Helena's POV
The first thing I became aware of was heat.
A lot of heat.
The second thing?
I couldn't freaking move.
My eyes cracked open, groggy, brain still fogged with sleep. The ceiling swam into focus, wooden beams, honey-colored in the soft morning light.
Everything felt... heavy.
Not just my limbs. My whole damn body. Like I'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight, lost beautifully, and somehow loved every second of it.
And then I realized why.
Clark.
The warmth surrounding me wasn't just from the thick quilt half-draped over us, it was him. His arm was locked around my waist, an unmovable wall of muscle and heat, his chest pressed flush against my back.
Okay. That explained why I couldn't move.
It also explained why every inch of me felt like it had been wrecked in the best possible way.
Suddenly, I was very aware of how little we were wearing. I blinked. We were both completely naked. Bare skin against bare skin, his legs tangled with mine.
Oh. Well. That was new.
I shifted slightly, and my body protested immediately, a delicious ache deep in my muscles, a reminder of just how much he'd given me.
Holy. Freaking. Hell. I swallowed hard, thighs pressing together at the memory, my lips curving into a smirk.
I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of him. Something undeniably male in a way I'd never encountered before. Like sun-warmed stone and charged air before a thunderclap. No sweat, no salt, nothing sour, just that clean, crisp sharpness that was distinctly Clark. Something too pure to be human. It should be illegal to smell this good.
I shifted slightly, trying to wiggle free.
No dice.
His arm was a goddamn steel bar, locked around me, completely unyielding.
He was spooning me from behind so I couldn't see his face, but I could guess from the slow, even rhythm of his breath, the stillness in his frame. He was out cold.
I tried again, pressing my hands against his forearm, attempting to pry him off me. It was like trying to move a solid block of reinforced concrete.
I let out a slow, amused breath. Okay. This was kind of funny.
My bladder didn't think so, though.
"Uh, big guy? Little help?"
Nothing.
I craned my neck, glaring at the side of his stupidly perfect face.
"Clark," I tried again, nudging him harder with my elbow. "Unless you want me to embarrass myself in a way that guarantees you'll never find me hot again, I need you to let go."
That did it. He inhaled sharply, eyes flickering open, bright and disoriented.
His entire body went rigid. The second he realized where he was his arm unclamped instantly, he wrenched back so fast you'd think I'd burned him. His hand shot away like he didn't trust himself to touch me.
"Shit," he muttered.
I exhaled dramatically, finally rolling onto my back, stretching out my limbs with a satisfied groan. "Jesus, Kent. I thought I was gonna have to gnaw my own arm off."
Clark, however, wasn't smiling. He was stiff as a board, brows furrowed, hands fisted in the sheets, like he was physically holding himself together.
Before I could say anything, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up abruptly, head in his hands.
Ah. There it was.
The panic.
I sighed. "Clark—"
But he was already dragging a frustrated hand down his face, his other fist clenching against his knee.
"I could've crushed you," he muttered.
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. You think I'd still be breathing if you actually crushed me?"
His shoulders tensed. My smirk faded slightly.
I reached out, nudging him with my foot. "Hey. It's okay. You didn't hurt me."
He exhaled sharply but didn't respond. I let a beat pass before nudging him again, harder this time.
Clark grunted, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
I smirked. "Besides, if that was you accidentally smothering me in your sleep, I'd love to see what you'd do on purpose."
His lips parted slightly, his ears tinting faintly pink.
Triumphant, I stretched, arms overhead. "Alright, big guy. I need you to do something for me."
He blinked, still looking like his brain was rebooting. "...What?"
I pointed at him. "Turn off the hearing."
Clark's brows furrowed. "What?"
"You heard me," I deadpanned, already heading toward the bathroom. "I need to pee, and if you don't turn that supersonic eavesdropping bullshit off, I swear to God—"
His hands shot up in surrender. "I won't listen!"
"Good." I narrowed my eyes. "And don't cheat."
Clark huffed a breath. "Jesus."
I grinned as I disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.
As I did my business, my thoughts drifted.
Clark had always been a little different.
Not in the way that made people stop and stare. It was quieter than that. Subtle. The kind of different you only noticed if you were paying attention.
And, apparently, I hadn't been. That thought made my stomach twist in ways I couldn't quite explain. Because how the hell had I not noticed?
Back at Gotham Academy, before everything flipped upside down, I thought I had him figured out.
Clark Kent: the criminology nerd who sat toward the back of the lecture hall. The guy who didn't speak much unless called on, and when he did, he answered like he had the entire syllabus tattooed behind his eyelids.
I used to roll my eyes at how he could recall every legal precedent, every case file, every damn thing the professor ever mentioned in passing. It was unnerving.
"Jesus, Kent, do you sleep with the textbook under your pillow?" I had joked more than once.
He had always just shrugged, looking vaguely uncomfortable, like he didn't know how to explain it.
I thought maybe he was just one of those ultra-genius types, the kind that got straight A's without trying, the kind that would make a killer lawyer one day.
But now? Now I knew.
Clark never forgot anything. Because his brain literally couldn't. His mind worked at a level I couldn't even comprehend. And that wasn't even the biggest thing I had missed.
I had assumed he was just reserved. Maybe a little socially awkward. But now I understood.
He wasn't awkward. He wasn't reserved. He had been containing himself. Every day. Every moment.
Like the way he never walked through the middle of the hallway, always keeping close to the edge, moving just slightly out of sync with the crowd so he never had to brush against anyone.
He never fidgeted, never stretched his legs out like most guys did after an hour of lecture. Never leaned casually against desks, never dropped his weight into a chair without bracing first, like the laws of physics were different for him.
He was always just...still. Too aware of his own space.
It wasn't just his personality. It was because he had to be.
And I hadn't even noticed. Because Clark had played the part so fucking well, I had bought it.
And then, just days ago, that illusion had shattered. The moment he had told me, shown me, what he was capable of, it was like my brain had to rewire itself in real time.
And after last night, I didn't think I'd ever see him the same way again.
The way he touched me. The way he held himself back, even when I could feel the sheer force of him barely contained beneath it.
Because the thing was, this wasn't even the full extent of him. And yet it had still been the most intense experience of my goddamn life.
How the hell had that been his first time? He moved like someone operating on pure animal instinct, like some ancient part of his brain knew exactly how to push me past every limit I thought I had, while never once crossing a line.
Like he was built for this. And fuck, that wasn't the Clark Kent I thought I knew.
The Clark I met in class would duck his head when I caught him staring too long, would mumble some dry, deadpan remark under his breath when I teased him. That Clark seemed... almost unsure around me, like he was always double-checking his own presence, making sure he wasn't too much.
But the Clark who pinned me to his sheets last night? The one who had me gasping his name, gripping his shoulders, legs wrapped tight around his waist?
That Clark wasn't unsure at all.
I remembered the last thing before I passed out.
Clark carrying me to bed.
Correction: Clark moving us to the bed at a speed that made my stomach drop, like gravity didn't apply to us anymore.
It had been dizzying. Like teleporting, except my body still felt the shift, still registered the moment we landed. One second, we were on the couch. The next, I was on the mattress, beneath him, his mouth back on my skin.
I wasn't used to that. I wasn't used to any of this.
The way he handled me like I weighed nothing, like shifting me across the damn room was as easy as breathing. He made the impossible feel casual.
I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
A little messy. A little wrecked. A lot satisfied.
Smirking, I grabbed a towel, wiped my hands, then stepped back into the bedroom.
Clark hadn't moved. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, still brooding like the world was ending.
I sighed under my breath. Dramatic ass.
Then he finally dragged his eyes to me.
And froze.
His pupils flared, locking onto me like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
I grinned, stretching lazily. "It's not like you didn't see everything last night."
But he didn't grin back.
His brows pulled together, forehead pinched, like something physically hurt him.
...Okay. Ouch. That wasn't the reaction I expected.
His throat bobbed. His gaze dragged lower, to my hip, my thigh, my ribs. His jaw clenched so hard I swore I heard his teeth grind.
Something about the way he looked at me made my skin prickle.
Wait.
"I did that." He finally said.
I blinked. What?
I followed his gaze, scanning myself quickly, then barely registered the faint bruises.
Oh.
Pressure marks. Nothing that wouldn't fade by noon, but enough that with his absurdly perfect vision, he'd picked up on them immediately, and he looked like he wanted to throw up.
I sighed. "Clark."
His hands had curled into fists, tension radiating off him in waves.
"I swore I'd never hurt you," he said hoarsely.
"Okay, first of all," I said, crossing my arms, "if this is what 'hurting me' looks like, you're doing a piss-poor job of it."
His jaw locked tighter, eyes flicking back to the bruises like they personally offended him.
I exhaled through my nose. "Clark, it doesn't hurt," I said simply. "At all. It was our first time. It happens." I gestured vaguely. "Trial run. Rookie mistakes."
His jaw ticked. "That's not the point—"
"It's exactly the point." I tilted my head. "If you actually hurt me, I'd be limping... Hell, I'd probably be icing something right now." I lifted an arm, flexing my wrist dramatically. "Look, fully operational. No damage, no regrets. Just a very satisfied, very not-injured woman who would very much like to shower sometime today."
His brows twitched, like he didn't know whether to be exasperated or relieved. Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders, but he still didn't look convinced.
"You wanna know what actually sucks?" I added.
His eyes snapped to mine.
"That I was holding back too."
Something in his face flickered.
I smirked. "Round two is gonna be even better."
Clark exhaled, his fingers uncurling against the sheets.
"You coming?" I asked, grabbing some clean clothes off the chair.
Clark blinked up at me.
I wiggled my brows. "I'm about to take a shower. Don't tell me you're too shy now, Clarkie."
The muscle in his jaw jumped. And just like that, his expression shifted. "I'm not shy," he said simply. Gone was the wide-eyed panic. He stood fluidly, stretching his arms over his head.
My eyes flicked down before I could stop myself. Just once.
I was not staring.
I was not staring
...I was absolutely staring.
Big mistake. All broad shoulders, defined abs, lean muscle. He wasn't built like a man. He was built like something engineered. Something otherworldly.
I swallowed, shifting my grip on my clothes, forcing my gaze back up like I hadn't just done that. Clark's brows lifted just a fraction. Like he knew.
Not just in the normal, cocky-guy-who-knows-you're-checking-him-out way.
It was deeper than that. Like he was seeing something I wasn't even aware I was giving away. Like he could smell the shift in my body chemistry.
Wait. Could he do that? My stomach flipped.
His lips tugged at the corners, not quite a smirk, but damn close.
"Careful, Helena," he added, grabbing his own clothes. "I might start thinking you're the shy one."
My mouth opened. Closed. Oh, he was absolutely not allowed to turn that around on me.
I narrowed my eyes. "Please. I've seen better."
Clark smirked, an actual smirk this time, small but undeniably there.
"Uh-huh."
I scoffed. "Humble much?"
"Hm." His smirk deepened, just a little. "You tell me."
Oh, hell no.
Well. This morning just got a lot more interesting.
Clark's POV:
The safehouse bathroom was warm stone and dark wood, modern but built to feel old-world. Heated floors chased off the chill, the shower a sleek rainfall head embedded in slate. The scent of pine, cedar, and fresh rain from the woods outside seeped in through the cracked window.
It was a contrast to everything I'd ever known.
Helena flicked the light on as she stepped in, tossing her clothes onto the counter. I followed, my jaw tightening as the warm glow sharpened the bruises on her skin. Smudges of color on her hips, the inside of her thighs, the curve of her ribs. Nothing compared to the deep, black-and-blue stains I'd seen on my mom at the hospital...but enough.
Enough to twist something deep in my gut.
Helena caught my expression in the mirror and sighed. "Dude."
She didn't wait for an answer, just turned on the shower, testing the water with her wrist before stepping under the spray. Her movements were unbothered, like she wasn't standing there with evidence of me on her skin.
I watched how she moved. How she stretched her arms, rolled her shoulders, ran the washcloth over her body without a single flinch. No tight inhale. No quick adjustments to shift pressure off a sore spot. No wincing when the warm water hit her skin.
Her pulse was steady. No erratic spikes. No micro-expressions betraying discomfort.
I exhaled slowly, forced myself to accept it. She wasn't faking it. She actually wasn't hurt.
Still.
Next time... a fraction lighter. Just below the threshold she swore was enough for her to notice. But enough for me.
I stepped into the shower, the heat soaking into my muscles, rolling down my back, easing tension that had been coiled there since the moment I woke up. Steam curled up, fogging the glass. The water pressure was good. Better than the weak-ass spray at home that barely counted as running water.
Behind me, Helena shifted. I heard the rustle of fingers sweeping through her hair, gathering it up, the soft scrape of her nails against her scalp, the shift of her bare feet against the stone floor.
Something about it, the normalcy of it, settled a little more of the tension under my skin.
Then, her hands were on my back.
I stiffened.
It wasn't intentional, just a knee-jerk reaction. A lifetime of anticipating contact before it happened. She hesitated for half a second, like she felt it, before pressing on, dragging a washcloth slowly across my back.
"Relax, Kent," she murmured, voice tinged with amusement. "I'm just returning the favor."
I exhaled through my nose, willing myself to unwind.
For years, my body had been a calibrated weapon, every action accounted for, every impulse kept in check. Nothing was instinct, not the way I walked, not the way I reached for things, not the way I breathed near someone too close.
And now her hands were moving over me, and I wasn't bracing for it. I wasn't calculating pressure, second-guessing every shift in her weight, wasn't thinking about how easy it would be to hurt her.
She just touched me. Like it was normal. Like I was normal.
I shut my eyes, let my head tip forward under the water, letting myself have this.
Even if I still had to wake up tomorrow and go back to being that thing Jake drilled into my head.
I reached back, wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into me. I knew exactly how much pressure to use now. How much she liked. How much was just enough.
Her body tensed for half a second before melting into me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She trusted me.
She trusted me.
I didn't know if it was the heat, the steam, or the aftershock of last night still running through my veins. I didn't care.
I just held her.
And for the first time in my life, I let myself believe I could keep this.
By the time we stepped out, I grabbed a fresh towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking the edges in at her front before she could protest.
She blinked up at me, caught off guard.
"Uh, thanks?" she said.
I winked, securing my own towel around my waist before grabbing my toothbrush.
Behind me, she hummed softly, rubbing the towel through her hair, the sound weirdly soothing.
The moment felt weirdly domestic. She threw me a sideways glance, catching my reflection in the mirror.
"You keep looking at me like that, Kent, and I might start thinking you want another round."
I snorted. "Didn't say I didn't."
Helena smirked, grabbed her clothes, and disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. And just like that, I was alone.
The silence settled. Water dripped off my hair, beading along my collarbone before trailing down my chest. I worked the toothbrush absently, letting my mind wander for the first time all morning.
And that's when it hit me. Last night wasn't a risk. I had been in control. Every single second. Jake was wrong. I wasn't some loaded gun with a broken safety.
I could have this. I could have her.
A slow breath left my nose as I met my own gaze in the mirror. For once, I didn't look like someone bracing for the worst. I looked like someone who knew exactly who he was. And I liked it.
I spit into the sink, rinsed my mouth, watching the foam swirl before disappearing down the drain.
And that's when I heard the phone buzz in the bedroom.
I tried to tune it out. I hated prying. My hearing was always on, but I'd trained myself to filter, to ignore, to let the noise pass through me like wind through open windows.
But the second I heard his voice, I froze.
Damian.
"Tell me you're not serious."
Helena sighed dramatically. "Oh, here we go."
"Helena. This isn't a joke. Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"I don't know, Damian. Maybe you can clarify it for me."
"You're in a safehouse. With him."
My fingers flexed against the counter. I knew exactly what he meant by him. Like I wasn't a person, just a problem waiting to happen.
"Jesus, Damian, do you have a tracker in my skull or are you just stalking me for sport. You need to cut that shit out."
"When you stop making catastrophically bad decisions, I'll back off. Until then, forgive me for checking you still have a pulse."
"Most people don't have to put up with your drama, yet here I am."
A sharp breath. Damian's irritation was almost audible. "Helena."
"Damian."
"He's unstable."
"And you're insufferable."
"This isn't funny."
"Oh, I know. I'm laughing so hard."
I shouldn't have listened. But Damian's words hit exactly where they were meant to. The pressure in my hands built, like something under my skin wanted out.
Unstable.
Like I was some feral thing she'd let too close. I stared down at the faint, hairline fractures forming under my fingertips. Breathe.
"You've seen him lose control."
"Oh please." she shot back. "Half our family tree has snapped a some lowlife's femur just to make a point. But sure, let's clutch our pearls over Clark."
"No,"Damian said. "I think you're ignoring what it means."
Silence.
"Maybe you're right," he continued. "Maybe it won't happen again. Maybe you won't say the wrong thing. Maybe he won't get overwhelmed. Maybe you'll never put yourself in a situation where he doesn't even have to try." He paused for a second. "You sure enough to bet your life on that?"
My stomach pulled in on itself, my throat locking up, dry as dust.
Helena huffed, unimpressed. "Yeah, well, I've nagged, mocked, and pissed him off for two years straight, and the worst he's ever done is roll his eyes." She scoffed. "Please. If Clark was gonna kill me, he'd have done it by the fifth time I stole his fries."
"He doesn't have to mean it."
"He's not going to hurt me, Damian. Not on purpose. Not by accident. Not at all."
The words stuck somewhere in my chest, right under my sternum. Helena said them so casually, like they were a fact she didn't even question. And I didn't realize how much I needed to hear them until that moment.
Damian sighed, exasperated. "Okay sure, lock yourself in a cabin with Gotham's deadliest wildcard. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Damn, you're right. I should be in a safer place. With less judgment. Like a crime-riddled alleyway."
"Hope you're right. Because if you're not—"
"Yeah, yeah, 'risk factors,' 'unforeseen variables,' 'potential volatility', blah blah. I get it. You memorized the Bat-Report and now I'm reckless for not running for my life. You're getting repetitive, baby bird."
"Fine. Hope your confidence keeps you safe. Don't say I didn't warn you. No, actually, do say it. I love being right."
"Alright, that was fun. Thanks for your input. Bye now."
A click. The line went dead.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Then, just like that, the silence settled. And fuck, it was too loud.
I leaned forward, staring at my reflection like it had the answers. I looked like I was bracing for something that had already hit me.
Because yeah. It stung.
It wasn't new. Damian had been looking at me like a walking catastrophe since the moment I met him.
But what got me, was that Helena knew all that. And she still said what she said.
Something in my ribcage loosened.
She knew every ugly, fucked-up thing in that file, every fear the Bat had drilled into Damian's head, and she still looked at me and went, Yeah, you're fine.
I huffed out a laugh. Shook my head, reached for my toothbrush and shoved it into my mouth a little too hard, scrubbing like I could grit away the feeling lodged in my chest. I spit into the sink, and wiped my mouth.
Damian's words still hurt. But for the first time, they didn't bury under my skin like knives.
Because Helena's words got there first.
And they were louder.
Helena looked up from where she was sitting on the bed, pulling on her boots. She didn't need to ask. One look at my face and she already knew.
"So," she drawled, tying the laces. "How was your eavesdropping experience?"
I scoffed, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Yeah, because I love accidentally hearing people call me unstable first thing in the morning."
"Pfft." She waved a hand. "That's just how Damian flirts."
I huffed out something between a laugh and a grunt, reaching for my jeans. As I stepped into them, I caught Helena yawning and rubbing her face out of the corner of my eye.
Before I even thought about it, I was already downstairs, flipping on the coffee maker. As it started to brew, I scanned the cabinets, x-ray vision cutting through wood until I spotted a box of pastries behind a canister of tea. I grabbed two, tossed them onto a napkin, poured the coffee in a blur, then blew a cooling breath over the rim, just enough to keep her from burning her tongue.
Helena looked up just as I walked in, coffee in one hand, pastries in the other.
She blinked, like she hadn't quite processed what just happened. "Did you just—?"
I arched a brow, crossing the room to her. "What? You were yawning."
I held out the coffee, watching as her gaze flicked to the faint wisp of frost still curling off the surface.
Her lips curved into a slow smirk as she took it. "Aw, Kent, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to impress me."
I bit off the last of my pastry, licking a stray crumb off my thumb. "I've seen what you're like without caffeine. This is self-preservation." I deadpanned.
She let out a soft scoff, before taking a sip. She didn't say anything. But I caught the way her smirk lingered.
I had barely sat on the chair to lace up my sneakers when my phone vibrated. I glanced down. Unknown number. Gotham area code.
Stomach tight, I answered, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear. "Clark Kent?" A woman's voice.
"Yeah."
"I'm calling about your mother, Martha Kent. Her discharge has been processed, but we need someone to go over her post-care instructions and sign the release paperwork before she can leave. Are you available to come in today?"
I straightened. "Yeah. What time?"
"Sooner, the better. She'll be discharged with crutches, her hip is healing well, but she'll need to avoid putting too much weight on her leg for the next couple of weeks. I can have everything ready within the hour."
She was finally getting out. No more hospital rooms, no more antiseptic stink, no more sleeping under shitty fluorescent lights. She'd be here, in this house, away from all of it. Safe. Healing.
"I'll be there."
"Great. Just bring a valid ID, and we'll go over the forms when you arrive. Do you have any questions about her care plan?"
"No." I swallowed. "Just... tell her I'm on my way."
"Of course. See you soon."
The call ended. I stared at my phone, exhaling through a grin I didn't even try to hide.
Mom was coming home.
"That your mom?" Helena asked, breaking off a piece of her pastry and popping it into her mouth.
I nodded, slipping the phone into my pocket. "Yeah. She's getting discharged."
Her whole face lit up like it was her good news. "Oh, hell yes!" She hopped up from the bed, and wrapped me in a quick hug. "Alright, I'll have one of my chauffeurs pick you both up."
I blinked. "What?"
"We'll even make sure the ride has snacks. Premium service, Kent."
I snorted, grabbing my hoodie off the chair. "I can get there faster on my own." I tugged it over my head in one motion.
That made her pause.
"Oh yeah?" She crossed her arms. "And how exactly does that work, Speedy Gonzalez?"
I huffed, running a hand through my damp hair. "People can't see me when I go that fast."
Her brows lifted. "Oh. Well, that's mildly horrifying."
I shrugged. "Efficient, though."
"Suuuure," she drawled, still eyeing me like she was mentally filing that information away for later. Then she pointed a finger at me. "You can zoom-zoom all you want, but my driver's taking both of you back here. End of discussion."
I sighed but couldn't stop the small smirk tugging at my lips. "Yeah, alright. Thanks."
She grinned. "Damn right, thanks." Already pulling out her phone, she added, "Now, go do your whole invisible speedster thing. I'll have everything set up when you get back."
I turned toward the door, then paused. I stepped back, caught her chin lightly with my fingers, and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
She blinked, brows lifting slightly. I held her gaze, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. "Try not to miss me too much, Princess."
Her brows lifted, and just as she opened her mouth—probably to say something wildly inappropriate—my phone vibrated in my pocket once more. I pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Unknown number, again.
Probably the hospital. Maybe they forgot something, more paperwork, another form to sign.
I swiped to answer. "Yeah."
A pause. Just long enough to set every nerve ending on edge.
Then, a deep voice I knew too well. Too fucking well.
"Hello, Subject."
Author note:
Hey, legends!
If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to Like and comment, it seriously makes a difference. I'll 100% be checking my phone like a lunatic after hitting publish, so please hit that button and feed my dopamine addiction.
Also, I went back and updated the first few chapters to crank up the grit and darkness from the start. If you haven't re-read them yet, now's the time. Trust me, it hits different now!
And one last thing, if you like this story, watch Invincible (from Prime video). Season 3 is peak, and if you love young Clark wrecking shit, you'll love that show.
See you next chapter!