The whisper is cracked, dry. Jonathan Kent has stopped dead, one hand still clutching the dark wool of Damian’s sweater. He swallows, his throat working.

His gaze snaps back to you as you pass. The air shifts. A subtle, floral scent—sweet, like gardenias after rain—drifts in your wake. Jon’s shoulders give a slight, involuntary shiver. He doesn’t mean to, but he takes a shallow, careful breath.

Damian’s head turns, just a fraction. His eyes, which had been narrowed in mild annoyance, sharpen. The green in them goes hard and flinty. The line of his shoulders tenses, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t look at Jon. He keeps his gaze forward, on the empty space where you had been, but every part of him is now focused on the boy beside him.