"Dad?"
The soft voice came after dinner, as the warm Kansas dusk settled over the fields.
Inside the farmhouse living room, Steve sat cross-legged on the wooden floor with Adam beside him. Between them: a trash can and a stack of crumpled newspaper balls.
A family tradition.
Wastepaper basketball.
"Something on your mind, John?" Steve asked, using Adam's adopted Earth name.
The boy didn't answer at first. He grabbed a paper ball and tossed it toward the can. Thump—too strong. The ball bounced off the rim and skidded across the hardwood.
Adam groaned and buried his face in his hands.
Steve arched a brow.
In truth, he could hit that trash can from the other room blindfolded now, thanks to his evolving physical abilities. But to keep things fair—and to keep Adam interested—he'd deliberately missed his last two shots.
"A little," Adam muttered. "Clark and I… we fought."
He reached for another ball and tossed it half-heartedly. It missed again, this time rolling under the couch.
Steve made his shot—thunk, perfect swish into the bin.
"Three to none," he said with a smile, but his voice was soft. "What happened?"
Adam hesitated. Then mumbled, "I said something mean."
"So you think you hurt him?"
"A little," Adam admitted. "I didn't want to, but... I don't know. It just came out."
Steve nodded, slowly crumpling another newspaper sheet in his hands.
He already knew what had happened. Clark had told him about the roadside laser blast and the wrecked SUV. About how Adam denied it, then turned on Clark, accusing him of betrayal.
He also knew what was really happening: Adam was changing.
Developing powers was one thing. But developing character? That was harder.
And right now, Adam was at a crossroad.
The line between protection and aggression was razor-thin for someone like him.
Steve tossed his shot. Missed on purpose this time.
"Sounds like you care a lot about this friendship," he said.
Adam nodded. "I do."
"So… what's the next move?"
Adam's voice shrank. "Apologize?"
"That's right."
"But… wouldn't that make me look weak?" His face scrunched. "Like I was wrong?"
Steve leaned over and tousled the boy's golden hair.
"No. That would make you more mature than Clark."
Adam blinked. "Really?"
"Absolutely."
The sparkle in his eyes returned, just a little.
"Besides," Steve added, tossing another ball, "there's strength in owning your actions."
Adam grinned, starting to feel better.
But Steve wasn't finished.
"Is there anything else you want to tell me, John?"
Adam looked up, surprised. "No... nothing."
"Really?"
Steve's gaze sharpened. The kind of gaze that made criminals in Metropolis tremble.
Adam wilted under it.
"I mean... maybe a little something…"
He hesitated, then exhaled.
He told Steve about the laser incident. How he'd aimed near the road, how the car had crashed into a ditch. How Clark had caught him. How he tried to pretend nothing happened.
"Did I mess up, Dad?" he asked quietly. "Clark said it was wrong."
Steve stood and walked over to the boy. Sat beside him.
"No," he said. "You didn't mess up. But the way you went about it… wasn't smart."
Adam looked confused. "But he threatened you."
"Yes. And he deserved to be stopped. But that doesn't mean you solve it like this."
Steve held out a hand, palm flat.
"You have power. That means your actions have ripples. You didn't just scare one man—you could've hurt everyone in that car. Some of them may have been innocent."
Adam's face turned pale.
Steve continued, voice calm but firm.
"And now people will be asking questions. They'll investigate. If they find you—or worse, if they find out what you can do—there's no telling what could happen. To you. To us."
The boy nodded slowly.
"I understand, Dad."
"Do you?" Steve pressed.
"I think so," Adam said. "No showing off. No rash choices."
Steve smiled and ruffled his hair again.
"That's my boy."
Adam stood, his confidence returning. "I'll go rest now. Good night, Dad."
"Don't forget your milk."
"Already on it!"
The boy dashed up the stairs.
Steve chuckled.
Ever since he was a toddler, Adam had been obsessed with milk. It was like some strange genetic craving, hardwired into his Kryptonian biology. Even now, he downed two full glasses before bed without fail.
After Adam disappeared upstairs, Steve gathered the scattered paper balls and tossed them all into the bin with one smooth motion.
Then he sat down, grabbed the day's mail from the entry table, and started flipping through it.
Mostly junk.
Church flyers. Local bank promotions.
Then he paused.
An envelope. Heavy cream stock. Old-fashioned font.
A funeral notice.
Louis Wilson.
Steve frowned.
The name jogged a faint memory.
In this world, Louis Wilson had been his—well, Peter Patrick's—distant cousin.
Someone from Smallville. Someone he hadn't spoken to in years.
The obituary stated that Louis's youngest son had died in a car crash. Funeral service: two days from now.
Steve leaned back in the chair, looking out the window into the vast Kansas night.
Quiet. Still.
But inside him, the weight of the past—of powers and choices, of family and identity—stirred restlessly.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 7]