Light [C.K]

I Like a Challenge

"Okay," Serena said, balancing on the last rung of the ladder, paintbrush in hand. "Final stroke. Don't mess this up. This is history in the making."

Clark, standing below with a drop cloth bundled at his feet, squinted up at her. "You're acting like you're carving Mount Rushmore."

She glanced down at him with a raised brow. "This is much more important than a bunch of dead guys on a rock. This is my house, Smallville."

He grinned.

She leaned in and delicately ran the final brushstroke across the edge of the trim. "There. Done."

Clark clapped. Loudly. Too loudly. "Wow. A miracle has occurred."

She descended the ladder one careful step at a time, muttering under her breath. "Only took us three days,"

he said brightly, handing her a bottle of water. "There's just something satisfying about it, looks a lot better than I expected"

He chuckled, following her toward the porch steps. "So... now that your house is officially bubblegum pink—"

"It's Rose Blush."

Clark turned toward the house with mock seriousness. "Right. Totally different."

Serena gave him a playful shove. "You're such a dick."

"Guilty."

They sat down on the porch steps, warm sun slanting across the yard, the freshly painted house behind them practically glowing in the light.

He took a sip of water and wiped his brow. "You know, I think we missed our calling. We could've started a painting business."

Serena snorted. "Right. You do all the work at super speed, I take ten breaks and supervise. Dream team."

He grinned. "You're overestimating how much people would pay for that level of chaos."

She pointed at him with her fork. "You say chaos, I say artistic process."

"You literally made me repaint the same section four times because it 'felt aggressive.'"

"It was aggressive. That even strokes Clark!"

Clark laughed, nearly spitting out his water. "God forbid the wall has too much personality and ones't look like the rest."

" I'm trying to cultivate peace, not be verbally assaulted by my siding."

He leaned back on his hands, grinning at her like she hung the stars. "You're completely out of your mind."

"And yet," she said, fluttering her lashes, "I know, says a lot more about you sticking around than it does me,"

"I like a challenge," he teased.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the smile tugging at her lips. "Well, congrats. You found one."

He looked at her for a long beat, still smiling but softer now. "Yeah. I really did."

They let the silence sit for a while, not heavy—just comfortable. Serena rested her chin on her knees, staring out at her quiet yard.

Clark broke the quiet first. "You gonna add a porch swing?"

She blinked, surprised. "I hadn't thought about it."

"I could put one up for you. Maybe white to match the trim. Or we could get one of those ones with cushions."

"'We'?"

He hesitated, just a beat, then shrugged. "Force of habit."

Serena looked down, brushing paint off her hands. "You can still come around, you know. It's not like I'm closing the door on you."

"I know," he said, voice gentler now. "But I don't want to crowd you."

She smiled faintly. "You crowd well."

He laughed, and she could feel the sound of it settle in her chest. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

"You want dinner?" she asked suddenly, pushing up to her feet.

His eyebrows lifted. "You're cooking?"

"I made you breakfast-for-dinner last time and you didn't die. So clearly, I'm qualified."

He followed her inside, dutifully washing his hands at the sink while she pulled out a carton of eggs and a bag of frozen hash browns.

"I swear, if you scramble those eggs like you're stirring concrete again—"

"Blasphemy," she said. "I perfected those eggs. I even read a cookbook."

"An entire cookbook?"

"Well, parts of it. Okay, I looked at the pictures and skimmed the rest."

He was laughing again. "You are such a fraud."

"I'm charming," she corrected. "It's different."

They moved around the kitchen in a rhythm that felt like it had existed forever. Serena humming as she buttered toast, Clark pretending to be deeply offended by the amount of pepper she used. They bickered about bacon crispiness ("Burn it to hell," she said. "We're not savages," he argued), and by the time they sat down to eat, it felt like everything that had been broken between them had been quietly repaired—painted over like a fresh coat on the porch.

She handed him a plate. "Try not to cry. I know it's beautiful."

He looked down at the food. "I am overwhelmed by your culinary prowess. This hash brown is... vaguely rectangular."

"I'm gonna vaguely throw it at you."

He laughed so hard he had to put the fork down.

Serena grinned across the table. Her heart was light. The paint was done, the house was hers, and Clark—well, he was still here.

And that, somehow, was enough.