming betrayal, magical sabotage, or he died tragically climbing Mount Etna to prove his love."

Lilly sighed, brushing a strand of red hair from her forehead. "Or, wild guess, his parents took his phone and he got grounded for texting you love poems during dinner."

At that moment, time hiccupped.

Birds froze mid-flight. A squirrel paused halfway up the fence post, blinking in place. Lilly's ponytail stopped moving in the breeze.

Then everything snapped back into motion—and everyone, including Martha, who was halfway out the front door, began speaking in bad French accents.

"Mon dieu!" Neville exclaimed, draping himself over the porch railing like a heartbroken 19th-century poet. "Ze pain of ze heart... she is eternal."

Clark blinked, trying to keep a straight face as he looked down at his now-mustachioed reflection in the window. "Pourquoi are we speaking like we just escaped from a baguette commercial?"

Hadrian hovered three inches above the porch, arms wide and smug. "I froze time for four minutes and added dramatic flair. Tragic heartbreak deserves tragic accents."

"Sacré bleu," Martha muttered from behind him, "you kids are going to drive me to lavender tea and early retirement."

Neville, still dramatically splayed, held up a tattered notebook. "I wrote a poem about Zatanna's heartbreak. The garage door cried. I think it's leaking paint."

"Or crying oil," Lilly deadpanned. "Great. That's the third door this month we've traumatized."

From somewhere down the hallway, a voice echoed flatly: "I'm in a pocket dimension until the hormones stop attacking the furniture."

Clark turned toward the sound. "Ros?"

"In here," came the deadpan reply. A tiny glowing tear in the air shimmered near the pantry. "I packed snacks. And a taser."

Lilly threw her hands up. "Of course she did."

Clark gave her a sideways glance, half-smile tugging at his lips. "Should we be worried she has a taser?"

"She built it from your old cape and toaster parts," Lilly replied. "Worrying about it feels redundant at this point."

Clark exhaled and looked back toward the smoking crater. "Well... at least they're ours."

Lilly smiled thinly, already pulling out her phone. "Yeah. I'm going to call the insurance company again. They've started answering with 'Hello, Mrs. Kent, which object this time?'"

From the upper floor window, Zatanna sighed dramatically, cradling a mug of hot cocoa.

"Lorenzo would've understood."

—

The backyard shimmered slightly, like reality couldn't decide if it was entirely solid.

Hadrian stood—well, jittered—in the middle of the lawn. Vibrating. His shoes were no longer visible. Neither were his eyebrows.

"Breathe, Hadrian," Clark said calmly, though his biceps were folded like he was holding back the urge to just fly the kid straight to the moon until he cooled off.

"I am breathing," Hadrian snapped, voice higher than usual and overlapping itself in three separate time registers. "Also, I'm vibrating fast enough to break glass and hear thoughts in Canada! Canada, Dad! Someone up there is really concerned about their moose."

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "That's not breathing, that's sensory overload. You're stretched across at least two timelines and a half-conscious weather system."

"Can I anchor myself to snacks?" Hadrian asked, eyes sparking with something that might have been hunger or molecular instability. "Snacks are grounding. I read that on a blog. Or... dreamed it. Not sure."

Neville floated by upside-down, arms crossed behind his head, looking like a bored philosopher who'd taken one too many advanced potions. "We were doing lava obstacle courses last week. Now he wants snacks? Priorities, man. You need a chart."

Hadrian glared, vibrating slightly faster. "I'm growing! Also, I may have disintegrated my backpack again. The atoms are... somewhere."

Clark closed his eyes for a beat and muttered, "I really liked that backpack."

Lilly, standing on the porch with one hand on her hip and the other holding a half-drunk mug of iced coffee, gave a tight smile that said she was exactly three sarcastic comments away from throwing the entire magical parenting playbook into the fireplace.

"And again," she muttered under her breath, "I get to call the school and explain why our son currently exists on three overlapping energy frequencies. You'd think by now they'd just give us our own extension line."

"Four," Ros called sweetly from under the porch swing, where she was sketching a magical containment circle in neon pink chalk. "He's brushing against the astral plane. And two parallel dreamscapes. Also, I can hear the thoughts from Canada too. They're mostly about waffles."

Zatanna poked her head out of the attic window, her hair slightly smoking and eyes gleaming with theatrical glee. "I told you the quantum transformation spell was unstable! But noooo, Hadrian's the oldest, so he gets to touch all the shiny, twitchy sigils like he knows everything."

Lilly didn't even flinch. "Do not make me teleport you into a pile of kale, Zatanna."

Zatanna's eyes widened. "You wouldn't."

Lilly took a slow, ominous sip of her coffee. "Try me."

From inside the kitchen, Martha's voice carried out like warm thunder wrapped in iron will. "If you're teleporting anyone, make sure they put on a clean shirt first. Dinner is in twenty, and I'm not serving mashed potatoes to a swarm of flickering light particles again!"

Neville flipped upright with a lazy spin. "That only happened once."

"You phased through the green beans, honey," Martha called back. "They screamed."

Clark placed a hand gently—but firmly—on Hadrian's shoulder, causing a small temporal pop and a sudden breeze that smelled suspiciously like cinnamon and static electricity.

"Hadrian," he said in that Dad Voice that could calm armies. "Breathe. Focus. Ground."

Hadrian blinked rapidly. "Okay, okay... um. Anchoring. I'm thinking about snacks. Specifically, Mom's banana muffins. Warm. With chocolate chips. Slightly underbaked in the middle."

Lilly softened slightly. "You're my favorite child again. Temporarily."

Zatanna muttered, "I knew it was the muffins."

Hadrian's vibration slowed. His feet touched the ground. Only one eyebrow reappeared.

Clark smiled faintly. "There we go. Good job, son."

Hadrian nodded, still buzzing faintly. "I'm stable. Mostly. Though I think I accidentally heard Ros's entire class schedule for next week."

From under the porch, Ros replied, "And I definitely heard yours. You have so many detentions coming, it's adorable."

Clark looked at Lilly with that familiar, bemused, slightly frazzled smile. "At least they're ours."

Lilly drained the rest of her coffee and gave a resigned shrug. "Chaos, hormones, and reality fractures—but yeah. They're very ours."

—

The kitchen smelled like pancakes, ozone, and unspoken mischief.

A stack of banana-choco-chip flapjacks hovered mid-air above the island, rotating slowly like breakfast planets orbiting a syrupy sun. The griddle sizzled contentedly below, though no one was actually touching it.

Above it all, literally, floated Hadrian — upside-down, hair defying gravity, flipping pancakes with a flick of his fingers and humming the Pokémon theme song with the sincerity of a boy who'd memorized every line before he could walk.

In one hand, he held a battered Kryptonian training manual. In the other, a spatula that had been enchanted (probably by Zatanna) to flip dramatically after every line of music.

"I wanna be... the very best," he sang, letting a pancake somersault through the air.

"You already blew up the toaster with your last verse," came Ros's dry voice from behind a glowing, rune-scribbled cereal bowl. "Please stop before the fridge achieves sentience."

Ros, now thirteen and dangerously composed for someone who once accidentally turned a chicken into a minor god, sat cross-legged at the kitchen table. Her wild curls were barely tamed by a glittery headband, and her enchanted locket—worn like armor—glowed in rhythm with her sarcasm.

She was reading Advanced Telepathy for Sarcastic Beginners, a wand tucked behind her ear like a pen, and had added an annotation in purple ink to every page that disagreed with her.

Neville walked in from the barn, arm in a bright blue glowing cast. "Hadrian broke my radius," he announced cheerfully. "We were sparring. I tried to use elemental feedback, and he phased. Through me. Literally."

Hadrian flipped another pancake with zero remorse. "I said sorry and gave you my last bottle of orange soda."

Neville lifted the cast. "It still glows, man."

"Think of it as a feature!" Hadrian grinned upside-down.

Zatanna, pacing near the pantry with her phone wedged between shoulder and ear, snapped, "No, I don't care if he 'didn't mean it'—you don't send fire emojis to girls from Kansas, Marco! We invented that trick!"

She flicked her fingers, and the Bluetooth speaker crackled ominously.

Lilly appeared just then, sweeping into the kitchen with a pen tucked behind her ear, her curls loose and wild, and her robe flapping like a battle flag. She took one look at the floating pancakes, the glowing arm cast, and Zatanna's Bluetooth-fueled wrath and said, "...So! Just a normal Thursday morning."

Clark leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, wearing that soft, amused expression he reserved for his family and freshly baked pies. "I see breakfast is going smoothly."

"You say 'smoothly,' I say 'we're one pancake away from re-opening a portal to the Marshmallow Realm,'" Lilly replied, eyeing the griddle like it owed her money. She leaned up to kiss his cheek and rested her head against his shoulder with a sigh. "Still, no one's on fire. We're doing great."

Clark chuckled, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. "They're growing up."

Lilly groaned. "Don't remind me. Zatanna hexed her dating app last week. Ros figured out how to redirect psychic attacks through sarcasm. And Hadrian's voice changed mid-sentence and broke three lightbulbs."

Clark glanced toward the ceiling, where Hadrian was now flipping pancakes and orbiting slightly. "Still sure you don't want a fifth?"

Lilly pulled back and looked at him like he'd suggested wrestling Doomsday in boxers. "Clark Joseph Kent, unless you're the one carrying it this time, I swear to every god, saint, and Kryptonian spirit—"

He burst into laughter, head tipping back. "Okay, okay! Just checking."

She softened, kissed his shoulder, and smiled despite herself. "Honestly, I think we've hit capacity. Any more and we'll destabilize the ley lines under the chicken coop."

Martha chose that moment to walk in, drying her hands with a dishtowel, eyebrows raised as she surveyed the kitchen like a battlefield medic. "Who blew up the jam again?"

"Not it," Ros, Zatanna, and Neville said in perfect unison.

Hadrian flipped another pancake. "Wasn't me either. This time."

Martha gave them a level look, then smiled faintly and reached for the coffee pot. "Lilly dear, kindly ward the pantry next week. And stop putting the dog in temporary stasis just because he gets loud when the butter goes missing."

From above the stove, the butter whined quietly from inside a floating orb.

Lilly slid her arm around Clark's waist and leaned into him as they watched their brood—the chaos, the bickering, the flying breakfast—and something in her expression softened.

"God help us, Clark. They're ridiculous."

He rested his chin on her hair, smiling as Zatanna's phone sparkled and Ros's cereal levitated. "Yeah. But they're ours."

Outside, beyond the window, the sky turned a lazy golden-pink. The stars were just beginning to peek out, distant watchers over a farmhouse that thrummed with power, laughter, and the quiet certainty that the children inside would someday rewrite the world.

And for now?

There were pancakes. And they were just slightly burnt.

---

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