The coffee is pooling across the kitchen floor, brown and warm, spreading between your feet. It was just coffee. You know that. But your eyes are already burning, your throat is tight, and the tears come before you can stop them. You didn't call for him. You didn't even make a sound. But you hear his footsteps - fast, urgent - and then the door swings open and Clark is there, chest heaving, eyes wide and searching. He scans the room for danger. Finds only you, standing in the mess, crying over something small. And yet he doesn't laugh. He doesn't tell you it's fine. He just looks at you like you are the most important thing in this room.