Clark held Soren in his palm and flew back to Metropolis.
He was unusually quiet today, saying little as he carried Soren back to the small apartment and gently placed him on the sofa.
Clark placed a soft cushion under Soren and half-squatted down, looking at the tiny Soren sitting on the cushion.
His tone was a bit cold as he said, "Take off the dress."
Soren: "?"
He quickly grabbed the hem of the dress, startled, "W-what are you doing?!"
Clark's thick, long eyebrows lifted slightly, and his Kryptonian blue eyes glanced down at Soren.
From Soren's perspective, those eyes looked like two blue planets—
"Let me see your injuries," Clark softened his tone slightly.
Soren's cheeks turned a shade of pink without him realizing it.
He clutched the dress and pulled his legs inward, stammering, "It's n-nothing, just a scratch…"
Clark let out a low breath through his nose.
His fingers, without waiting for permission, gently pinched Soren's ankle and carefully pulled one of his legs out from under the dress.
His fingertips brushed against the sole of Soren's tiny white shoe, feeling the little foot no bigger than a fingernail, "Even here you have a wound, and you're saying you're not hurt?"
The voice of the Man of Steel darkened.
—But that wound was so small, even he could barely see it!
Soren suddenly felt nervous, unable to meet Clark's gaze.
He lowered his head, mumbling, "It's really nothing…"
"Don't tell me it's nothing," Clark said, looking at him, "Before doing something so dangerous, did you ever think about how I would feel?"
Soren's heart skipped a beat.
The expression on Clark's face was one of seriousness that he had never seen before.
It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head.
He finally noticed some emotions in Clark's tone that had already crossed a line.
...Clark.
Soren raised his head somewhat blankly, his gaze falling into the deep blue ocean of the god's eyes.
"I'm sorry..." he blurted out, his eyelids lowering as his gaze slowly dropped, "It's my fault."
Everything from the past flashed before his eyes, and his heart trembled.
It wasn't Clark who had crossed the line; it was him.
He had been fooling himself all along, stubbornly clinging to Clark as a "friend."
It was he who had lost his sense of boundaries, occupying a place that never belonged to him.
From the very beginning, he had approached Clark with ulterior motives.
What right did he have to be valued so much by Clark?
Under Clark's gaze, Soren felt himself shrinking, smaller and smaller, like a bug under a spotlight—easily crushed with just a pinch.
His deep-seated inferiority complex about love gnawed at him, so much so that he couldn't even lift his head, lacking the courage to glance at Clark again.
But his sincere attitude of admitting fault seemed to calm Clark down.
The tense expression on Clark's face eased a bit, and his gaze softened, "Wait here for a moment. I'll go get something."
Clark stood up, disappearing instantly in front of Soren, and reappeared within seconds, like the wind.
—He had gone back to Kansas and returned with a small first-aid kit from the farm.
"Let me take a look."
Clark knelt down, gently lifting the hem of Soren's skirt with his fingers and speaking softly.
Soren flinched slightly but couldn't resist Clark's actions.
Clark raised the hem of his skirt a little higher, removed his small shoes, and the horrifying bruises on his pale legs—especially the scrapes on his knees—were completely exposed under Clark's gaze.
"..." Clark remained silent, his fingertips gently brushing over the bruises, his expression slightly stiff.
Without changing his demeanor, he took a small spray bottle from the first-aid kit, filled it with some water, and instructed Soren to remove his clothes.
He then used the spray to lightly clean Soren's injuries.
The fine mist from the spray was like a shower, drenching Soren's hair and making him look pitiful.
Clark pulled out a tissue, using it as a towel to gently dry Soren's hair.
After cleaning, Clark took out a pack of cotton swabs, dipped one in iodine, and said to Soren, "This might hurt a bit. If it does, let me know, okay? Here, put your foot in my hand so I can disinfect it."
Soren, wrapped in the damp tissue, hesitated for a moment before deciding to remain on the mat and extend his foot, "It's okay like this too."
Clark raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing.
Holding the cotton swab, Clark carefully lifted Soren's foot and gently wiped the scraped wounds with it.
After each stroke, he would look up and ask, "Does it hurt?"
Soren shook his head and, in a soft voice, reassured him, "Not at all. You don't have to be so careful."
...He had endured pain far greater than this.
He had long since become desensitized to it.
Clark kept his head down, still focused on applying the iodine, and said casually, "But I can't bear to let you hurt at all."
Soren immediately closed his mouth.
...He should leave.
A voice in his mind whispered softly.
Soren murmured, "…Clark, you should know."
Clark asked, "What?"
He finished treating the wounds on Soren's legs and arms and threw the used cotton swab into the trash can.
Soren gathered his courage, "You should know… we can't always belong to each other. Your life doesn't belong to me, Clark."
His eyes sparkled under the light, like two small, bright diamonds.
Clark stood up straight, frowning, his expression growing cold.
"Why?" he questioned Soren as if in a battle of wills.
Soren clutched the tissue, feeling like a tiny sprite wrapped in it.
But now this toy-like thing was about to run away.
He was afraid, afraid that his possessiveness over that burning yet unspoken emotion was too selfish.
He was merely a small figure looking up at the eternally blazing, bright sun... how could he ever have the right to embrace the sun of everyone?