Pleasure under the sky

The hot tub steamed under the pale Alaskan sky, water lapping at their collarbones. Clark leaned back against the cedar rim, Carol half-draped across his chest, her hair floating like dark seaweed. The aurora they’d accidentally summoned still shimmered overhead—her binary light fading in slow pulses.

For a long while they just breathed, the forest quiet except for the soft gurgle of the jets.

Carol spoke first, voice low, almost shy.

“You ever think… we’re making up for lost time we didn’t know we had?”

Clark’s fingers traced idle patterns along her spine. “Every day. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Beyn or Yang to yank me back. Or for you to realize I’m just a farm kid with a cape.”

She lifted her head, water dripping from her lashes. “You’re not *just* anything. You’re the guy who carried a collapsing moon so I could evacuate a colony. You’re the guy who let a six-year-old Skrull paint his nails purple because ‘it’s cool, Mr. Clark.’” She poked his chest. “You’re the guy who makes me feel… safe. Not because you’re invincible. Because you *choose* to be kind.”

He swallowed, throat working. “I lost a whole life, Carol. Parents. Friends. A son I’ll never watch graduate. But here…” He gestured at the sky, at her. “I get mornings where the coffee’s too strong and you steal the blankets. I get *you* snoring on my shoulder during movie night. It’s not replacement. It’s… continuation.”

Carol’s eyes softened. “I get scared too. That one day I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. That the multiverse will decide this was a glitch.” She pressed her palm over his heart. “But then I remember: I flew into a black hole once. I can handle a little cosmic uncertainty.”

Clark caught her hand, kissed her knuckles. “We’re not a glitch. We’re a choice. Every time we suit up. Every time we don’t.”

She smiled, small and fierce. “Damn right.”

Silence settled again, comfortable. A loon called across the lake.

Carol’s voice dropped to a murmur. “You know what I want, when this is all over? When Beyn and Yang are just bedtime stories?”

“Tell me.”

“A porch. Somewhere with real seasons. You teaching physics to kids who think ‘Kryptonian’ is a swear word. Me writing mission reports nobody reads. Teej learning to ride a bike without crashing into orbit.” She paused. “And you. Coming home to me. Every night.”

Clark’s arms tightened around her. “I want that too. But I want the messy parts. The fights over whose turn it is to do dishes. The nights one of us has nightmares and the other just… holds on.”

Carol laughed, watery. “God, we’re saps.”

“Invincible saps.”

She tilted her face up, kissed him slow and sweet. “Stay,” she whispered against his lips. “Not because the rift closed. Because you want to.”

He answered by deepening the kiss, water sloshing as he pulled her fully into his lap.

“I’m not going anywhere, Carol Danvers. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Above them, the aurora pulsed once more—gold and red, like their colors braided together.

Below, the forest kept its ancient secrets.

And in the circle of their arms, two refugees from different apocalypses finally, truly, came home.