Lois came home alone.
Martha had fallen asleep in her carrier, her cheek warm against Lois’s collarbone. The brownstone was quiet. Lois set her bag down, loosened her coat, and checked the clock without really meaning to.
Australia was far away. She knew that. Fires didn’t care about time zones.
She moved through the familiar motions: changed Martha, settled her in the crib in the living room. Then she stood in the kitchen, looking at the freezer, trying to decide if she should eat now or wait.
She waited.
He came home just over an hour later, landing on the terrace so quietly she almost didn’t hear it. The smell of smoke came with him: ash mixed with eucalyptus. Exhaustion in his eyes.
“I need to shower,” he said, already heading for the stairs. “I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time,” she called after him.
Ten minutes later he came back down, hair still damp, wearing clean clothes. He went straight to Martha’s crib first. Lois heard him murmur something soft.
When he came into the kitchen, Martha was awake in his arms, whole body leaning toward him, making delighted sounds.
“Hey,” he murmured into her hair. “I missed you.”
“She missed you too,” Lois said. “We both did.”
Clark looked at her then, and something in his expression shifted. “You waited.”
“Of course I waited.”
He crossed to her and kissed her, Martha squirming happily between them. “Thank you.”
“Go sit,” Lois said. “I’ll…”
“No.” He was already moving, handing Martha to her and pulling ingredients from the fridge. “Let me. Please.”
She watched him work, the blur of movement, the practiced efficiency. Less than ten minutes later, they were sitting at the table together, Martha back in Clark’s arms.
She babbled and reached for everything.
Clark cut his food one-handed, unwilling to put her down. Lois ate slowly, just watching them.
“How bad was it?” she asked after a while.
“Bad,” he said quietly. “But we got people out. Homes are gone, but people are safe.” He paused. “It’s not enough. It never feels like enough.”
“You were there,” Lois said. “That’s what mattered.”
He nodded, but she could see the weight still sitting on him.
After dinner, with Martha drowsing contentedly on the couch between them, Lois reached for the advent bag.
Clark opened it and drew out the figurine. Melchior stood upright, his offering held forward, posture deliberate and sure.
Lois unfolded the paper and read:
Recognition is a choice. Not the surprise of discovery, but the conscious decision to truly see someone, to look past the surface and acknowledge what’s actually there. Your father and I learned this slowly. I saw his strength, yes. Everyone saw that. But I also saw the cost of it, the weight he carried, the impossible choices, the exhaustion he hid.
And I chose to see all of it. Not just the hero. The man. He did the same for me. He saw past the armor I wore, the sharpness I used to keep people at a distance. He saw what I protected and why, and he honored it instead of trying to fix it. Recognition means this: I see who you actually are. Not who I want you to be. Not who you’re trying to be. Who you are, right now, in this moment. And I choose to value that. To honor it. To stay. I see your worth.
I choose to honor what you are. Love begins there. With seeing. With choosing. With staying.
Clark was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing the edge of the figurine.
“You see me,” he said finally. “Even when I come home smelling like smoke. Even when I can’t save everyone. Even when I’m not enough.”
“You’re always enough,” Lois said. “And yes. I see you.”
“I see you too,” he said, meeting her eyes. “The way you waited tonight. The way you give Martha everything. The way you carry your own weight and still make room for mine.” His voice dropped. “I see how hard you work to balance it all. And I see that you never ask for credit.”
Lois felt something catch in her chest. “Clark…”
“I see you,” he said again. “And I’m staying.”
She reached for his hand. “Me too.”
They placed Melchior carefully among the others on the mantel. Twenty-one pieces now. The two magi standing together, their offerings held forward, their journey nearly complete.
Martha yawned, and they both smiled.
“Bedtime for this one,” Clark said, scooping her up.
Lois followed them upstairs. When Martha was settled, they stood together in the doorway for a moment, watching her sleep.
“Thank you for waiting,” Clark said quietly.
“Always,” Lois answered.
They went downstairs together, his arm around her shoulders, her hand at his waist. In the living room, they settled on the couch, leaning against each other, the quiet wrapping around them like a blanket.
