Clark touches her hand. She flinches—then relaxes.

The rain softens.

“He threw a punch at you today, Clark. Our son. The one who doesn’t have powers. And you let him.”

“Come on. Jordan’s having that nightmare again—the one where he’s flying and can’t stop. And Jon’s pretending to be asleep, but he’s listening to us through the floor vent.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Lois sits on a hay bale, a cup of cold coffee in her hands. Clark stands near the tractor, his flannel shirt torn at the sleeve—remnants of the final battle with Ally. The Superman suit hangs on a hook behind him, still dusted with Inverse Matter residue.

She sets down the coffee cup. Stands. Offers him her hand.