She stood in the cornfield on the side of a country road two days later. Climbing up on the roof of her silver bug car, she pulled on gloves to ward off the nip in the October air. He couldn't live somewhere warm like Florida. No, he had to live in blasted Kansas.
With a sigh of irritation at having to get up at dawn and do a stakeout in the middle of nowhere, she picked up the binoculars on loan from Jimmy, the rookie photographer at The Daily Planet.
Smallville seemed to be a rinky-dink town filled with strange miracles. Almost every one of the dozens of residents spoken with so far had a tale of some kind of rescue by a stranger whom never stuck around long enough to be identified. The tale grew curiouser and curiouser in that the residents seemed to know each other, but this Clark Kent seemed to stick to himself. No one knew much about him, and no one really seemed to care. His parents, Martha and Jon, were well-liked, but it seemed that they started becoming more withdrawn, almost secretive the past fifteen years.
A figure could be made out coming from the barn, but it was hard to tell if it was him or his father. The figure stopped. And then vanished. Another, smaller figure came out on the porch. Maybe being a half mile from the Kent's farmhouse was too far—it was impossible to make out faces.
"I said stay away."
That deep voice from behind caused such a start that she tumbled off the roof...and into his arms.
The landing hurt, almost like being caught by cement.
He dropped her to her feet in a heartbeat and took a step back.
Brushing the hair from her eyes, she blinked up at him.
The man stood more than a head taller and seemed broader up close in daylight than a couple nights ago. Those bright blue eyes didn't hold any patience.
"I don't just walk from a story." She tilted her chin up in defiance.
He rolled his eyes.
"Fine. If you won't talk, I'll ask your parents for an interview."
"Fine. Ask them yourself. They won't do it either." He shove his fingers down in his pockets.
She glanced down, taking in his jeans and blue t-shirt that strained across his biceps and chest. Ugh, there was something slightly sexy about this backroad, arrogant hick. Tearing her eyes away, she looked up to find him smirking. "Fine. Get in the car, and we'll see if they'll interview." She turned and climbed in.
He held the door. "I'll walk back, city girl. Wouldn't want to get your fancy car dirty." He smirked and shut the door before she could reply.
Something about him was so damn irritating, yet drew her in like a moth to a flame.
He showed up right when she opened the car door.
"How did you...?"
"Cut through the cornfields. It's called taking the fastest route, city girl." His tone held a hint of sarcasm, but his eye twinkled like he enjoyed being challenged.
"I'm not just a city girl, you know," she huffed and stood.
He closed her car door and didn't move.
"Well, are we going to the house?"
Those large hands shoved in his pockets again, and he rocked back on his heels. "I'm not the reporter sniffing around. I'll be in the barn." The corner of his mouth turned up, like the brat enjoyed being difficult.
"Fine." She waited for him to move from between her and the car door. "I need my laptop."
The man sidestepped and opened the door with a sweep of his hand. "Your chariot, city girl."
Gritting her teeth, she threw him a look before retrieving the computer. "How did you know I was out there? I was a half mile away." She stood and he shut the door, standing mere inches away.
The world stood still as her heart stumbled at the proximity. Her gaze locked with his, and he leaned in.
His voice grew husky as he whispered in her ear, "I knew because I could smell you."
As he slowly straightened, her heart started thundering. He was too sexy for his own good. Then his words hit. "Smell me? You can't smell me that far! Do you think I'm an idiot?" Rolling her eyes, she headed for the house.
"Well, if the shoe fits..." A slight chuckle softened his voice.
Whipping around with a saucy response, she frowned to see him walking away with his hands still in his pockets. He whistled a tune. "You're a jerk, you know that?!" she called.
"Can't hear ya, city girl!" he called over his shoulder and kept going toward the barn.
Talk about a machoagonistic, arrogant hick. Stomping a foot in irritation, she marched up the front steps of the house.
A lovely, petite, older woman opened the front door with a warm smile. "Can I help you?"
"Hi, my name is Lois—"
"Dear, come in. It's too cold to be out there. Step inside and tell me whatcha need."
"Oh, thank you." It was cold. Come to think of it, that did seem odd that Clark Kent had only been wearing a t-shirt.
If childhood paradise and love could smell, this would be it. The old farm house smelled of cookies, warmth and love. Gritting her teeth, she inwardly sighed. Of course Country Boy had a perfect childhood.
"I'm just getting cookies out of the oven. Do you want one, dear? Perhaps hot cocoa to warm up? I daresay your car must've broken down because no one else comes out this far from town." The sweet woman waved for her to follow into the kitchen.
"Actually—"
"I'll get my husband to take a look at your car. He's good at those things," she chattered and pulled on oven mits. "I'll send my son to town if any parts are needed. Do you want to stay for dinner? I'm sure they won't have your car ready in the next thirty minutes." She set the tray of perfect-looking chocolate chip cookies on a rack to cool and looked up in the next instant. "You'll have to excuse my manners. It's been so long since I've had a woman in the kitchen to talk to, and such a lovely one at that. Here, dear, let me take your coat."
She barely took a breath to speak before the woman came over and slid her coat off.
"I'm Martha. Here, I'll take your hat and mittens."
"Thank you, but—" She pulled off the hat.
"Oh, you have lovely brown hair. Mine was never quite brown or blonde, and them there grays came in and now it just looks an odd blonde-gray. Do you do something to make your hair so shiny? Mine is as dry as sticks."
"No, ma'm—"
A lovely laugh filled the air. "Oh, you don't need to call me that, just Martha."
Country Boy and his father walked in at that moment. He didn't look like he was in the mood for joking anymore.
"Dear, this is my husband Jon and son Clark. This is Lois. I've asked her to dinner. Jon her car—"
"She's a reporter." The moment the words left Clark's lips, Martha and Jon stared in silence.
Throwing him a look, she turned her attention to Martha. "I'm sorry, I was going to tell you."
"You're here about my boy, aren't you?" All the warmth left the woman's voice and she paled. "We have a little bit of money..."
"What? No, no, no," she said quickly. "I'm not looking to blackmail." Odd. So she hadn't been the first reporter to come around. "Many of the residents say they've been helped by an anonymous stranger—"
"And you think it's our son?" Jon spoke for the first time. He wasn't a muscular man but did appear to enjoy Martha's cooking. His dull blue-gray eyes held a gentleness, despite his abrasive delivery.
"I do. If he prefers to remain anonymous, I won't write the piece, but—"
"What a fool I was thinking your car broke down." Martha looked ashamed, and Jonathan stepped forward and put an arm around his wife.
Clark took her things from Martha and three steps, bridging the gap, and handed over the items. "I can't believe you lied to her," he hissed under his breath and grabbed her arm. "Time to go," he said a bit louder and ushered her to the living room.
"I didn't lie," she argued. For some reason, it mattered if he thought her a liar.
"Clark! Where are your manners?!" Martha hurried out and stepped in front of the door. "You let go of her. When have I taught you to manhandle a lady?" It was a bit comical watching Martha, who was almost half his size in every sense of the word, take him to task.
"She's not a lady, she's a reporter."
An audible gasp, far too large for the woman's size, came out of Martha. "Shame on you! You apologize and can do the dishes tonight."
His eyebrows rose.
She bit her lip to hold in a smile.
"Right now." Martha pried her arm free. "She's going to think we raised you in the barn. You be a gentleman and apologize and then get her some cocoa."
He turned to her, clearly biting his tongue. "My apologies. Now you can leave."
Martha's jaw dropped, and she swatted his arm. "It's dinner time. Reporter or not, we show folks hospitality. What's gotten into you?"
"Mom, we are not having a reporter hang around."
"Son," Jonathan said as he entered the living room, "would you go feed the cows? Let me talk with them." He patted Clark's shoulder.
Clark didn't even look at her as he walked out, slamming the front door on his way.
Jonathan held out his hand for her things. "Absolutely nothing gets published about tonight. You tell us what you want to write over dinner, and then maybe we'll do an interview. Do I have your word?"
Martha stepped forward and set a hand on her arm, terror reflecting in those kind eyes. "If anyone found out, they'd take away my baby and experiment on him." Tears shimmered in this kind woman's eyes.
These people were perhaps too naïve or too kind to realize that most slimy reporters would agree to anything to get the information—and then sell the story to the highest bidder. "I find myself in unfamiliar territory, as I've never walked away from a story before. If I do write one, I'll let you review it first."
A kind smile warmed Jonathan's face, and Martha's tears melted into a smile full of the trust of a child. When Jonathan held out a hand, she shook it.
"My name is Lois Lane, from The Daily Planet."
"Jonathan Kent, and my wife Martha."
Martha's eyes lit up. "Wait, you're the Lois Lane?"
A sideways glance at Jonathan revealed him crack a smile. "Um, which one?" No one had ever called her the Lois Lane.
"The Pulitzer Prize winner? Oh, I follow all of your stories!" The shorter woman linked an arm through hers and headed toward the kitchen. "Did you really end up a hostage when you did that bank robbery story? You must be more careful—your mother probably worries herself sick at night."
Her head swam from all the chit chat during dinner. Martha and Jonathan seemed like such sweet people. For some reason, Martha kept complimenting her and then would nudge Clark. He didn't do more than grunt when Martha would try to get him to say anything. His glare, however, remained locked on her—enough that it was hard not to squirm in the chair.
"Jon, would you help me bring the cookies out on a plate?" Martha gave him a pointed look.
"And leave our guest? You've never needed help getting cookies before."
Martha's eyebrows rose to the ceiling, and she nodded in Clark's direction.
"Oh! Oh yes, I'll see if we need to make a trip to the market for milk too." He got up and hurried into the kitchen with Martha.
Awkward silence. She glanced down at the table, never having been at a loss for words before. "I should get going home."
"You cry foul that easily?" He draped his arm across the back of the chair near him and sat back. The posture seemed so country, so...homey coming from him.
Her eyes met his. "I usually don't stay until glares start throwing actual barbs." She set the napkin on the table and started to get up.
"Just because I don't talk much doesn't mean I'm glaring."
She stilled in surprise. He didn't seem to have a malicious tone. "You were stark-raving angry that I was staying for dinner."
"A man's not allowed to change his mind?" He seemed truly perplexed.
Martha came out with cookies and spun right around, going back into the kitchen.
Clark glanced at the plate and then that intense gaze returned to her. "My parents are trying to play matchmaker, you know."
An unladylike snort escaped. "I noticed. You should run for the barn." She stood.
And he shot up from his chair to block her path. "It's considered rude around here to leave before dessert."
Embarrassment grasped now that she had caused such an upheaval for these poor people. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. You won't hear from me again." She grabbed her coat and hurried out the door, but Clark's heavy footsteps followed.
Holding up a hand, she kept walking. "I swear I'm not going to say anything. You don't need to threaten me again."
"I'm not going to threaten you." His voice sounded light like he smiled.
She kept walking quickly down the front steps.
"I have one question."
She sighed and turned.
He stood there with his hands in his jeans pockets, looking so delicious. Her breath caught.
He burst out laughing, the sound a beautiful timber.
"What?" Did he know what she'd been thinking? She blushed to high heaven. "What do you want?"
"Why don't you have questions?"
"I have a thousand questions, but those people don't deserve the terrorizing."
"But I do?" he cracked a smile.
"You're a jerk but are their son, unfortunately for them." She continued walking.
He fell into step beside her. "Are you always so judgmental?"
"I'm a reporter."
"We've established that. But as a woman, are you always so judgmental of men?"
She stopped. "Are you hitting on me?"
"Sweetheart, if I was hitting on you, you'd know it. Don't flatter yourself."
He looked too much like a rake with that boyish smile, so she spun on her heel. "Well, it's good you aren't hitting on me because my boyfriend would beat you." He didn't need to know that there wasn't a boyfriend.
He smiled and caught up to her. "Dating someone on the football team?"
She gave him a look.
"You seem like the type."
"How old are you?" she asked sarcastically.
"Twenty-nine, almost thirty. Too young for you, sweetheart, so stop trying."
Her mouth dropped open and she came to a screeching halt. "I'm twenty-eight in a couple months!"
He looked her up and down. "Good luck with aging."
Her mouth fell open even farther. "I should tell your mother what an ass you are."
He grinned. "The house is the other way. She wouldn't care—you almost made her cry."
"I didn't try to! Why are you following me?!" she barked.
"It's fun irritating you."
Tilting her head back to his substantial height was a mistake—it put him too close, too much like two people about to kiss. His finger reached up and stroked a strand of hair off her cheek.
Her heart took off at a million miles a minute.
His brow furrowed, as if something surprised and confused him. "Do I make you nervous?" Gentle concern filled his hypnotizing blue eyes, and his voice took on a husky quality.
With a slow shake of her head, she tore her gaze away to stare at his chest.
"Your heart is beating so fast," he whispered. "Why is it doing that if you're not nervous?" He seemed baffled.
Then it dawned and her eyes jumped to his. "How do you know my heart is beating fast?"
But he took a large step back and dropped his hand, almost as if he'd let something slip. "Come inside. I'll go check on the cookies—"
"Can you hear things that other people can't? Is that how you got to so many people when they were in trouble? You're strong enough to pick up trucks."
Those broad shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn.
"Were you born with some kind of mutation that heightened—"
He spun around and truly glared this time. "That made me a freak?" his voice cut in with such self-hatred.
She frowned. "No. Is that what you've been called? Why you hide here with your parents in this back-hills town when you're almost thirty years old?"
Instead of a smartass reply, his gaze fell to the floor, and he seemed to withdraw into himself.
"I don't mean that as an insult. You just make no sense hating me one minute and then the next..."
His corded throat convulsed in a hard swallow, as he seemed to be having some kind of internal battle. "You're reputed to protect your sources, even when it means trouble for you. Can I trust you that you'll keep tonight off the books?"
"If you request it, I'm bound to honor it." Her brow knit. It seemed like an odd turn of events that he'd divulge any secrets.
"Stop interviewing the town," he said, so quietly it was almost inaudible. "My senses became heightened as a teenager, compared to most people. I've always been strong when I'm upset—the doctor believed it to be an abnormal adrenaline surge. That's the big secret to your story—I can hear people in trouble from a distance."
"You said the doctor 'believed'—what does he think now?" Something about him seemed so sad, so alone that she set a hand on his arm.
He jerked his arm free and stared at where she'd touched.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be so familiar." Perhaps he didn't like being touched if his senses were heightened.
With a slow shake of his head, he finally met her gaze.
And he looked shaken to the core.
It had snowed so heavily during dessert that the roads were impassable.
"You're welcome to take my bed, and I can sleep on the sofa," Clark offered in subdued tones when Martha went upstairs to get some extra blankets. He'd been quiet over dessert, but the man again had stared at her the entire time.
"No, I've imposed enough. Besides, you're too big to fit on the sofa." Martha's nightgown had been too little, so Clark had loaned a sweatshirt and sweatpants that had needed the arms and legs rolled up. This was too intimate for comfort—wearing his clothes with his scent on them. It created an odd fluttering in her stomach.
When she looked up, he stared again. "What?"
"What?" He blinked.
"Why do you keep staring?"
No expression or answer came for several seconds. "You're so graceful."
That seemed like an odd thing to say.
"Goodnight." Then he spun on his heel and went upstairs.
She blinked at the sudden end to the conversation.
After lying in the dark for an hour and thoughts of the strange man upstairs keeping sleep at bay, she got up and pulled on her boots and coat. Cold, night air would do some good. Plus, the first snowfall of the season was always so peaceful and lovely.
Out on the porch, Jack Frost had a strong nip in the air, but not enough to abandon the beautiful scenery of snow blanketing the countryside. The stars glowed so brightly out here away from the cloak of city lights. A body could get used to this in-the-moment, gentler pace of life in the country.
She took a step down the porch stairs to go stand in the yard and let the snowflakes fall on her face.
"Dear, it's too cold out here!" Martha said from directly behind.
Jumping with fright, her foot slipped on the icy step. The railing sailed closer to her nose as the world tipped.
A gust of wind and pain exploded through her head right before strong arms wrapped around, slowing the fall as everything went black.
"She needs to go to the hospital." A deep voice spoke quietly.
"Did you see anything wrong?" That female voice sounded familiar, but it was too hard to place it through the haze.
"No, but I'm not a doctor." That voice sounded anxious.
"Just give her a minute. She's only been out for a few seconds." An older man's voice cut in, serving as a rock for the anxiety growing in the room.
"Dad, this isn't the old days. Concussions are taken much more seriously." Then he silenced. "Her heart rate is picking up. She's coming to."
Forcing her eyes open, colors blurred together into blobs.
"Can you see alright?" That deep voice. Memories floated back. Clark.
A small shake of her head induced nausea, and a bowl shoved in her lap just in time.
He gently replaced his hand holding her hair back with a rubber band once her stomach calmed.
"I'm sorry—"
"Hush, dear. I shouldn't have startled you. Jon, see if you can get Dr. Johnson on the phone to find out what to do until we can get her to a hospital," Martha ordered as the basin was taken away.
"No, I'll be alright."
"You're not alright." Clark's tone didn't leave room for argument. The sofa slowly sank on her right side and body heat radiated from hard muscles. A cold rag pressed to her brow. "You can't see much, can you? You're looking at the wall instead of Mom."
"I just see blobs." She took over holding the rag and closed her eyes as nausea threatened again.
"I can get her to the hospital," he said under his breath.
"Yes, but the wind chill is already dropping to twenty below. Running will give her frostbite or hypothermia," Martha whispered back.
The conversation made no sense, but there wasn't any energy to argue. As the world began to tip, she reached out a hand to brace and felt a very hard thigh.
A strong hand wrapped around her upper arm, as if to catch her.
"I think I'm...gonna fall," she panted. The nausea worsened.
"Lie down—you're swaying." But before she could move, he laid her down as easily as if she were a doll.
Jonathan's voice returned. "The Doc said that it just sounds like a bad concussion and get her checked as soon as the blizzard stops."
"Get her bundled—I'm taking her now." Then Clark's footsteps faded away.
The moment Martha helped her sit up, nausea reared full force and the world melted into blackness.
She woke up to beeping and blurry images moving around.
"I'll go tell the doctor she's awake," a female voice said.
"Thank you," a deep male voice responded.
She held her head and tried to sit up.
"Whoa, city girl. Stay in bed." Hands gently pushed her back down.
"Clark?" She squinted.
"Yours truly. Can you see?"
"No, everything looks worse."
"Umm...nurse!" he called nervously and his outline shot toward the door.
She rubbed her eyes. "Who took out my contacts!"
"Contacts? You can't see because of contacts?"
"Yes! Where are we?!" She saw an I.V. in her arm.
"Helllooo, sleeping beauty," he grumbled. "You have a concussion. We're at the hospital. You almost smashed your head open..."
Someone walked in and Clark's silhouette backed up.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Murphy. You're at St. Joseph Hospital. Do you have any blurred vision?" A light flashed in her eyes.
"Yes, I would appreciate having my contacts back so I can see."
"In a minute. Any nausea, dizziness..."
"No, may I have my contacts now?" she asked in irritation. He listened to her heart, ignoring her mood.
"And how long was she unconscious before you brought her in, Mr. Lane?"
"Five minutes," Clark answered.
"Lucky you were nearby," the doctor said.
"Yep, we almost weren't going to move to the city. Lucky thing to be near the neuro hospital."
She had to be hallucinating.
"I'd say we keep your wife overnight just to be sure."
She opened her mouth but Clark quickly said, "Sounds good."
The doctor left.
"No, it doesn't! And when did you become my husband?!" She looked at her left hand quickly to see a gold band. "Oh god, we didn't," she felt nauseous again.
He chuckled and dropped into the chair near the bed. "Don't you remember, sweetheart? You're crazy wild in bed."
She felt faint.
"Relax. Mom gave me her ring because she said they wouldn't let me in with you unless we were married."
She released a huge breath.
"You could do a lot worse," he commented.
"Just because you look beautiful doesn't mean your personality matches," she retorted.
"You think I'm beautiful," he moved close, his grin apparent.
"What, are you like, twelve? You're so immature."
"Hey, you bicker right along with me."
"Because you're so arrogant."
"So have Mr. Football come beat me," he said dryly.
"You don't want to mess with him," she bragged.
"Oooh, Mr. Muscles," he mocked.
"Lex Luther."
He was silent.
"Yeah," she smirked.
"You're with him?"
Was, but he didn't need to know that. He sounded...disappointed. "Why?"
"He is a billionaire yet isn't Mr. Philanthropist."
She tensed. "And you are?"
"I'm almost as poor as a church mouse but don't turn away from the needy," he frowned. "He probably flies you to Paris for the weekend, but has never lowered himself to handing a beggar a dollar. Probably buys you diamonds monthly too. Easier than working to win affection."
Put like that, Lex did sound narcissistic. And she sounded like a brat.
"Weekly," she said and carefully sat up. "I hardly have use for such things, but he'd get angry if I give them away or sell them to charities," she said quietly.
"Bet he taught you that with a black eye." He said it simply, not accusingly, not judgmentally.
She didn't say anything.
"Just because men are stronger, it's okay to hit women?" he asked gently.
"Most people have a limit when pushed hard enough." Why was she embarrassed? She sounded so pathetic; didn't she learn?
"You pushed me too," he said quietly. "I could flick you with my finger and crush through your skull. But you knew that."
She kept her eyes downcast on her hands. "I studied you out first. And your eyes are too soft—you wouldn't hurt anyone."
"Why do you stay with him?"
She laughed bitterly. "I have the worst taste in men. He's far above what I dated in high school. Maybe when I'm forty I'll finally pick someone nice."
"Why do you stay with him?" he repeated and moved closer so she could see him. His eyes were sad.
"Did. Don't pity me," she said defensively.
"I don't. I just wonder why someone as accomplished as you would feel like you needed someone like him."
"Why would someone who studied journalism at an Ivy league college live on a farm with his parents?"
"I have a secret that threatens my life if it got out," he shrugged. "It's easier to hide this way."
"And not live? I bet you've never had a girlfriend," she frowned, trying to figure him out.
He shrugged. "If you're any indication of the opposite sex, I'm better off," he smiled.
"And lonely," she whispered, an ache growing for him—like his loneliness was becoming hers.
His gaze slid to the floor.
An awkward silence fell. "You don't have to stay."
Those blue eyes slowly lifted to meet hers. "You're nervous being at the hospital," he said so gently. Then he cleared his throat and looked away, as if remembering himself. "I know I'm not your first choice, but I can stay."
For some reason, that tugged at her heart. "Maybe you're not so bad, Clark Kent."
"You're not so bad yourself, city girl," he replied, those eyes looking right into her.
His eyes narrowed and he jumped up the same instant that a wave of nausea slammed, shoving a bowl in her lap and holding her hair back just in time.
The next couple hours were a blur as the nausea and dizziness tried to return, despite the medicines. But he stayed close, helping her sit up when nausea threatened. When the dizziness grew so bad that she had to lie down with her eyes closed and clutch the sheets just to be grounded to something, his hand silently slipped into hers and held fast. His other hand firmly held her upper arm through the night, somehow lessening the dizziness a fraction with the reassurance that the room wasn't truly spinning.
She woke up late the next morning to a note on the bedside table.
Ran home to shower and change. Back soon.
Clark
Within fifteen minutes, he returned and looked as fresh as ever. "Hey, city girl. I brought some fried chicken, but you, unfortunately, get hospital food." He sat with a bag of delicious smelling food in his lap.
She looked at it longingly with a sigh.
He grinned and pulled out two paper plates. "Shhhh," he set a finger to his lips. "Can your stomach handle it? The nurse mentioned that you kept down breakfast."
With a smile, she bit her lip and pretended to be a good patient when the nurse brought in some mush for an early lunch.
She turned to him when they were alone and handed over her tray.
"Um, no. You eat that." He eyed the revolting gruel.
"No, come on. Give me some chicken." She bounced in the bed slightly in excitement.
He chuckled. "They record what you eat. After your tray is clear, you can have chicken."
"Nooo," she whined. "You can't make me eat this goo."
He gave a stern look.
"At least take some of it. Come on, you have to be like, 220 pounds. You can pack some of this away."
"City girl," he warned.
She plopped it on her lap and sighed. It took ten minutes and a lot of grimacing to eat what appeared to be soup.
"You're such a baby," he laughed.
She held out a spoonful to him.
He took a tiny taste. "Ugh! Ew, that's awful!" He jumped up and got a drink of water.
"And you're making me eat it," she pouted.
"Don't give me puppy eyes. It's for your own good." He returned to his seat.
The nurse came in a few minutes later. "Aren't you hungry?"
"No," she replied.
"Oh dear."
"Have you tasted this? It's awful."
"I know. If you eat a few more bites, I'll take it away."
"I'm nauseous," she lied.
"Lois," he warned.
"You people like torturing me," she whined and choked down a couple more bites.
The nurse took the tray away, and she nearly jumped him for the food.
"Whoa, tiger," he smiled and held it away. "Stay in bed."
"I haven't had real food since dinner. Feed me!"
He laughed and filled her plate with chicken and mashed potatoes. Then he set it in her lap and snatched his hand away. "Don't eat me."
"Har har." She took a bite and her eyes rolled back. "Oh my god, did your mom make this? It's amazing," she asked around a mouthful.
He sat back and watched her devour her plate.
"Don't you want it? I'll eat it." She held out a hand for his plate.
"I think you made a world record. Yes, I want it, and no, I made it."
She froze with a chicken leg to her lips and stared at him. "You cook? Like this? Why aren't you married? I will remain your wife if you cook for me." She chowed down while he slowly ate, apparently vastly entertained.
"Yeah, I'd have to cook cuz you can't eat anywhere in public," he smiled.
"Did you bring more?"
"Nope." His plate was cleared, and he pulled out two slices of chocolate cake. "I've heard women like chocolate."
"Oooh," she beamed as he unwrapped it.
"Wow, who says women are difficult? Throw food at them, and they're happy as clams." He handed her a plate.
"Oh, this is better than the chicken," she purred. After wolfing down her piece, she dug in the plastic bag. "Do you have anything else?"
"Uh, no. I didn't realize I was feeding a bear."
"I'm starving today. I could eat for two people," she mumbled and dropped the bag back on the floor beside him. "Why are you looking at me so bug eyed?"
"You're not pregnant are you? The doctor asked me before they did the CT, and I didn't dare x-ray you myself in case."
"No!"
He let out a sigh of relief.
"Why would I be pregnant?"
He started tidying up.
"You're not getting out of this." She crossed her arms over her chest, catching her I.V. and ripping it out. "Ow!"
He darted over with a gauze before the blood even started to leak out and held firm pressure. "You are accident prone, aren't you?" He looked under the gauze. "You tore the vein pretty good. I think the doctor needs to look at it."
"No, I'm fine..."
He lifted it for her to see, her words dying when she saw a one-inch tear and blood pumping out. He trotted out the door and returned with a nurse.
"We're going to need to stitch that. I'll be back with a doctor," she said.
He sat on the edge of the bed and took over holding the gauze. "I see it will be a task returning you home in one piece, city girl," he winked at her.
She swallowed down the butterflies in her stomach. "Why would I be pregnant?"
He busied himself with her hand and mumbled, "You have a boyfriend and surprises happen."
"I'm kinda old fashioned," she blushed.
His eyes rose to hers. "Are you now?"
"Uncool, I know."
"Very cool," he countered quietly with a smile.
She locked eyes with him, but a doctor entered with supplies. Clark gave up his seat. He did, however, hover on her other side while her hand was numbed.
When the first stitch was placed, he looked worried and sat on the bed, rubbing her knee through the blanket.
"Alright?" Clark asked.
She nodded with a smile. "I can't feel it anymore."
"Good luck having kids. He'll be a wreck in delivery," the doctor grumbled.
She turned ten shades of red; Clark gave an embarassed smile.
As it turned out, hospitals gave certain foods after a concussion for a reason—chicken and cake weren't fun coming back up.
There was no recollection of the trip home, just feeling miserable and being in strong arms as he walked up the front steps of his house.
Clark sat in a chair when she insisted on sleeping on the sofa instead of in his bed. He ran an ice-cold rag over her temples, the only thing that worked to keep the nausea away.
"You don't have to stay up," she breathed. Even the effort to talk triggered dizziness.
"I'm fine. Besides, you need someone to watch you. I'm sorry about lunch—I didn't realize you need to take it slow today."
A gentle, cold breeze swept over her face. That helped with the terrible headache that worsened the dizziness. A soft sigh escaped. "Did you open a window? That helps so much," she whispered.
The light breeze continued, but had a slow, even pattern like that of someone breathing. Odd. Maybe it was the angle of the wind coming through the window. Blessed sleep came.
The sun shined through the windows the next morning.
Rubbing her eyes, only a light headache remained and vision was clear for the most part.
Clark slept in the recliner with his cell phone still in his hand. He looked dead tired having woken her up every hour during the night, claiming it was the doctor's orders.
Nature called. Sitting up slowly seemed to go alright. Standing, however, resulted in a tumble into Clark's lap.
He startled awake, and his arms pulled her against his chest. "Are you alright?"
"Sorry, I was trying to get up for the washroom."
"You're too injured to get up alone." He scooped her up and stood like she weighed nothing. Then he carried her up the stairs.
Her arms wrapped around his neck. His large muscles felt hard—to the point of being uncomfortable to touch. The man didn't seem breathless after carrying her up the staircase and down the hall. But by the time he deposited her in the bathroom, his muscles seemed softer like how they should be. Maybe concussions caused hallucinations.
The moment her feet touched the ground and she set a hand on the counter, he stepped back. "Are you alright alone, or should I get my mom?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks."
Drying her hands minutes later, a knock came.
"Is it alright if I come in?" He must've been standing there waiting.
"Yeah."
A frown wrinkled his brow as he entered and took in her using the walls and counter for balance to shuffle across the room. "Can you see straight yet?"
"Things are just a little blurry now." But the room dipped and pitched forward.
"Whoa." His arms held tight.
It was like slamming into a wall. "Ow, god, you're like cement. You should work out a little less." She rubbed her arm as he scooped her up.
"Maybe you should more so you have better reaction time on icy steps."
She wrapped her arms around his neck that was hard as stone again. His profile had an edge to it that stemmed from tension. "How did you catch me last night? You weren't even out on the porch."
"I didn't catch you."
"I felt you."
He sighed through his nose. "Fine, I did. I was coming out with Mom."
"No, you weren't. Your mom was standing in the doorway alone—I saw her right when I fell."
The muscle in his jaw flexed, as if he gritted his teeth. "I practically shoved her out of the way—"
"You wouldn't have been able to reach me in time."
"I think you hit your head too hard." He reached the bottom of the staircase. His muscles softened enough that there was almost give under her fingers.
As he lowered her onto the sofa, she held onto his neck to keep him there and searched his eyes. "Clark..." The words to ask what had happened to him that made him seem too fast and too strong, in addition to his super hearing and sight, faded as his eyes locked with hers.
Sadness and loneliness emanated from him. The trust that had begun to form was so fragile yet.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently pulled her arms free. The skin of his hands grew noticeably softer in those seconds, and his touch no longer caused discomfort. He didn't straighten as his eyes fell to her lips.
There was something so calm and safe about him. If he didn't still hold her arms, the urge to stroke his cheek would've been too strong to resist. "They're wrong, you know," she whispered, not wishing to break the spell.
"Who?" he breathed, his eyes so gentle.
"Whomever spoke ill of you. You're kind, and it doesn't matter what condition you have."
He shot upright in the blink of an eye, and his expression stoned over. "Mom should be getting up. I'll get her and grab a nap. Good day, Ms. Lane."
The man was half way up the staircase before his words sank in. Unable to sit up or turn around to look at him without falling off the sofa from dizziness, she bit her lip. Profound sadness swelled for his coldness and for his hurt. If he truly had super hearing, he would catch her words that simply needed to get out. "I only wished to repay the gentle kindness you've shown me," she whispered.
His footsteps hesitated near the top of the stairs.
"Good day, Mr. Kent," she breathed, with tears in her eyes for the sudden emptiness that his coldness left in her heart.
It took a moment before his footsteps finished climbing the stairs.