Clark followed Hippolyta and Diana into the interior of the palace with calm steps, maintaining the same posture he had adopted since setting foot once again on Themyscira. There was no restrained tension and no excessive curiosity. He simply accompanied them, attentive to the rhythm of the place and, above all, to the way Diana moved beside her mother after two years away. There was no estrangement there, only a silent adjustment, like something old being carefully resumed.
The dinner passed without events that would deserve extraordinary record, and precisely because of that, it was significant. There were no veiled disputes, subtle provocations, or games of authority. The Amazons present treated Diana as someone who had returned after accomplishing what needed to be done, not as someone who owed explanations. Hippolyta guided the conversation with calm firmness, listening more than speaking, allowing her daughter to recount parts of the outside world, choices made, paths taken. Clark remained in a lateral position, included without being central, observed without being pressured.
The absence of conflict said more than any explicit confrontation. There was no demand for the time away, no expectation of submission. Only recognition. Clark perceived this clearly. Some relationships did not require rebuilding. Only resuming at the right point.
When dinner ended, the transition was simple. Hippolyta indicated, without direct words, that she wished to speak with Diana alone. There was no urgency and no dramatization in the gesture. Only the certainty that certain conversations belonged solely to those who shared blood and history. An Amazon approached Clark with direct respect and guided him to the room that had been assigned to him. He accepted without resistance, following with the same natural ease with which he had crossed realities hours earlier.
The room did not resemble any other Clark had ever stayed in. Not because of luxury or extreme simplicity, but because of its own logic of comfort. The bed drew attention immediately. It had no rigid structure nor the predictability of something designed for ordinary bodies. Still, when he sat and then lay down, he noticed something unexpected. It was soft. Not in a fragile way, but firm and precise, as if it had been designed for bodies accustomed to the weight of armor and the constant exhaustion of training. It did not give too much. It did not resist too much. It simply supported.
Clark remained still for a few seconds, feeling the gradual adjustment of his body to rest. The silence was broad enough to allow thoughts to surface without hurry. For the first time since arriving on Themyscira, he was truly alone. Without immediate decisions. Without the need to react.
For a brief moment, he considered listening to the conversation between mother and daughter.
Not out of distrust. Not out of idle curiosity. But out of habit. Anticipating scenarios, reducing variables, resolving things before they became problems had always been part of who he was now. It would take little effort to follow every distant word, to understand the direction of the conversation before Diana even returned.
He remained still.
'No.'
The decision was clear and immediate.
They deserved privacy. Not as a moral concession or a symbolic gesture, but as a real necessity. That conversation did not belong to him. It was between mother and daughter, about choices made and consequences accepted, about a bond that existed long before Clark crossed worlds at Diana's side. Listening would be a silent violation, and he did not need stolen answers to deal with whatever came after.
He adjusted his position on the bed, allowing the strange comfort to support his body without demanding attention.
The next thought came inevitably.
What if she decides to stay?
The question carried neither anxiety nor urgency. It was practical. Real. For the first time since they had set foot on Themyscira, Clark allowed himself to face it without turning away. If Diana stayed, it would not be out of escape, nor indecision. It would be choice. A conscious, mature choice, aligned with who she had become after fulfilling the mission that had defined her life for so long.
He knew that.
He trusted that.
The question was never whether he would accept it.
He would accept it.
The real question was how the rest of reality would reorganize itself around that decision.
Time emerged as the first challenge. Not as an immediate threat, but as an unstable structure. Months in Smallville could be equivalent to years there. Years there could represent almost nothing on the other side. Clark had crossed enough to know that trying to impose rigid logic on different temporal flows was an elegant way to fail.
Still, the thought persisted.
If he returned to Smallville and remained for a few months, how much time would pass there? Two years? More? Less? There was no reliable formula. Only approximations and possible consequences.
He let out a slow breath.
'Confusing.'
The realization did not come as frustration, only as acceptance. Some things did not need to be fully understood to be faced. He could live with uncertainty as long as he did not flee responsibility when it arose.
And it would arise.
The thought of his brother came with immediate clarity. Not as guilt, nor as weight, but as a fixed point. That was not a variable. Not a postponed choice. It was something that would happen regardless of where Clark was.
He needed to be there.
Not because of external obligation, but because he wanted to. That life coming into the world carried no prophecies and no cosmic expectations. It was simply family. And Clark would not give that up.
If Diana decided to stay, he would return.
He would return to be present for his brother's birth, to be with his parents, to preserve the simple daily life that still existed in Smallville. After that… after that, he would evaluate. As he always had.
And if she wanted to go with him?
The idea did not generate expectation, only serenity. It was not projected desire nor an idealized scenario. Just the understanding that any choice Diana made would be valid, as long as it was hers.
Clark would support it.
Stay. Return. Go back and forth between worlds. None of these possibilities altered the central point.
He would support her.
The decision did not come with solemnity nor with elaborate internal speeches. It formed in a simple, almost silent way, as the most solid decisions tend to do.
Clark closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling the mental fatigue finally settle in. Not physical, but the kind that came from constant choices, from responsibilities that could not be delegated, from paths that branched without warning.
The room remained silent. No interruption. No urgency.
He briefly thought of Diana and Hippolyta, of the conversation still taking place somewhere beyond the walls. He did not try to imagine words nor predict outcomes. He simply acknowledged that that space of silence was necessary.
When he opened his eyes again, the thoughts no longer pressed as hard. Nothing was fully resolved, but it was organized enough not to hurt.
Partially resolved.
At peace.
Clark adjusted himself one last time on the bed, allowing the firm support to hold his body. His mind still moved, but at a slower rhythm, less insistent. There were no more decisions to make that night.
Whatever came next, he would face it awake.
For now, sleeping was enough.
Clark let exhaustion do what it needed to do.