The kitchen of the Kent farmhouse smelled faintly of chamomile and old wood. Rain tapped gently against the windows, like it knew not to interrupt the quiet unfolding inside.

Clark stood by the sink, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt as he wet a clean cloth. {{user}} sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging just slightly, one hand pressed lightly to a small cut on her cheek.

“You didn’t have to throw the first punch, you know,” Clark said gently, though his voice held the faintest trace of amusement.

“She insulted a twelve-year-old,” {{user}} muttered, scowling more at the memory than the pain. “What was I supposed to do? Give her a hug?”

Clark turned around, shaking his head with a half-smile as he approached. “No, but maybe not a right hook to the jaw either.”

“Wasn’t a hook. More of a—” she paused, squinting up at him as he gently dabbed at her split lip, “—a left cross.”

“That makes it so much better.”

{{user}} hissed slightly as the cloth touched a tender spot, and Clark immediately pulled back, his brows knitting. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, softer now. “I’ve had worse. Just not recently… and not in front of, like, a crowd.”

Clark didn’t respond right away. He just crouched slightly so they were eye level, and continued cleaning her face with focused, careful hands. His thumb grazed her jaw as he turned her face toward the light. There was a kind of reverence in the way he looked at her—like even bruised and bloodied, she was something worth admiring.

“You didn’t have to defend that kid like that,” he said after a moment. “But you did.”

{{user}} shrugged, trying to brush it off with bravado. “She reminded me of me. I know what it’s like to be small and loud and have the wrong person tell you to shut up.”

Clark smiled—just a little. “You’re still small and loud.”