"Nope. You can't have that."
Steve snatched the magazine off the floor with lightning reflexes, just as Adam reached out his chubby little fingers to grab it.
Instantly, the golden-haired baby let out a high-pitched wail that could've shattered glass.
"Oh for the love of—calm down!" Steve groaned, looking at the squirming bundle. "You're like two feet tall and already trying to smuggle adult magazines?"
He glanced down at the glossy cover.
Playboy.
A strong, curvaceous woman with a sultry gaze stared back at him. Her posture practically screamed, Welcome to puberty.
Steve looked at Adam again.
"You're not even potty-trained and already into mature women? Yeah… you're definitely not normal."
With a sigh, he tossed the magazine into an old, dented cardboard box labeled Peter's Stuff.
Thunk.
The box shifted, revealing a stash of old-school CDs—Korn, Nine Inch Nails, Smashing Pumpkins—classic rage-fueled 90s rebellion. Mixed in were comic books, most dog-eared and faded. On top, a tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex figurine stared back at him with fierce plastic eyes.
Steve grabbed the dinosaur and held it in front of the screaming baby like a peace offering.
Instant silence.
Adam's watery eyes latched onto the toy, and he seized it like a dragon hoarding gold. He started gnawing on the tail with an innocent sort of ferocity.
"Right," Steve exhaled. "That's what I thought."
The truth was: neither the previous owner of this body nor Steve from his past life had ever raised a child.
No siblings. No babysitting gigs. No kids of his own. In fact, Steve's idea of "parenting" used to be muting loud children at restaurants.
Now?
He was up to his elbows in diapers and existential dread.
"Okay... crib, formula, wipes, toys... and maybe a baby-proof bunker." Steve sucked on a butterscotch candy, letting it rest against his molars. "Also a nanny. Or a wet nurse. Or maybe a live-in superhero therapist…"
He checked the battered wallet on the table.
All he had were a few crumpled bills. Just over a thousand bucks left.
"Right. Hiring help's out."
Just as he was debating whether ramen counted as baby food, he heard a weird muffled grunt.
"Hrrmph! Hrrmph!"
Steve's head snapped around.
Adam's face was red. His cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. The candy Steve had been sucking on a moment ago… was now in Adam's mouth.
"Oh crap!"
Steve dove forward, flipped the baby over, and began patting his back hard and fast.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
POP!
The candy shot out of Adam's mouth like a .50-cal round, piercing the hardwood floor with a sharp crack, where it embedded itself a full inch deep.
Steve stared at the damage.
"You just… shot a butterscotch candy like a bullet."
Adam blinked, giggled, and went right back to chewing on his dinosaur.
Steve sat back slowly.
"Laser eyes, candy projectiles... What's next? Burping lightning?"
---
Later That Day…
Steve's old Toyota groaned to life like it was dying for the tenth time this week.
Adam sat strapped in the child seat, cradling his dino. Steve gave him a serious look in the rearview mirror.
"Alright. You mess with the buttons or try to eject yourself again, and I swear, I'm replacing your milk with kale juice."
Adam stared back and—possibly on purpose—let out a wet fart.
Steve ignored it and drove toward Walmart.
The small Kansas town of Smallville was as sleepy as ever. The streets were quiet, buildings quaint, and the biggest excitement was when the new vending machine near the post office jammed.
Twenty minutes later, Steve parked, dropped a coin into the rusty meter, and hoisted Adam onto his hip.
They began walking across the sloped parking lot toward the store.
Halfway down the ramp—
"OH MY GOD! MY BABY!!"
Steve whipped around.
At the top of the incline, a baby stroller had broken loose—and was careening downhill, fast. In the seat was a dark-haired baby, flailing, eyes wide with terror.
Behind it, a young woman in her twenties sprinted in full panic mode, arms outstretched but too far behind.
Steve didn't think.
He just moved.
A moment later, he stepped forward and grabbed the stroller just inches from disaster.
The mother rushed in behind him and practically tackled her child with relief.
"OH GOD—thank you! Thank you so much! I—I tripped and—oh God, he could've…"
She was shaking. Her knees buckled as she knelt next to her son, tears mixing with sweat.
Steve gently steadied the stroller. "It's okay. Everyone's fine."
"You—sir—you saved my baby!"
She looked up at him, really seeing him now: unshaven, eyes tired, baby on one hip and a plastic dinosaur sticking out of his coat pocket.
"I can't thank you enough," she said breathlessly.
Steve gave her a tired smile. "Just doing what anyone would do."
The woman straightened up, holding her baby tight. "I'm—uh—Martha. Martha Kent."
BOOM.
The name slammed into his brain like a meteor.
Steve's heart stopped.
"Martha Kent?"
She nodded. "Yeah, why?"
He tried to play it cool. "And… what's his name?" He nodded toward the baby.
She smiled proudly. "Clark. Clark Kent."
Steve nearly dropped Adam.
That baby in her arms was Superman.
The real deal. Kryptonian royalty. The boy who would grow up to wear red and blue, punch asteroids, and give inspiring speeches about hope.
And he was here.
In her arms.
Steve glanced down at Adam, who had just tried to lick a leaf and was now choking on his own spit.
He sighed.
He got the other one.
He got Homelander.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Steve muttered under his breath.
Martha frowned slightly. "What was that?"
"Oh, nothing! Just, uh, admiring the baby—Clark. He looks strong. Got a good set of lungs too."
Martha beamed. "Yeah, he's a little miracle."
Yeah, Steve thought bitterly. A miracle I was supposed to find.
He had been hoping the next meteor shower would bring him Superman.
But it turns out, Clark Kent was already here, adopted by the Kents.
So much for that plan.
"I don't know how to repay you," Martha said sincerely. "Would you be willing to exchange contact info? My husband, Jonathan, would want to thank you himself."
Steve hesitated.
On one hand, he really wanted nothing to do with this awkward situation.
On the other…
This was a direct connection to Superman's family.
If things went sideways with Adam, he might need help. He might even need Superman himself.
He scribbled his number on the back of an old gas receipt and handed it over.
"Sure. I'm Steve."
Martha smiled warmly. "Nice to meet you, Steve. I hope we run into each other again."
She gave a grateful nod, adjusted her baby, and walked toward her car.
Steve stood in the parking lot, Adam resting lazily on his shoulder, humming to his toy dinosaur.
"Great," Steve muttered. "The universe handed them Superman and gave me a baby who weaponized butterscotch."
Adam sneezed. It sounded suspiciously like a mini sonic boom.
"Yeah," Steve said.
"We're gonna need therapy."
---