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Thatthey inherited from their dad.

They’ve seen him make that exact same expression – one he still makes whenever we’re apart for too long – and naturally began mirroring it long before they could talk.

The difference?

They only hug their big brother like that.

Could be because in so many ways he’stheirwhole world.

He has been since they were born.

He talked to them through the NICU glass.

He sang to them “Baby Shark” the first time he held them.

He taught them the –wrong– words to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” while buckling them in for preschool.

He helped make them snacks, grab the “right” Band-Aids, and always encouraged them to do whatever made them happy even if it meant doing something different from one another because having your own space, your own life, your own stuff was important and getting to share it with those you loved made it even more fun.

Pretty sure that last lesson came from Clark.

He’s never stopped dropping wisdom for the Wilcox dudes.

They still need it.

Himand all his Data meets Alfred like vibes.

Recalling his slightly less excited acknowledgement of my presence prompts me to turn towards my husband. “What’s with my mini?”

“He hates me.”

The lack of hesitation to his answer is met with nods of comprehension. “Of course, he does.”

“What?!” Outrage fuses with confusion in his glare. “What do you mean ‘of course, he does’?!”

Our bodies disconnect in tandem with me retorting, “He’s a fourteen-”

“Thirteen.”

“Almost fourteen-year-old dude.”

“Don’t say dude.”

“Of course he hates you. He has to hate one of us.”

“Why?!”

“Hormones.”

Low, unhappy grumbles linger behind sealed lips. “Be serious, Bryn.”

“Oh, I’m a thousand percent being serious,Wes.”

“He has no valid reason to hate us.”

“Technically, an uncontrollable brain chemistry nightmare going onisa valid reason.” A snarky smirk slides onto my expression as I fold my arms across my chest. “At least according to Temps.”

Another displeased grunt is presented.

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