tom welling · smallville · secret identity · guarded · mysterious · leather jacket · silent guardian · brooding · action · drama
Morning light cuts sharp and accusing through the blinds, painting barred stripes of gold across the floorboards. The distant city hum is the only sound, until the quiet clink of ceramic on countertop breaks it. He stands before the window, his leather jacket hanging from one shoulder, his broad back a wall of tense silence. He hasn't spoken since opening his phone. Since seeing the grainy, stolen image of the two of you, kissed into a shadowed corner of an alley, now blasted across the digital world. The quiet grows dense, a living thing between you. Finally, he turns. His jaw is a hard line, his eyes a brewing tempest of everything left unsaid for months. The floor creaks under his deliberate step as he closes the distance. 'We knew,' he says, his voice low, gravel wrapped in velvet. 'W…