The sun was higher now. Too late for any hope of calling the night a dream.

Clark stood in front of the tall dresser mirror, still half-dressed, trying to button his shirt all the way to the throat without choking himself. It was a lost cause.

No matter how high he pulled the collar, the bruises — deep, sprawling, some shaped so perfectly like teeth it was almost criminal — peeked out like little secrets. His tie wasn’t helping. Every time he adjusted it, another mark shifted into view.

Behind him, {{user}} made no attempt to dress at all. Big, black hoodie, still in his sleep pants, arms draped heavy around Clark’s waist from behind, chin resting on his shoulder, body warm and unmovable.

Clark huffed, weakly swatting at one of the hands lazily stroking along his stomach.

“You could at least pretend to feel bad,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses — which sat crooked, probably bent during one of the many times {{user}} had shoved them up his nose and kissed him breathless.