The morning sun spilled over Smallville, wrapping the town in a golden glow, like a village gearing up for a mela. The streets hummed with early bustle—shopkeepers sweeping sidewalks, kids on bikes weaving through quiet lanes. Martha Kent's old car rumbled to a stop in front of Smallville High School, its faded red paint catching the light.
Clark Kent sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, his blue eyes fixed on the school's brick entrance with a scowl, he was lean but strong, his dark hair tousled, his jaw set with irritation. Eight years had passed since Jonathan's death.
Eight years of growing stronger, smarter, and more cunning.
But today, he faced his greatest challenge yet—high school.
To most, it was just school: classes, friends, a place to grow up. To Clark, it was a battlefield, a test he refused to fail.
In his old life, school was a nightmare. He'd been nobody—average grades, average looks, always fading into the background. Bullies had targeted him, their taunts and shoves carving a quiet anger into his soul. He'd hated how small they made him feel, how powerless.
This time was different. Clark wasn't that boy anymore. He was smarter, stronger, carrying powers that could one day shake the world. No one would push him around now. No one would dare look down on him. He'd make sure of it.
His fingers tapped the armrest, a restless rhythm. High school might be a drag, but it was also a stage—a chance to build his name, his legend, even in this sleepy town.
Martha glanced at him from the driver's seat, her green eyes catching his mood. Her golden-brown hair was pulled back, a few strands loose, framing her face with a warmth that softened the morning's edge. "Come on, sweetheart, it's not that bad," she said, her voice teasing but kind.
Clark scoffed, tilting his head toward her. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one stuck in there."
Martha chuckled, shaking her head. "It's just school, Clark. You'll make friends, have some fun, maybe even learn a thing or two." Her smile was playful, but her eyes held a quiet amusement, like she knew exactly how much he hated this.
Clark rolled his eyes, leaning back. "Friends, fun, education. Sounds like a blast."
Martha pulled the car to a stop, turning to face him. Her hand brushed his cheek, soft and warm, lingering just a moment. "I mean it," she said. "Give it a chance. Who knows? You might meet someone special."
Clark's lips curled into a smirk, his voice dropping low. "Why would I need anyone else when I've got you?"
Martha's cheeks flushed, a faint pink spreading across her face, but she held his gaze, unfazed. "That's different, and you know it," she said, her tone half-scolding, half-laughing.
Clark's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with mischief. He unbuckled his seatbelt, but before he could step out, Martha leaned in. Her lips met his, soft and warm, the kiss lingering longer than it should. Clark leaned into it, savoring the moment, his hand brushing her arm.
When they pulled apart, Martha exhaled, her lips still close, her voice a whisper. "Behave," she said, a mix of amusement and warning in her eyes.
Clark grinned, stepping out of the car. "I'll try."
Martha rolled her eyes, knowing full well he wouldn't. She watched him head toward the school, her gaze lingering, a quiet smile on her lips. To anyone else, this might seem wrong. To them, it was just their way.
Four years ago, the Kent farmhouse was still, the kind of quiet that settles after a long day. Clark, then 9, sat next to Martha on the couch, flipping through TV channels. The glow of the screen lit the room, casting shadows on the wooden walls. It was a normal night—nothing special, just the two of them, the air smelling faintly of Martha's lavender tea.
The channel landed on a romantic drama. On screen, a man pulled a woman close, their lips meeting in a deep, slow kiss as music swelled, soft and heavy. Clark's eyes locked on the scene, his mind sparking. He'd seen kisses before, but this one stirred something—a curiosity, a chance.
He glanced at Martha. She was relaxed, her eyes half-focused on the TV, a faint smile on her lips. To her, it was just a movie. To Clark, it was a door opening.
Without a word, he reached out, his small hands cupping her face. Before she could react, he kissed her, firm and deliberate.
Martha froze, her body stiffening. Her hands shot up, pushing against his chest, but Clark held on, his grip steady. Her mind screamed—This is wrong. This isn't normal. But her body betrayed her. A warmth spread through her, a forgotten feeling after years without closeness. For a split second, she softened, her lips almost moving with his.
Then reality hit. She shoved him back, hard, stumbling to her feet. Her hand wiped her mouth, her face flushed with shock. "Clark! What the hell are you doing?"
Clark blinked, his face calm, almost innocent. "I saw it on TV. Wanted to try it."
Martha's chest heaved, her voice sharp. "That's not something a mother and son do!"
Clark tilted his head, his tone quiet but pointed. "We're not really related, though."
Her eyes narrowed, blazing with anger. "That doesn't matter." She pointed to his room, her hand trembling. "Go. Now."
Clark opened his mouth, but her glare stopped him. "Not another word. You're grounded. No dinner, no TV. Go."
He nodded, walking to his room without a fight. Martha sank onto the couch, her fingers pressing her temples. He's just a kid, she told herself. He doesn't understand. She thought that was the end.
She was wrong.
Days later, Clark stopped eating. No food, no water—just a stubborn silence. Martha thought he was sulking, testing her. By the second day, his face was pale, his steps shaky. By the third, he could barely sit up, his small body slumped in bed.
Panic gripped her. She stormed into his room, her voice shaking with fury. "Are you insane? You'll die!"
Clark, weak but smug, whispered, "Then let me have my way."
Martha froze, her heart twisting. He wasn't just a kid throwing a tantrum—he was serious, willing to push himself to the edge. She sighed, defeated, her shoulders slumping. "Fine. Only kissing. That's it."
Clark's lips twitched into a faint smirk. Martha glared, pointing a finger. "Don't push it."
What started as one reckless kiss became their secret. A habit, a quiet dance neither could stop, woven into their days like a thread no one else could see.
Clark chuckled to himself, adjusting the strap of his backpack as he crossed the school's parking lot. The morning air was warm, the buzz of students like a festival crowd—kids shouting, laughing, rushing to class. He felt the weight of eyes on him, but he stood tall, his walk confident. This was his stage now, and he'd play it his way.
He took his first step toward the entrance when—BAM!—he collided with someone. A blonde girl stumbled back, her books slipping from her arms. She caught herself, barely, and groaned, rubbing her forehead. "Seriously? First day, and I'm already crashing into people?"
Clark steadied himself, his smirk returning. "You ran into me."
She huffed, brushing off her jacket, her blue eyes flashing with mock annoyance. "Yeah, yeah. Guess I wasn't paying attention." She was athletic, her blonde hair tied back, her features sharp but soft, like someone who could run a track or charm a room.
Clark bent down, picking up one of her books—a worn copy of a science text—and handed it to her. "Clark Kent," he said, his voice smooth.
She took it, raising an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Gwen Stacy."
Clark's smirk widened, his eyes glinting. Interesting. The first day had just gotten a lot more fun.