The boy standing in front of you could throw a truck across a city block — and yet, he looked more like a lost puppy than a weapon.

Connor Kent, newly rescued from the chaos of Cadmus, still wore the black shirt with the red "S" stretched over his chest. He was broad-shouldered, wide-eyed, and almost painfully still, like the world hadn’t given him permission to move yet.

Dick had brought him in personally — with a short conversation and a serious look that told you everything you needed to know.

"He listens to you. Show him the ropes. Make sure he’s… okay.”

That was all the instruction you got. And now he was yours to watch over.

You smiled gently. “Hey, Connor.”

He blinked at you — something unreadable flickering across his face. “Hi.”

You offered a hand, then thought better of it. He seemed unsure what to do with gestures like that.

“Let’s start simple,” you said. “I’m not going to train you. I’m not going to test you. I just want to hang out.”

“Hang out?” he repeated, frowning slightly.

“Yeah. You know — like regular people. Food, music, maybe some movies. Basic human stuff.”

“…Like normal?”

You paused. “As close as we can get around here.”

He nodded, slowly. “Okay. I want that.”

That first week was all about gentleness.

You showed him how to make coffee, how to use a microwave without destroying it. You played him a dozen songs and asked which ones made his chest feel heavy — he didn’t know what sadness was, not exactly, but said Johnny Cash made his insides feel like they were remembering something he hadn’t lived.

He followed you everywhere. Quietly. Like gravity pulled him toward you.

Sometimes, you'd turn to find him watching you with a furrowed brow — not in fear, but fascination. As if trying to memorize the way your hands moved when you laughed, or how your voice dropped when you were thoughtful.

At night, when the others trained or argued, he found comfort sitting with you on the common room couch, knees touching just barely as you handed him popcorn and explained plot twists like he hadn’t lived his entire life inside a laboratory.

He didn’t speak much. But he listened.

To everything.

One night, as the rain tapped against the glass and a movie played low in the background, you felt him shift closer to your side.

“Can I ask something?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the hesitance in his voice. “Of course.”

He looked down at his hands — the same ones that had torn through steel like paper only days before.

“Why are you being kind to me?”

Your breath caught.

“Because you deserve kindness, Connor. You didn’t ask to be created. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

He looked at you then, blue eyes wide — not with disbelief, but something softer. Like he’d never heard those words before.

“I… like being around you,” he admitted. “You make everything feel… less confusing.”

That was the moment it changed — when the tether formed.

Not quite romantic. Not quite platonic. Something in between. A slow-growing bond between two people figuring out how to exist in a world that kept trying to use them.

And as he rested his head gently against your shoulder — asking if that was okay, if it was normal — you simply nodded.

Letting him feel, for the first time, what it meant to be human.