I was officially being released from the hospital today. 

My shoulder ached. One of Clark’s many flannels hung off me, oversized and soft, one sleeve pinned flat against my chest by the sling. A very kind nurse had helped me into it. It brought me comfort, his smell wrapped around me when he couldn’t be. 

It was also the easiest and least painful thing I could wear at the moment. 

Clark found me in the bathroom. 

I don’t know how long I’d been standing there. I was staring at my reflection and trying to will the tears away despite the sting in my eyes and the knot in my throat. Since waking up I had managed to keep my eyes anywhere else that wasn’t reflective. With how I felt, I knew I looked worse. 

Now I couldn’t look away. 

My blonde hair was dull and messy and limp around my face. I doubt it's been brushed since getting here. Clark had apparently tried, while I was comatose, before a nurse shooed him off. 

I brought the trembling fingers of my good hand - cut and bruised from fighting back, but in better shape than the other arm I supposed - to hover just short of touching my face. I wasn’t quite brave enough to make contact. 

My grey-green eyes vibrant against my pale skin, the bruises stood out all the more. Deep purple curved under each eye, the color of old wine. . . or rot. The gash on my cheekbone had been closed with thin strips of medical tape. My lip was still swollen enough that I could see it without looking down.

Deep purple bruises followed the curve of my eyes. My nose was sore and swollen. Fortunately, it was still in the right place. Small mercies. Being beaten nearly to death then shot for my troubles was bad enough. A broken nose on top of it would have sent me over the edge - the perfect cherry on top of a dumpster fire sundae. 

My neck was the worst. I mean, when hadn’t it been bruised since I’d woken up in Smallville? But now, instead of the familiar circular ring of McBride’s collar, it was made by the unmistakable shape of hands. If you looked close enough, you could see where each finger had been.

Mr. Baker’s parting gift. 

I heard Clark calling for me in the main room, but I didn’t answer. A moment later, his reflection appeared in the mirror behind me. Tall, filling the doorway, his flannel a darker twin of the one I wore. His shirtsleeves were rolled up over forearms dense with muscle and tan from sun, the veins there like living topography. 

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me watching myself with the unbearable patience of someone who’d seen every possible version of me, the good and the unspeakably bad, and had not once thought to look away. 

I hated the urge to explain myself, to apologize for the mess I made, the mess I was, but the words came tumbling out anyway.

“I look like shit,” I said, my voice breaking on the last word. The laugh that followed was more of a sob. 

I knew I shouldn’t care as much as I did. It was temporary. Gone in a few weeks. Only skin deep. Good as new in no time.

The problem was. . . I did care. No matter how hard I tried not to. 

Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the stress of the Bakers and McBride and everything that had been weighing me down finally loosening its grip. Maybe it was seeing my vulnerability literally mapped out so plainly across my body, no longer hidden on the inside anymore.

It was staring at me. It was real now. 

It was staring at him, too. 

Clark’s reflection softened. He stepped up behind me, careful not to crowd but close enough that I could feel his warmth at my back.

“Beautiful,” he said finally, his voice so low it seemed to vibrate in my chest.

I let out another laugh, this one ugly and wet. “You’re full of shit,” I said, but I didn’t have the energy to make it convincing.

He reached around from behind me, his thumb catching the tear before it reached my jaw. His touch moved slowly, following the bruising beneath my eyes, so light I felt the warmth of it more than the pressure. 

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

My lip trembled. More tears blurred his reflection into something soft.

Clark drew my hair back from my shoulder with two careful fingers and pressed his lips to my cheek, just beside the tape. I didn’t need to see his face to feel the smile that lingered there.

Then, like always since we began officially dating, he dipped lower.

Clark buried his face against the curve of my neck with a quiet exhale, his forehead settling against my shoulder as though some invisible tension inside him finally loosened the second he touched me, breathed me into his lungs.

At first, after I'd woken from the coma, he'd done it constantly. Every hour. Sometimes less. Like he physically couldn't settle unless he reassured himself I was still here

Now he'd mostly calmed down. . . mostly.

But he still did it whenever he entered a room. Or whenever he left one. 

Not that I minded once he explained, pink tinging his cheeks in adorable embarrassment, that it was just something the Kryptonian in him demanded urged clawed very calmly and politely suggested he do.  

And I especially did not mind when he made that low, soft vibration sound in the back of his throat as he pressed closer for another second before finally pulling back.

I brought my good hand up and folded it over his, my fingers wrapping around his knuckles. Then I lifted his hand away and turned it over, pressing my lips to the center of his palm.

And because turnabout was fair play, I tilted my head slightly and gave the inside of his wrist a gentle nip. Clark went very still. A tiny hitch in his breathing was all that moved him.

His fingers flexed once against mine before he looked at me with the sort of startled intensity that suggested I'd just reached into his chest and grabbed hold of something important.

It wasn't exactly new behavior between us. Well, on Clark’s part at least. 

Whenever we held hands, Clark had developed a habit of brushing his mouth against the inside of my wrist or giving the faintest little nip there when he thought no one was paying attention. Publicly, that was usually the furthest he'd let himself go.

Privately, though?

Privately, Clark always gravitated toward my neck. More of his alien-ness that he was sharing with me. For me, this was entirely new. The show never explored this side of him. I was just thankful he trusted me enough with it.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his palm. 

“For what?” Clark asked, his brow furrowed.

“For. . . this.” I gestured vaguely at my body. “Everything that’s happened.”

“Don’t be.” He placed a kiss on the curve of my neck. “I’d do anything to take it from you, you know that.”

I nodded, another tear escaping. He pulled away to collect it with his thumb again. I watched the two of us in the mirror.

Clark slid his hands down my arms, carefully avoiding my sling and my bruised ribs, and wrapped them around my waist, resting his chin atop my head. We stood there for a few minutes, neither of us speaking, just breathing together. I could feel his heartbeat against my spine, steading me.

When I was ready, I drew in a shuddering breath and turned to face him for real. Clark touched my chin, tilting my face up.

“You’re getting out of here today,” he promised. 

I nodded, forcing a small, crooked smile. “Probably for the best before you traumatize any more nurses.”

He grinned, the dimple in his left cheek flashing. “I wasn’t so bad.”

He led me back out to the hospital room, where a nurse was already waiting with the world’s ugliest wheelchair. I glared at the chair, then at Clark. 

“This is such a cliché,” I muttered.

Clark just grinned wider. “I know you’re dying to make a grand exit, but humor them. And me. Please?”

He helped me sit, holding my good arm steady while I maneuvered myself into a not-completely-embarrassing arrangement. Clark insisted on pushing me himself, ignoring the nurse’s protests, and soon we were trundling down the hospital hallway like stars of a very low-budget rom-com. I wished I could hide my face, but I settled for keeping my eyes on Clark’s reflection in the passing windows.

The hospital’s front desk staff tried to look busy but kept sneaking glances at us as we rolled through. Clark kept up a steady stream of commentary to distract me, joking about my newfound need for speed, threatening to pop wheelies, promising to get me a bright red cape. But underneath it was the kind of tenderness he never spoke aloud. 

People gave us a wide berth in the lobby, and I felt like a circus act for a moment until one of the doctors treating me smiled and gave me a discreet thumbs up. I couldn’t help but smile back, even if it hurt.

Clark didn’t slow down until we reached the pick-up curb outside. It was mid-morning, the sunlight too bright after the hospital’s florescent gloom. My skin prickled in the sudden warmth; I’d almost forgotten what fresh air tasted like after being cooped up inside for so long. Clark knelt beside the wheelchair and gently eased my legs around so I could stand, bracing me with his arms when I wobbled. I nearly tripped on the curb, but he caught me before I could fall.

He leaned in close, lowering his voice so only I could hear him. “You know, if you wanted the damsel-in-distress routine, you could have just asked.”

I snorted, which hurt, then laughed, which hurt even more. “You’re such an asshole, Kent,” I said, but there was no venom in it.

“Only for you,” he replied, and the way he looked at me left just the two of us on the edge of the sidewalk. 

Clark helped me into the passenger seat of his family’s truck, tucking the seatbelt gently around my sling and making sure I was comfortable. Then he paused, one hand braced on the roof of the cab, and just. . . looked at me.

I tried to raise an eyebrow at him, but the swelling made it more of a lopsided squint. He snorted, his teeth flashing and mock-slammed the door with a theatrical flourish. I watched him jog around the front of the truck, pausing to wave a sheepish thank you at the nurse stationed just outside the doors. 

When he finally dropped into the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel the other reaching over to rest on my thigh, his whole body seemed to relax even more. 

“Ready?” he asked.

“Hit it, Superman.”

The hospital slid away in the rearview. We drove in easy, exhausted silence for a while, the flat fields of Smallville unfurling around us.

We passed the turn off to Lex’s mansion, already visible from half a mile off. Lex hadn’t been kidding about his offer. He’d marched into my hospital room with all the subtlety of a Bond villain, generously offering me an entire wing of the mansion if I wanted it. 

Instead, the judge, the sheriff, and the entire Smallville rumor mill decided that the best way to keep me from “further trauma” was to plant me in the heart of town, under the watchful eyes of the most respected—and, allegedly, least homicidal—family in Kansas.

He said it all in the same breath he used to ominously promise the Bakers and McBride would no longer be a concern. 

While Sheriff Adams chose to ignore the latter, she immediately put a stop to the former. There was no way on God’s green Earth that she would allow a traumatized young lady stay in a wealthy single man’s home. This wasn’t Little Orphan Annie, Daddy Warbucks. 

While they were arguing back and forth - Lex rightfully angry at the insinuation and Adams rightfully putting the well being of a teenager first and foremost - the Harris’ stepped forward and offered the perfect solution. 

I would stay with them. 

They were well respected in the community, raised 5 children of their own, and cared for me beyond a simple employee. If I needed guardians until I was 18, Rosemary and Cliff were throwing their hats in the ring. 

Like an auctioneer, Adams clapped her hands and announced “Sold!”

It took a little longer with Judge Ross and the lawyers (mine were graciously provided and paid for by Lex), it was officially decided that I would become an emancipated minor in all but name. I’d continue working at the bakery, living above it, but the Harris’ would be listed as legal guardians on the paperwork to appease the courts. 

Other than that, I was a free woman. 

There were still some legal holdups when it came to the Bakers and their assets, but Lex assured me that he was taking care of it. 

I didn’t mind Lex taking over the big things like that; it was honestly doing me a favor. I’d want to look at all the paperwork later, no doubt, but now was. . . now was too fresh. I needed some distance first. 

Clark pulled up to the alley behind the bakery. He shifted into park, then turned to face me, his knee bumping mine as he gently squeezed it.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he asked. “Ma’s offer still stands—”

“Clark, I survived multiple attempted murders and literally came back from the dead. I think I can handle a staircase.”

He gave me a very flat look in response. Oh, so he can make a pun about it but I can’t call it like it is?

Rude.

He zoomed around the back of the truck to pull my duffle from the bed. He slung it over one shoulder and, with the other hand, popped open my door. Before I could so much as unbuckle myself, he’d done it for me. Then, he knelt to the ground and offered me his arm like some dorky, corn-fed prince.

Were all Kryptonian’s like this? Or was that a purely Clark Kent thing?

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

I rolled my eyes but let him help me down. My legs wobbled a bit, but Clark steadied me with a gentle hand on my waist. I put a hand on his chest and pressed. “But I’m walking.”

By his fake pout, I could tell I’d just ruined his plan to pick me up and whisk me into my new apartment. 

My apartment. 

I hadn’t had one of those since my last life. Those memories were hazier now, the coma dream had done something to them, softened their edges. But I remembered enough to know it wasn’t a very nice apartment. Not big but not small, falling apart more than it was staying together, cheaply furnished. But it was home for a time. 

I’d thought I liked it anyway.

I’d come here for my first shift terrified of screwing up and desperate to earn the Harris’ approval. Now I was coming home in a way I never had before in Smallville. 

While Clark did in fact so graciously allow me to walk up the back stairs, he walked just a millimeter behind me on the stairs, one hand on my lower back to make sure I wouldn’t fall or stumble up the slightly rickety wooden steps. 

On the landing, I turned to glance over my shoulder at my ridiculously sweet boyfriend. He was looking down at the wooden steps, worrying his bottom lip, his brow furrowed. I shook my head and pulled the apartment keys out of my pocket. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if there were new steps with a guardrail installed within the week. 

I twisted the keys in the lock, turned the knob, and pushed open the door. I put a foot forward—

I gave a startled gasp as Clark, careful of my injuries, scooped me into a bridal hold and walked us over the threshold. I couldn’t help but laugh, my good hand threading into the slight curls at the base of his neck. 

“Welcome home, Maggie.”

Clark barely got the door shut behind us before I twisted in his arms, trying and failing, to take everything in at once.

Where we’d come in from the exterior door, a second door sat just to our left, leading to the staircase that dropped down into the café below. I could already tell the smell would be a problem, the sugar and butter and something warm and yeasty drifting up through the floorboards. 

The apartment opened up all at once in front of us, bright and warm and unexpectedly spacious for something tucked above a bakery. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows lining both exterior walls, catching on polished hardwood floors the color of dark honey. 

The whole place smelled faintly of lemon polish and fresh paint underneath the sugar.

To the right, the kitchen stretched across the far end of the loft. A long island sat at the center, topped with smooth butcher block and lined with four mismatched stools that somehow worked together anyway. The sink tucked neatly beneath hanging pendant lights, the kind with amber glass I knew would turn the whole kitchen gold after dark. Beside the fridge, a narrow hallway disappeared into what I’d been told was the pantry and laundry nook.

The living space opened naturally from there. A suspiciously new looking and very modern soft cream modular sofa faced two armchairs across a low coffee table. The whole arrangement sat on a braided rug in faded reds and yellows and blues. To one side, beneath the windows, sat a round dining table with four more mismatched chairs. 

A short hallway led toward the back, where the apartment narrowed into the bedroom. 

This had been Rosemary and Cliff's first home. The place where they'd started out together, back when they were young and broke and probably surviving on coffee, determination, and whatever baked goods hadn't sold that day. 

Now they’d gifted their first start to me to have a fresh one of my own. 

For decades, this place had been little more than glorified storage. Not anymore. Whatever clutter had once claimed the place was gone. Completely gone. No dust clung to the baseboards. No cobwebs lurked in corners. Every surface gleamed.

This had Lex Luthor Elite Tactical Cleaning Unit written all over it. That seemed on brand.

The apartment wasn't large. It was, objectively speaking, a shoebox. But it was my shoebox.

My home.

And I loved it immediately.

I loved it all except the mountain of boxes occupying the center of the living room. They were stacked in teetering columns, some nearly chest-high, each one sealed with neat strips of packing tape and labeled in handwriting I didn’t recognize. 

There had to be at least twenty of them. . . maybe thirty.

An alarming number, regardless.

Resting atop the tallest stack was a thick sheet of crisp white cardstock. Beside it sat an enormous bouquet of lavender, yarrow, and white roses arranged in an elegant crystal vase. 

Lex had taken the liberty, as he so often did, of having the Baker house packed up while I'd been in the hospital. Through a series of legal maneuvers I strongly suspected would become deeply concerning if examined too closely, he'd sold the property and deposited every cent into a trust in my name.

He'd also casually informed me that he could arrange for the rest of the Bakers' belongings to be sold or donated whenever I felt ready. Until then, everything would remain in storage.

Everything except my bedroom. That, Lex had left entirely to Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Harris.

Clark had also assured me, perhaps a little too quickly, that his mother had handled the packing herself. I would have been mildly horrified at the thought of Clark helping Martha pack up my underwear, but considering he'd barely left my hospital room long enough to shower, I doubted he'd been fondling lingerie between visits.

Still.

I narrowed my eyes at the towering stacks.

Alicia Baker had owned plenty, sure, but there was absolutely no way she had owned this much stuff. I hardly added much myself since finding my way here. 

Which raised an important and deeply unsettling question.

"What else did Lex sneak in?" I muttered, eyeing the boxes suspiciously. 

Clark finally set me down, though his hands lingered at my waist for just a second longer before he reluctantly let go. The only reason he finally let go was the urgent need to scoop up my duffel  from where he'd dropped it by the door. He could not, however, resist pausing first to fuss with the handles.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll just put this in your room,” he said, voice so casual it almost disguised the fact that he was already plotting to full-on domesticate my new space with his Clark-ness.

He’d made it exactly two steps, duffel hoisted like a trophy, when I called after him, “If you’re scouting the bedroom for later, make sure the mattress has some bounce to it.”

The effect was immediate and spectacular. Clark tripped over absolutely nothing, his ears turned the color of an overripe tomato, and nearly dropped the bag. 

“I’m just putting your bag away,” he mumbled, not quite meeting my eyes, as if I hadn’t had a front row seat to Clark's complete lack of sexual subtlety.

. . . not that I was any better when it came to him.

“Mm-hmm,” I said, trying not to laugh out loud. “Check if the shower’s big enough for two while you’re in there.”

He gave me a look over his shoulder, one that promised creative retaliation, before disappearing down the short hallway. I grinned shamelessly as I turned my attention to the card.

Lex's handwriting was infuriatingly elegant.

Maggie, Welcome home. I took the liberty of furnishing the apartment with a few essentials. Mrs. Harris expressed some rather passionate objections to my definition of "essential," so, in the interest of domestic harmony, several additional items have been boxed and incorporated into your existing belongings. Consider them housewarming gifts. L

I read it twice, each time with a rising sense of delight and horror. My gaze swept around the apartment again, this time with a more suspicious eye. The furniture suddenly made a lot more sense.

What would an argument between Rosemary and Lex sound like anyway?

That girl does not need imported Italian cookware! Everyone needs imported Italian cookware!

I rolled my eyes affectionately, folding the card closed. Honestly, subtlety had never really been his thing. I had missed it, and I was genuinely sad about that.

I circled the living room twice, trailing my hand over the smoothed wood of the kitchen island and the cool metal of the barstools, still in awe that this was all mine. 

Clark reappeared at the edge of the hallway, his blush only marginally faded. He set about investigating the kitchen and opening the fridge, which was, as I’d suspected, empty. Couldn’t Lex have sprung for food, too, while he was at it?

I collapsed onto the nearest barstool and rested my chin in my palm.

“So,” he said, leaning against the fridge, “what’s next?”

“Next is food,” I groaned, already imagining the taste of something other than hospital jello. “I am starving.”

“Food coming right up,” Clark nodded. “I’ll run down to the bakery and get you something.”

I kicked my bare feet against the rung of the stool and watched as he ghosted over to the interior door. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging the mattress question, Kent.”

He grinned, dimples deepening. “Maybe we can test the bounce later.” He pointed a finger at me and with mock-sterness said, “Don’t move any of the boxes.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” I mock saluted back. I waited until the door closed behind him before rolling my eyes. 

“I saw that!” Came his muffled response. 

I stuck my tongue out at the wall just in case he was still watching. His laugh told me he was. 

While he was gone, I contemplated looking through the boxes at the top of Cardboard Mountain but thought better of it when my shoulder twinged. I’d leave it to Mr. Muscles to deal with.

Instead, I spent the next twenty minutes exploring the back half of the apartment. Past the pocket doors dividing the two spaces in half, the bathroom was to the left and a moderate walk in closet to the right. The bedroom was sparse, but I could tell Lex had sprung for new furniture in here as well. 

Thank God. I was really dreading sleeping on the half-century old mattress the Harris’ used during their stay-at-home Honeymoon. The walls were freshly painted some kind of soft, medium-light green. The only furniture in the room was the bed and two night stands on either side of it. The bedspread matched the wall paint and complimented the white sheets and the light oak wood of the frame. The nightstands were the same color wood. 

Across from the bed on the wall were two his and hers walk in closets. On the wall between the bed and the closet was a window overlooking Main Street. The white curtains were pulled back. I could see the sunny morning clouding over, fast. 

By the time I heard Clark come back I could confirm two things: one, the bed was indeed a soft cloud with just enough bounce to it and two, the shower could in fact comfortably hold two people. 

My mouth began watering the moment I caught sight of the plated pastries on the counter. He was careful to rotate the tray so the pastries faced me directly, as if they were a gift specifically for my benefit. Clark set down two mugs of coffee beside it.

“Beignets and, I quote, coffee so strong it’ll put hair on your chest.” 

“You know me so well, Mr. Kent.”

He was absurdly pleased with himself, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulled out a counter stool and waited for me to sit, then he reached out, squeezed my good shoulder, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head before moving on to Cardboard Mountain.

While I ate my fill and downed the admittedly strong coffee, Clark selected a box at random. With zero effort, he picked it up one-handed, read the label, and zipped it around the small apartment in a blur, setting it in whatever room its contents belonged. 

By the time I was finished, I had gotten powdered sugar all over but I didn’t care. 

Between boxes, Clark would circle back to the kitchen and “refuel,” which meant snatching a beignet and eating it in one cartoonish bite.

“You’re wearing your food, sweetheart.”

I looked down at the flannel, pulling it back slightly to look down it. “No hair on my chest, though.”

Clark grinned wide, full of mischief. “Can I check?”

I laughed. “Depends on how useful you are today.”

Clark took an exaggerated, slow glance around the room, hands splayed out as if asking me to comment on the lack of Cardboard Mountain with only maybe five boxes remaining. 

Cardboard Mound, then. 

“Off to a good start, then.” I got up from the stool, whipping powdered sugar from my chest. I smirked, catching Clark’s eyes lingering on my hands. “How about. . . you take things out of boxes and I tell you where to put them?” I gave an over-the-top pout, lifting my arm in a gentle wiggle to be just pitiful enough without turning it into any real pain. “No heavy lifting, sorry, or else I would help.”

Clark rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“Sure,” he said, knowing full well that even if I were fully healed, I’d still be pointing and playfully critiquing his every move.

And he’d be right. 

All morning we unpacked. Clark dashed out for pizza at lunchtime and then we plunged back into the chaos of cardboard. I would look through the open boxes, point to where I wanted things, and Clark obliged me. To be a brat about it, entirely because I could and there was nothing he was going to do about it, I’d change my mind two or three times before telling him to put it back in the first spot I picked. 

It gave me an excellent opportunity to admire the way his flannel hugged whenever his back was turned, how his biceps and forearm flexed slightly as he lifted each box.

I thought I was being subtle, but I caught glimpses of him watching me, too. Bright eyes darkened, trailing the curve of my waist or the arch of my back when I reached up to put something light away or bend down to pick something up. 

I paused by the bay windows in the living room overlooking Main Street. The afternoon sky was turning slate gray, a distant rumble of thunder warning of a light storm. I made a mental note to hang heavy drapes here. No need for the good people of Smallville to look up and get an eye full of underage girl going about their business. 

If it were up to me (and it was now), I’d walk around in my underwear because fuck pants. 

A sudden crack of thunder and flicked on the lamp above the kitchen island, bathing the room in soft golden light. Outside, fat raindrops began to splatter against the glass. 

Inside, it was just Clark and me and a delicious, simmering tension that had been building all morning. 

We returned to our silent flirtation. 

Clark had shed his own flannel and was down to a tight white tee, bare feet padding around on the hardwoods. And I found myself wondering what he looked like underneath it all. 

And I didn’t think I was the only one. . . 

I’d lean over the counter, careful to angle my body so he caught a glimpse of skin beneath the shifted flannel. His face would flush, and I’d savor the subtle tremor in his grip as continued to unpack. 

After all I’d been through, almost nothing about being with Clark embarrassed me anymore. 

Sure, we had some heavy petting in the weeks between officially getting together and me winding up in the hospital. And while in there, my only priority was not dying. The most Clark and I have done since I woke up was holding hands and the occasional peck on the cheek or forehead.

Now, I reveled in this playful dance: teasing my easily flustered boyfriend, relishing the warmth that spread through him whenever our eyes met across a half-empty box. The storm could rage outside and we would be cozy in our my new home, surrounded by boxes, and the slow burn simmering between us. 

I turned with a smile on my lips, ready to make some dirty joke to get another sweet blush out of him, only to find Clark was right behind me. His face had become something entirely new with a look I could not mistake. 

Ravenous.

He cradled my face in his hands with a gentleness that made me want to both melt and scream in frustration.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he breathed, and then he was kissing me. It wasn’t gentle or slow, but urgent and hungry like a man starved. 

I didn’t say a word. 

Not even when the pain of my busted lip started to numb and throb. 

The kitchen filled with the muted sound of our lips, our quick gasps for air, and the frantic scrape of my against wood as I scrambled for any leverage to press myself up into him. 

When the height difference became an issue, Clark pulled back just long enough to set his hands at my waist and gently lift me onto the edge of the kitchen island, one forearm braced behind me as he lowered me down. 

My good hand flailed for a moment before coming up to claw at his shoulder, pulling him to me. A clap of thunder sounded outside as I parted my knees to let him get as close to me as he could. I clung to him, legs automatically wrapping around his waist and drawing him forward until there was nothing left between us. 

He grinned at me, cocky and nervous at the same time, then reached up and pulled out the hair clip he’d put in earlier out of my hair. My hair tumbled down, immediately a mess again, and he ran his fingers through it, winding a fist at the back of my head.

Then he did pull, just enough to tip my chin up, and pressed his face into the curve of my neck. I thought he might actually inhale me, his breath hot and desperate against me. Then he kissed my bruised throat just below the ear, a place that sent a lightning bolt of sensation down my spine. 

The whole time he was handling me like something precious and breakable (which, to be fair, I sort of was, but also absolutely wasn’t in the ways that mattered most to him). I wanted his hands to stop being so careful. I wanted him to treat me like I was the strongest girl in the world. 

Maybe, for him, I was.

He must have felt the shift in me, because he pulled back just enough to see my face. His bright eyes were dark and blown wide, his thumb tracing a slow line from my temple down to my jaw. But he paused there, searching. 

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough. “Any pain?”

“Okay?” I asked in a daze. 

I wasn’t sure what I was okay-ing; that this was more than okay and he should hurry the hell up? I could be in pain later. Right now, something else needed more immediate attention. 

Clark, bless him, naturally took it as a green light. 

He held my gaze for another split second, then, satisfied, let his hands fall to the hem of my borrowed flannel. His flannel. He slid his palms under the fabric and up my sides, every inch raising a shiver. He found the clasp of my bra with careful fingers, working it loose without pulling or pressure on the bruising. 

He moved slowly and deliberately. His hands pushed the bra aside, pausing to see if I flinched (I didn’t), then running his thumbs over my sensitive nipples. They hardened instantly, and he made a low sound that made me feel both powerful and soft all at once. 

My breath caught in my throat and a wave of anticipation washed over me. The only thing keeping me from throwing a tantrum was the knowledge that we weren’t even close to finished.

I tugged at his shirt until he got the hint and yanked it off. He hesitated, then pressed his mouth to the bruises that purpled my clavicle, worshipful and apologetic, and I felt him tremble as he did it.

He shifted me a little closer to the edge of the counter, his grip firm but cautious. I pulled at him needing more contact, always more. I arched against him and he answered by pressing his hips tighter to mine. The friction was divine, the hard ridge of his denim covered cock and the thin elastic of my leggings the only thing separating us. 

I rocked against him, and we both moaned. Fucking perfect how we fit together. He was quick to catch his lip in his teeth to stifle it, but I sank my teeth in the meat of his shoulder. 

There was no way in Hell did I want the very nice elderly couple and all their customers downstairs to know what we were up to fresh out of the hospital. 

Clark’s hands were everywhere, skimming my waist and hips, my breasts, the backs of my knees, my jaw, my hair. He alternated between moving slow and moving fast, as if he kept remembering my injuries but couldn’t quite keep his own need at bay. I could feel him, hard against me, and it was almost enough to make me dizzy.

My knees fell open, and he slid one big hand up my outer thigh, all the way to the waistband of my leggings. He hesitated, looking for permission, and I rolled my eyes, laughing breathlessly before guiding his fingers down myself, over the waistband and the warm, damp space beneath, showing him I wanted this, wanted him. 

Now.

He made a choked sound and bent to kiss me again, this time deeper, lips parted and tongue seeking. I met him with equal hunger, threading my hand up through his hair and yanking him down until our foreheads touched and our breaths mingled. His hand circled my thigh, thumb tracing tiny circles up the inside, moving closer to where I was already aching. 

He pressed his palm against the front of my leggings, rubbing in deliberate, slow circles, and I nearly came apart right then and there. I dug my nails into his back as I buried my face in his neck to muffle the noises I was making. He seemed to know exactly what I needed, what would unravel me, and he kept it up until I was gasping and writhing, shameless against him. 

I had wanted this for so long, and now that it was happening, I couldn’t get enough.

When I came, it was like the world narrowed to a pinpoint of sensation, a white-hot spark that traveled up and out, numbing me from anything but the feeling of his body pressed to mine and his hands holding me together while I fell apart. The aftershocks left me shaky and limp, and he held me through it, kissing my shoulder, my hair, my eyelids, every damaged part of me he could reach.

For a while I was sure he would stop there. that he’d pack away his own need just to make me comfortable. It would be a very mild-mannered, Midwestern thing to do, after all, right?

But Clark surprised me, maybe surprised himself, by letting the hunger back in. The Kryptonian need in him too big to be denied. 

His hands gripped my hips in both hands and rutted into me, shameless, and I loved it. I loved the abandon. I loved that he’d stopped being so goddamn gentle.

We were past the rest of the world; there was only this, only us, only now. 

Even with my limited mobility, I held onto him tightly, wrapping my good arm around his neck as he moved against me. I nuzzled into his neck, licking, nipping, and sucking at the skin there. 

I slid my good hand down, fumbling with his zipper, and he made another of those desperate, strangled noises. I worked his jeans open enough to free him, feeling the heat and hardness as my hand closed around him through the thin cotton of his boxers. He made a sound low in his chest that I felt in his cock more than heard. 

I grinned wolfishly at that even as he blushed like the virgin he was. 

He kept his eyes on mine, wide and shining. I kept my eyes on his and stroked him, slow and teasing, just to see him come apart.

He gasped out, “If you keep that up, I’m not going to last.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Kent.”

He didn’t answer, just kissed me and then clutched my waist tighter. I wrapped my legs around him tighter, urging him closer. We found a rhythm together, a desperate, grinding friction that built and built until it was deliciously unbearable. 

“You feel so good,” he breathed, the words laced with need.

He tucked his face into the crook of my neck, licking and nipping gently with his teeth, mindful of the bruises. 

“Maggie. . . Maggie. . . Oh God, Maggie,” he muttered repeatedly, a prayer mixed with desperation, my name mingled with the divine in a beautifully blasphemous way. 

“I’m so. . . so close. I-I can’t — Maggie,” he groaned into my skin as he came, his voice breaking with pleasure.

I held him through it, loving the way he shook and the way he clung to me afterward, loving the wet heat coating my hand. 

When his breathing, and mine, were a little more even, he asked, “Good?”

“Very.”

We stayed holding each other a while longer, his arms loose around me and my cheek against his shoulder. The rain had picked up while we weren’t paying attention and a low roll of thunder moved through the walls of the building. 

I could feel his heartbeat slowing under my palm. His fingers found the clasp of my bra in the dark and rehooked it with surprising gentleness, smoothing the band flat against my back.

“Nap?” I asked around a yawn.

“Nap,” Clark agreed, kissing my temple. 

He gathered me up off the counter still wrapped around him, one arm hooked under me, and carried me down the hall. I kept my face tucked into his neck the whole way.

“There’s a lot of things about me that even I don’t understand,” Clark said, voice trembling. “But I know that I wasn’t born on Earth. . . or anywhere near this galaxy. I was born Kal-El, of the House El, on a planet called Krypton and my parents sent me to Earth on October 7th, 1989. . . to save me. They sent me here just before Krypton was destroyed. The meteor shower that gave you your abilities, that’s. . . that’s caused so much pain in your life and the lives of so many people, I brought it with me.”

He looked at me the way he always looked at me, like I was the only person in the room who mattered. But now there was so much raw vulnerability I had to fight to not look away. His eyes had gone darker with a loneliness I was all too familiar with.

There was a particular ache of carrying a truth you couldn't speak, of wearing a face that wasn't quite yours, of standing in rooms full of people and feeling utterly alone. 

The crippling loneliness of being unknown.

I knew myself well enough to know I had built walls so high around my secrets that sometimes I forgot where the door was. But Clark. . . 

Clark had just torn down his walls. He was completely exposed and offered me the one thing I'd stopped believing existed: the chance to be seen. The real, messy, complicated truth underneath.

I was as much an alien in Alicia's skin as he was in his; both strangers in a strange land with only each other for understanding. Two people who had learned to lie so well they'd almost mastered the art of partial truths and careful deflection, who had resigned themselves to the quiet tragedy of never being fully known. 

And here he was, asking for more than just acceptance, but connection. The kind that only exists when you’re brave enough to drop the mask, to risk the rejection, and to say This is who I really am, and I am trusting you with that knowledge not to destroy me.

To be known is to be seen; to be seen is to be loved. 

Clark had spent his whole life loved and that was the terrible thing in a way. The Kents clearly adored him. Pete loved him. Even Lana and Chloe, in their own complicated ways, cared about him deeply. And still, no one truly knew him.

Not completely.

And here Clark was looking at me like he already knew me, pleading for me to know him, like he understood that the greatest gift he could offer was his honesty. His trust. The promise that I wouldn't have to be alone in this anymore.

If I said yes. To this, to him. . . to all that he was offering me at this breakfast table. 

I guess I was taking too long to have this minor revelation because I saw the fear starting to creep in around the edges of Clark’s face. The way his fingers curled and uncurled against the edge of the table; the barely-there hitch in his breathing. 

For all he knew, I was staring at him in horror. That he’d just fucked up beyond repair and I was about to BAMPF out any second.

“Please,” Clark’s voice cracked softly, “please say something, Maggie. . . please. I-I can’t tell if you’re scared of me or not. I’d never—”

His voice broke and he had to stop.

God, this boy. He looked so terrified. 

I wanted to say something profound and comforting but. . . what could  I say beyond, “Hey, man, that’s cool! I already knew this whole time so. . . no sweat!”

But the right words weren’t coming so I just reached over and took his hand. I don’t know if it was the alien part of him or the weight of the moment, but something shifted between us. It’s never mattered to me whether either of us were human, alien, or something entirely other. 

If reassurance is what Clark needed from me most in this moment, then that’s what he’ll get in spades. 

He squeezed my hand hard enough that I felt the bones in my fingers click, then loosened his grip. I watched the hope flicker back to life behind his eyes. 

I didn’t want to run or hide or disappear. I wanted to stay. I wanted Clark to know I wanted to stay. That I saw him, that I trusted him. That I wanted to be enough for him. 

The thought was terrifying, but it also felt right. Maybe the only thing that had ever felt right in this reality.