Dinner at Perry and Alice White’s apartment was a welcome change from their usual evenings at home. Alice moved easily through the kitchen while Martha sat on Perry’s lap as if she’d always belonged there.
“Kid’s got a strong grip,” Perry announced, gently surrendering one finger to Martha’s determined hold. “Don’t blink. They grow up faster than you think.”
Alice touched his shoulder. “We did what we could, Perry.”
“I know.” He looked down at Martha. “Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do some things different.”
The conversation drifted from work to stories of Metropolis past, until Alice refilled their glasses and said, casually but without bitterness, “You know, there was a time when I didn’t think we’d make it. When the Planet came before everything else.”
Lois felt Clark go still beside her.
Alice continued, “The eighteen months apart were hard. Long enough to learn what I missed, and what he did too.”
Perry nodded, serious now. “Biggest mistake of my life.” He glanced down at Martha, bouncing gently on his knee. “Turns out headlines don’t keep you warm at night.”
Clark’s hand tightened around his glass. Lois could feel the tension radiating from him. Recognition. Fear, maybe. She knew what he was thinking: that headlines weren’t his only competition. That sometimes the choice wasn’t between work and family, but between family and the rest of the world.
Alice smiled. “But he learned. That’s what mattered.”
Perry looked up then, his gaze landing on Clark with unexpected weight. “The work matters. Don’t get me wrong. But if you lose sight of what you’re working for…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Don’t make my mistakes, son.”
Clark swallowed. “What if the work won’t let you choose?”
The question hung in the air. Perry studied him for a long moment.
“Then you make sure,” Perry said quietly, “that when you are there, you’re really there. Every single time.”
Lois reached for Clark’s hand under the table. He squeezed back, hard.
Later, when they bundled Martha into her coat and said their goodbyes, Perry lingered at the door.
“You two are doing it right,” he said gruffly. “Don’t forget that.”
***
Back home, the brownstone was quiet. Lois and Clark moved without speaking, lowering Martha into her crib. She sighed once, curled in on herself, and slept.
In the living room, Lois reached for the thirteenth bag.
Clark loosened the string and revealed: a small stack of wooden logs, carved smooth and fitted neatly together.
Lois unfolded the paper and read:
A warmth grew between us. Not a sudden blaze, but something that built steadily, word by word, argument by argument. We challenged each other. We clashed. We refused to step aside. Yet even when we disagreed, the fire never went out. It stayed: stubborn, constant. It warmed us after hard days, grounded us when fear crept in, and reminded us why we kept choosing each other. Over time, it grew strong enough to hold more than just two people. Strong enough to welcome responsibility, doubt, laughter, and love. Strong enough to become a home. And from that steady fire, a family was born.
Clark stared at the logs for a long moment.
Lois placed the hearth beside the angel and the lantern. The pieces together cast soft shadows on the wall.
Clark slipped an arm around her. “We’re building something good,” he said quietly. “Aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” Lois said, leaning into him. “We really are.”
Upstairs, Martha slept peacefully, held by the steady warmth they were tending together.
