Author's Note: I usually don't do pre-chapter author's notes, but I do give warnings in rare cases when appropriate. This chapter contains Explicit Sexual Content. There will be a lemons warning before the scene, so you may skip it if you want.

  Meteor Freak

  Episode 12: Devoted

  Date: Thursday, September 15, 2011.

  Location: Smallville High, Smallville, Kansas

  One Week Earlier…

  Students packed the bleachers and crowded around the edges of the football field at Smallville High School. At the far end, a large square banner stretched between two poles.

  Smallville High, Home of the Crows, 2011

  The crowd erupted as the football team charged toward the banner. Whitney Fordman led the pack in his letterman jacket, bursting through the paper barrier. The other players followed as fragments fluttered to the ground behind them.

  Whitney bounded up the stairs to the platform and grabbed a megaphone from one of the cheerleaders. The rest of the team gathered below. The crowd's cheers intensified as he raised it to his lips.

  "Are we going to state this year?"

  The response was immediate and deafening. "Yeah!"

  Whitney cupped his ear theatrically, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "I can't hear ya! Who's gonna be the state champions?"

  "The Crows!" The unified voice echoed across the field, students jumping and pumping their fists.

  Whitney descended the stage stairs, scanning the sea of faces. "I need someone brave to step up." He walked through the crowd with the swagger of someone who owned the field, the megaphone dangling from his hand.

  "All right, which one of you studs thinks you're a better quarterback than me?"

  His gaze swept across the team and landed on Clark. The moment stretched uncomfortably before Whitney's attention shifted, settling on another familiar face.

  "Tyson!" Whitney's voice carried clearly without the megaphone. Tyson stood with his arms crossed, unimpressed by the theatrical display. Whitney's grin turned smug as he raised the megaphone again.

  "How about it?" His tone carried an edge of challenge. "You missed practice so you could work in your theater. The least you can do is show some school spirit."

  Whitney hurled a football in Tyson's direction. He caught the ball cleanly. Whitney turned back to face the crowd, raising the megaphone triumphantly.

  "Am I right?"

  The crowd erupted in excited cheers, voices blending into a cacophony of support and anticipation.

  Whitney's grin widened as he delivered his next line. "Come on, Tyson. You want to take a shot at the hottest girl in Smallville High?"

  Tyson followed Whitney's gesture across the field to where a dunk tank had been positioned. Lana Lang sat perched on the platform above the tank, water glistening below. She wore a Crows T-shirt that clung to her frame, and she smiled encouragingly. To her left, a large circular target with an X marked the center.

  "Come on, Tyson!" Lana called out. Her tone shifted, becoming more sincere and supportive. "Just take your time. Come on, you can do it."

  Tyson gripped the football, feeling its familiar weight. He pulled his arm back, muscles coiling as he prepared to launch the ball toward the target.

  Suddenly, the school mascot burst onto the field. The Crow costume was a ridiculous sight, oversized black wings and a beaked mask that bobbed comically as the mascot bounded between Tyson and the dunk tank.

  "Caw! Caw! Support the team! Caw! Caw! Whoo!"

  The crowd's attention shifted to the mascot, their cheers growing louder as the costumed figure performed an exaggerated dance routine in the middle of the field.

  "Yeah, go Crows! Woo-hoo!"

  Whitney jogged toward the mascot, raising the megaphone. "Hey, it's the Crow! Who's the lucky student this year?"

  Brett Anderson, one of the larger players, approached the mascot.

  "Probably the biggest loser, like every year." His voice carried a cruel edge, and he gestured dismissively at the mask. "Come on, take it off. Take it off. Let me see your face."

  Clark's voice was sharp. "Hey, leave her alone."

  The costume muffled the mascot's voice, but the distress was unmistakable as she mirrored Clark's words. "Guys, just leave me alone, all right?"

  Another player moved to flank the mascot, grabbing its arm to prevent any escape. Brett's grin turned vicious as he reached for the mask.

  "What?" Brett shot back at Clark. "We always torture the mascot. It's a tradition."

  "Leave me alone. Leave me alone!" The mascot's pleas grew more desperate as Brett's hands found purchase on the mask. "Stop it!"

  With a swift motion, Brett yanked the mask away.

  The crowd's cheers died instantly, replaced by a collective gasp that rippled across the field like a shockwave.

  The girl beneath had messy blond hair stuck to her scalp with sweat, thick-rimmed glasses knocked askew, and severe acne covering her cheeks and forehead. Tears already brimmed in her eyes as hundreds of students stared at her exposed face.

  "Scabby Abby. Hey, it's Scabby Abby!"

  Brett held the crow mask high above his head like a trophy, his voice booming across the field as he began the chant. The cruel nickname spread through the crowd like wildfire.

  "Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby!"

  "Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby! Scabby Abby!"

  The chant grew louder with each repetition. Tears spilled down Abby's cheeks. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Her hands trembled at her sides, uselessly clutching at the ridiculous costume. The laughter washed over her in waves, each new voice joining the chorus like another stone thrown.

  Her throat tightened. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Just the endless chanting, the pointing fingers, the phone cameras capturing her humiliation for eternity.

  Then a football struck Brett's face with the precision of a guided missile.

  The impact was immediate and devastating, sending him sprawling backward onto the turf. Blood poured from his nose as he clutched his face, his earlier bravado replaced by shocked pain.

  Silence descended over the field like a heavy blanket. Every eye turned to Tyson, who bent down to retrieve the football with casual indifference.

  "Oops." His voice carried clearly in the sudden quiet. "Guess it turns out I'm not made to be the quarterback. I'll stick to playing receiver."

  He casually tossed the ball back to Whitney. "Sorry, Lana, I dropped the ball... again."

  Tyson walked over to where the mascot head had fallen and picked it up, offering it back to Abby. "Sorry, the football players in this town never learn."

  Abby accepted the helmet with a mumbled "Thanks," her voice barely audible. She turned and fled toward the parking lot, her costume wings trailing behind.

  Whitney turned back to the crowd, trying to salvage the awkward moment. "All right, who's next? Who's gonna step up and dunk her?"

  Abby made it to the parking lot and leaned against a parked truck, her back pressed against the cool metal as sobs wracked her body. She removed her glasses with trembling hands and wiped at her eyes, trying to clear away the tears that blurred her vision.

  Hours later, Abby lay on the examination table, her body secured by two thick metallic straps that crossed her chest and pelvis. The cold metal pressed against her skin through the thin hospital gown she now wore instead of the ridiculous crow costume.

  Dr. Fine moved around the table, adjusting various instruments. "Don't worry, sweetheart." Her gloved hand reached out to stroke Abby's hair with gentle, loving motions. "I won't let you waste your senior year like you did all the others."

  Abby's eyes searched her mother's face, desperate for reassurance. The humiliation from the football field still burned fresh, the cruel chants echoing in her mind like a broken record.

  "You promise people will like me?"

  Dr. Fine's smile never wavered. "They will. I promise. Just like they did me."

  The words brought a tentative smile to Abby's lips, hope flickering for the first time since the nightmare at school. She trusted her mother completely, had always trusted her to make everything better when the world became too cruel to bear.

  Dr. Fine was beautiful. Abby had seen the pictures, her mother in her cheerleading uniform, surrounded by friends, glowing with the kind of confidence Abby had never possessed. And now her mother would make sure Abby never suffered the same fate. Never had to watch from the sidelines while other girls lived the life that should have been hers. Never had to hear "Scabby Abby" echo across a football field while hundreds of people laughed, again.

  Her mother stepped away from the table and moved toward the wall. Her hand hovered over a large red button mounted on a control panel with various lights and displays surrounding it.

  "Everyone will love you when they see the real you, the one that's been inside all along." She pressed the button. Immediately, a mechanical buzzing filled the laboratory.

  Above Abby, a large covering began its slow descent from the ceiling. The transparent plastic outline perfectly matched the contours of a human body. It resembled the lid of a sarcophagus, but the clear material revealed its horrifying contents.

  Abby's breathing quickened as the covering drew closer. From her position on the table, she could see dozens of needles protruding from the inner surface, each one pointing directly at her. The needles were arranged in precise rows, spaced only inches apart, creating a bed of sharp points that would soon make contact with every inch of her body.

  Her pulse hammered in her ears. The buzzing grew louder, mechanical and relentless.

  "You're going to have a senior year no one will ever forget."

  The cover continued its descent. Abby's breath came in short, panicked gasps now. She tried to move, but the straps held her immobile. The needles drew closer. Closer.

  The first tips touched her face.

  The sharp points began to break through her skin. Small drops of blood appeared on her cheek, trickling down toward the table beneath her. Then more needles made contact. Her arms. Her chest. Her legs.

  The pain was immediate and all-consuming. Her scream filled the laboratory, but her mother had already turned away, checking readings on the control panel. The needles sank deeper. Blood welled from hundreds of puncture wounds, running in thin rivulets across her skin.

  Abby's scream cut off as her throat closed, the pain too intense for sound. Her body convulsed against the restraints, every muscle contracting in agony. The world narrowed to nothing but the burning, tearing sensation of needles piercing flesh and beginning to pump a glowing green fluid.

  Then darkness took her.

  Present Day

  Inside the hallway of Smallville High, students packed the corridor, creating a constant flow of bodies moving between classes. Clark descended the stairway with Tyson beside him, both carrying their backpacks and discussing the upcoming football game.

  Behind them, a sharp wolf whistle cut through the ambient noise of conversation and locker doors slamming shut.

  Clark turned around.

  A male student near the lockers craned his neck to get a better view. "Check it out. The new girl!"

  A girl with blond hair walked down the hallway wearing a pink dress that hugged her curves in ways that drew every male eye in the corridor. Her smile was confident and provocative, a far cry from the shy, awkward mascot who had fled the football field in tears. Her hips swayed slightly with each step.

  A group of football players, including Brett Anderson with his nose still slightly swollen from Tyson's football throw, smiled at her. Brett's earlier hostility had been replaced by obvious interest, tracking her movement down the hallway.

  The girl smiled at all the guys checking her out, her gaze sweeping across the crowd before landing on Clark. Recognition flickered across her face.

  "Hi, Clark." Her voice was warm and friendly. "Hi, Tyson."

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a shy gesture that seemed at odds with her confident appearance, then continued to her locker.

  Clark's eyes widened as recognition finally clicked into place. "Abby?"

  The girl paused at her locker, turning back to face them with an amused smile. "It's actually Abigail now."

  Clark moved closer, still showing surprise at the transformation. "You know, I almost didn't recognize you."

  Abigail opened her locker, reaching inside for her books. "After missing most of the first semester... that's a good thing?" She pulled out a textbook and held it against her chest. "With any luck, this old locker will be the only thing that stays the same this year."

  Clark laughed, the sound slightly nervous. "Yeah, um, that shouldn't be a problem. So, uh... Why the, uh..."

  His gaze traveled down her figure before quickly returning to her face, a flush creeping up his neck.

  Abigail's smile turned knowing. "Change? I guess just one day you realize you can spend another year being resentful of what everybody else has, or you can do something about it." She closed her locker with a decisive click. "It's our senior year, Clark. This is my last chance."

  Down the hallway, Brett continued talking to his buddies, his attention still fixed on Abigail. Lana and Chloe walked around the corner and passed the group of football players, their conversation pausing as they took in the scene.

  Abigail turned to Tyson. "Thanks so much for defending me that time."

  Tyson's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure what you mean."

  Clark cleared his throat. "Abby was the mascot at the pep rally."

  Tyson had to think about it for a moment. "Oh, yeah, that." He shrugged. "Sorry, it's like every football player in this school is an asshole." He paused, considering. "After thinking about it for a moment, yeah, maybe it's every football player at every high school."

  Abigail smiled and laughed genuinely.

  Chloe approached with Lana. "Good morning, Clark. Hey... Abby."

  The two girls kept walking, moving past the group toward their own lockers.

  Chloe's voice carried back to where Clark and Tyson stood. "Whoa. Either she spent an entire month at a silicon farm, or I am shopping at the wrong makeup counter."

  Lana's tone held a note of concern. "It's a shame that she felt she had to get work done to fit in."

  Chloe opened her locker, pulling out her journalism notebook. "Don't tell me that the world isn't nicer to prettier people." She tucked the notebook under her arm. "Besides, you know, I mean it's her body and if it makes her feel better, then it's none of our business."

  Lana's eyebrows rose.

  "What?" Chloe's defensive tone suggested she knew exactly what had prompted that reaction.

  Lana's voice remained measured. "I'm just surprised you don't find it objectionable that a girl would get surgery to fit in better at school."

  Clark approached the two girls, joining their conversation.

  "I think she looks great," Clark offered.

  Chloe turned to him with a knowing smile. "What a shocker. Too bad you've got Kyla now." Her gaze shifted to where Tyson stood. "Look, she's even got Tyson's attention."

  Clark glanced at his friend. "He's just being friendly. They're bonding over their mutual hatred for football players."

  Chloe turned to Lana. Lana's face looked troubled, indecisive, tracking across the hallway to where Tyson stood talking with Abigail. Her fingers tightened slightly on the strap of her bag, and something flickered in her expression, something that might have been jealousy or concern or both.

  — Meteor Freak —

  The afternoon sun beat down on Smallville High's practice field. Two lines of players faced each other across the scrimmage line; red jerseys on one side, yellow on the other. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and sweat and football pads.

  "Ready!" The quarterback's voice cut through the ambient noise. "Down! Set! Blue-47! Blue-47!"

  On the sidelines, cheerleaders bounced on their toes, pom-poms rustling.

  "Hut!"

  The center snapped the ball to the quarterback's hands, then a spiral across the field. The receiver caught it cleanly, tucking it against his ribs.

  "Nice one, Cormier!" Coach Teague called, walking down the sideline, clipboard in hand. "Way to find your man!"

  From the cheerleading squad, Mandy broke formation. "Woo! All right, Dan! Looking good, baby!"

  Her boyfriend, Dan Cormier, didn't acknowledge her. He was already lining up for the next play.

  On the bench, Clark Kent sat alone in full pads, turning a football over in his hands. His jaw worked as he watched the practice unfold without him.

  Coach Teague's shadow fell across him. "Hey, Clark. How you holding up?"

  "Just fine, coach." Clark didn't look up.

  Teague knelt beside the bench, one knee in the grass. "Right, just, uh, hang in there for me, all right? I'm trying to preserve your arm. I'll have you in for offense next set."

  "I can play both ways, coach."

  A small sigh escaped Teague as he stood, already moving on. The coach's words about playoffs and preservation barely registered. Clark had heard it all before but couldn't exactly say there was no chance of him fatiguing or being injured.

  Teague's whistle shrieked. "Go on in, guys. Grab a drink."

  Clark stood, put on his helmet, and jogged onto the field. Dan and his teammate Nate clasped hands, bumping shoulders in congratulations.

  "Nice catch, buddy," Nate said.

  "Thanks, man."

  Mandy materialized at Dan's side, her face bright with adoration. She leaned in for a kiss.

  Dan pulled away, not quite meeting her eyes. "All right, cut it out, Mandy. Just cut it out."

  He kept walking toward the drink table. Mandy followed, clutching a squeeze bottle of green punch. Her movements had a desperate quality, like someone afraid of losing their grip.

  "Sorry." Her voice was small. "So what are we doing Saturday night?"

  "Uh, we aren't doing anything." Dan grabbed a towel from the stack. "I'm hanging out with Nate and the boys. Didn't I mention that to you before?"

  He wiped sweat from his face, still not looking at her.

  "It's okay. I just want to make you happy."

  "All right."

  "I got you a drink." She thrust the bottle toward him. Over her shoulder, a cluster of cheerleaders held identical bottles of green drink. They smiled at Mandy, nodding with shared knowledge. Something mischievous passed between them.

  Dan took the bottle without comment. He squeezed a stream of green liquid into his mouth.

  The punch traveled down his throat in a visible wave. His pupils dilated. His breathing changed, became deeper, slower. The chemicals hit his stomach and absorbed into his bloodstream quickly. They reached his heart, which began to beat faster, harder. They continued upward, flooding his brain.

  When they reached his eyes, the world transformed.

  Mandy stood before him, haloed in white radiance. Her features softened, became angelic. Beautiful beyond reason.

  Dan blinked. Blinked again.

  "You know what?" He moved toward her, smiling for the first time. "Screw the guys." He kissed her, deep and urgent. "I want to hang out with you on Saturday night."

  Mandy's eyes widened. "Why wait till Saturday when we can go shopping now?"

  "Whatever you want, baby." Dan's voice was warm, doting. "I'm gonna go hit the showers."

  He smiled at her again, then turned toward the school building.

  Mandy glanced back at the cheerleaders. She raised her thumb in triumph. They waved back, their grins matching hers perfectly.

  "Where you going, bud?" Coach Teague stepped into Dan's path. "The field's this way."

  "I'm going shopping with Mandy."

  "You're what?"

  Mandy slipped between them, touching Dan's arm. "I'll be in the car, baby."

  "See ya."

  She walked away, hips swaying. Teague stared after her, confused.

  "You checking out my girlfriend?" Dan's voice dropped, went hard. Dangerous.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Dan glared at him for a long moment. The warmth from seconds ago had vanished, replaced by something cold and possessive. Then he turned and continued toward the school.

  "Danny, you walk off this field, you're riding the bench Friday!" Teague called after him.

  "Yeah, bite me, dude." Dan didn't turn around. Didn't slow down.

  Teague shook his head, muttering under his breath. "What's with the players at this school skipping practice for girls?"

  The thought pulled his attention to the track that circled the football field. Tyson was still running laps as punishment for his own recent stunt involving a girl. Lana.

  Teague frowned. The kid's form was perfect, his breathing unlabored despite the distance he'd already covered. Track star, my ass. Something had to be up with Tyson. No football player was that strong, that fast, that agile, and could run for that long.

  He raised his voice. "Tyson! Looks like your spot just opened back up. Why don't you put on your cleats and hop in there?"

  Tyson jogged over to the bench. He grabbed his cleats from his bag and sat down to lace them up. Pull tight, double knot, check the fit. Took maybe thirty seconds before he stood, then headed onto the field. Clark was already positioned behind the center, scanning the defense.

  "Blue 19!"

  The defensive line tensed. Tyson lined up wide right, noting the cornerback's positioning. Too far inside.

  "Hike!"

  The center snapped the ball to Clark's hands with a solid smack. Clark backpedaled three steps, eyes downfield. A yellow jersey broke through the line, arms reaching for the tackle.

  Clark sidestepped left; the defender grabbed air and stumbled past. Clark planted his back foot and launched the ball in a perfect spiral.

  The football climbed against the blue sky, rotating cleanly. Tyson tracked it, adjusting his route. The cornerback realized his mistake too late. Tyson accelerated past him, hands up.

  The ball dropped into his palms. He pulled it against his ribs and kept running until Coach Teague's whistle shrieked.

  "Nice throw, Kent!" Teague called from the sideline. "Keep it up!"

  Clark pulled off his helmet, grinning. "All right!"

  Tyson jogged back, tossing the ball to the equipment manager. Clark met him halfway, still smiling.

  "Good hands," Clark said.

  "Good arm." Tyson bumped his shoulder pad.

  "Just trying not to show off."

  "Nothing wrong with showing off every once in a while."

  The locker room was quiet except for the pour of a showerhead and the metallic clang of locker doors. Most of the team had already cleared out. Coach Teague sat alone on a wooden bench, tying his shoe. His gym bag rested beside him, half-zipped.

  A sound came from behind the lockers. Metal scraping metal.

  Teague looked up. "Someone still here?"

  No answer.

  He went back to his laces, pulling them tight. The sound came again, closer this time.

  Teague turned his head.

  A shotgun barrel emerged from between two rows of lockers, pointing directly at his chest.

  Teague threw himself sideways off the bench. He hit the tile floor hard as the first shot exploded through the space where he'd been sitting. The blast echoed off concrete walls, deafening in the enclosed space.

  He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline flooding his system. The shooter cocked the gun, that distinctive pump-action sound that meant another shell was chambered.

  Jason ran.

  The second shot took out a chunk of wall behind him, spraying plaster dust. He dodged down an aisle of lockers, sneakers squeaking on wet tile.

  The third shot shattered a fluorescent light overhead.

  Sparks rained down as one end of the fixture swung free, dangling by its wires. The light flickered and died, casting half the room in shadow.

  Teague reached the exit door and grabbed the handle.

  Locked.

  His fingers fumbled with the deadbolt, slick with sweat.

  Behind him, footsteps. Steady. Unhurried.

  He spun around.

  The shooter wore a full football uniform; red jersey, white pants, cleats. The helmet obscured his face, but the build was familiar.

  Teague dove to the floor, hands over his head.

  The fourth shot hit the mirror on the wall above him.

  Glass exploded, raining down in sharp fragments. Pieces stuck in his hair, his shirt. A shard cut his forearm, drawing blood.

  He stood slowly, hands raised. The shooter was ten feet away now, close enough that Teague could see through the helmet's face mask.

  Dan Cormier.

  "Whoa! Whoa!" Teague kept his hands up, palms out. "Danny, put the gun down, man. Let's talk about this."

  From the shower area, the sound of running water cut off. Wet footsteps slapped against tile.

  Dan didn't lower the gun. "It's too late, coach." He pumped the shotgun again, chambering another round. "You shouldn't have hit on my girl."

  Tyson burst from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Water dripped from his hair, his skin.

  He took in the scene in half a second. Teague bleeding, Dan with the shotgun, the destroyed locker room.

  No hesitation.

  He launched himself at Dan.

  They collided hard. Tyson's shoulder drove into Dan's ribs, lifting him off his feet. The shotgun flew from Dan's hands, skittering across the wet floor until it hit the far wall.

  They hit the ground together. Dan tried to swing, but Tyson was already moving.

  His fist connected with Dan's jaw.

  Once.

  The impact snapped Dan's head sideways. His eyes rolled back, unfocused. His body went limp.

  Tyson stood, breathing hard. He looked down at Dan's unconscious form, then at the shotgun against the wall. Water still dripped from his hair, pooling on the tile beneath his feet.

  "Damned rednecks." He shook his head, water droplets flying. "I swear I'm leaving Kansas. It's like Gotham City out here. Crazy assholes everywhere."

  Except it wasn't a joke, not really. Three weeks in Smallville. Three weeks, and he'd already fought a bug-boy, an electricity and fire manipulator, a shapeshifter, and now a teammate who'd completely lost his shit over a girl. Back in his old life, this would've been insane. Would've been national news. Would've had the state troopers rolling in.

  Here? This was just Thursday.

  The thought should've been funny. Should've triggered that dark humor he used to cope with the constant weirdness. Instead, he was starting to get tired. How many more kids were going to get dosed with meteor rock and turn into walking disasters? And why the hell did it always seem to happen around him?

  He walked over to Teague and offered his hand.

  Jason took it, letting Tyson pull him to his feet. Glass fragments fell from his shirt, tinkling against the floor.

  "You okay?" Tyson asked.

  "Yeah." Teague touched his bleeding forearm, checking the damage. "Thanks for the save. Glad you weren't too tired after all those laps I had you run."

  Tyson laughed, short and sharp. "Just don't tell anyone I was on top of a dude without any clothes on and we're even." He glanced at Dan, still motionless on the floor. "Guess we should call the cops or something, right? And maybe an ambulance. You're cut up pretty good, some on your back too."

  The antiseptic smell of Smallville Medical Center hung thick in the examination room. Jason Teague sat on the paper-covered table, his shirt off, revealing the bandages already wrapped around his torso. A fresh cut on his forearm still oozed blood.

  "Ow, ow, ow." Jason flinched as the doctor dabbed at the wound with gauze.

  The doctor worked methodically, cleaning the cut with steady hands. Jason grunted, his jaw tight against the sting. The doctor applied a bandage, pressing the edges down firmly.

  "Keep it dry for twenty-four hours," the doctor said, gathering his supplies. "Change the dressing tomorrow."

  He left without waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him.

  Jason flexed his arm, testing the bandage. The movement pulled at the cuts on his back, making him wince.

  The door opened again.

  Lana Lang stepped inside, closing it behind her. She wore jeans and a simple sweater, her hair pulled back. Her face was tight, controlled.

  Jason looked up at her. "Well, I guess it could've been a lot worse if Tyson hadn't tackled Dan." He reached for his shirt, draped over the chair beside the examination table. "It's ironic. I was pissed at him. Today another player pulls the same stunt he did the other day." He slid one arm into the sleeve, careful of the bandages. "That same player comes back with a grudge against me, and it's Tyson who stops him."

  A smile crossed his face as he worked the other arm through. "Do they still expel students for taking potshots at coaches?"

  "This isn't funny, Jason."

  The smile vanished. "Right. Definitely the first time I've been shot at. I should be shaken."

  Lana turned away from him, moving toward the window. Her shoulders were stiff, her arms wrapped around herself.

  "I had to find out about this from Tyson."

  Jason stood, buttoning his shirt. The fabric pulled against the bandages on his back.

  "You know, this is usually the part where I would buy you a bouquet of flowers and take you out to a really nice dinner." He stopped a few feet behind her. "But I can't."

  Lana crossed her arms tighter.

  "Hey." Jason's tone shifted, went harder. "It's fine. Your new boyfriend saved me, we're all happy." But he wasn't fine. He had come to Smallville with a purpose, a mission that had seemed so clear. Simple. Straightforward. The kind of thing he had been doing for years.

  Then Lana happened.

  Beautiful, complicated Lana, who made him forget about ancient artifacts and family obligations. Who made him want to be Jason, just a guy coaching football and falling for a girl, instead of the hunter.

  And now Tyson.

  The wild card nobody predicted. The anomaly that didn't fit any pattern he recognized. Tyson was far too fast and strong to be a normal teenager. And getting closer to Lana every day. He touched the bandage on his forearm, feeling the sting of the cuts. He'd been shot at today. Nearly killed. And all he could think about was whether Lana had been worried. Whether she'd dropped everything to come see him. Whether he still mattered to her at all.

  "Tyson isn't my boyfriend." Lana didn't turn around.

  "No?"

  "We're just friends."

  "You get rides from 'just friends' often? And by rides, I mean he carries you out of school in his arms, running towards his new apartment."

  Lana turned to face him. Her eyes were steady, unflinching. "Not that it's any of your business, but nothing happened between me and Tyson. Nothing like that anyway." She paused. "He's working on renovating the theater attached to my Aunt's shop."

  Jason put his hands up, palms out. "It's not like you had a boyfriend and I flew across the world for you." His voice carried an edge now. "I'm just here hunting for something."

  "If that's true, where's your brother?" Lana's gaze didn't waver. "Every time you were supposedly 'hunting' he was nearby."

  "He's taking a college semester, really living the experience." Jason lowered his hands. "I'll go pick him up once I'm done in town."

  The silence stretched between them. Outside the room, a PA system crackled to life, calling for a doctor.

  "All right." Lana moved toward the door. "Well, I'm glad you're okay."

  Her hand touched the door handle.

  "Thanks for checking in."

  The words stopped her. She looked back at him, her face softening slightly. Not much, but enough to show something beneath the controlled surface.

  "I mean it," Jason said. "I know we're..." He gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is now. But you still came."

  Lana's fingers tightened on the handle. "I would've come for anyone who got hurt."

  "Sure."

  "I would have."

  "I believe you." Jason sat back down on the examination table. The paper crinkled under his weight. "That's what makes you different from most people in this town."

  Lana's hand dropped from the handle. She turned fully, leaning against the door. "What are you really doing here, Jason?"

  "I told you. Hunting."

  "For what?"

  "Old artifacts. Historical pieces." He shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at his back. "Family business."

  "Your family's business is football."

  "My family's business is a lot of things." Jason met her eyes. "The coaching gig was just convenient. Good cover."

  "Cover for what?"

  "For looking around without drawing attention." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Turns out getting shot at draws plenty of attention anyway."

  Lana studied him for a long moment. "You're lying."

  "About which part?"

  "All of it." She pushed off from the door. "You came here for a reason. A specific reason. And it has nothing to do with your brother's college experience."

  Jason said nothing.

  "Fine." Lana turned back to the door. "Keep your secrets."

  "Lana."

  She paused, her hand on the handle again.

  "Be careful around Tyson."

  She turned back. "Why?"

  "Because I've seen the way he looks at you." Jason's face was serious now, no trace of the earlier smile. "And I've seen what he can do. That tackle today? Dan's a big guy. Tyson laid him out like he weighed nothing."

  "He's strong. So what?"

  "So there's strong, and then there's what I saw in that locker room." Jason leaned forward. "Just... be careful. That's all I'm saying."

  Lana opened the door. "I can take care of myself."

  "I know you can." Jason watched her step into the hallway. "Doesn't mean you should have to."

  She didn't respond. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

  — Meteor Freak —

  Two cheerleaders walked past Clark, Tyson, and Lana in the hallway. "I can't believe she even tried out," the first girl said, flipping her blonde ponytail.

  "I know. Did you see what she was wearing?" her friend replied.

  "And those thighs?"

  Both girls stopped and turned to face each other. "No!"

  The second girl's eyes lit up. "You know who we should ask to tryout?"

  "Abby!" they said in unison.

  "Maybe if we do, her mom will give us a discount."

  They laughed as they continued down the hallway. Tyson and Clark exchanged glances. Behind the cheerleaders, their boyfriends followed obediently, arms loaded with pom-poms, purses, and backpacks. Both wore letterman's jackets.

  Tyson's eyes narrowed. "Did you see that?"

  Clark nodded slowly. "Yeah."

  Lana frowned, tracking the couples around the corner. "That's... odd."

  They kept walking. Two more cheerleaders stood at their lockers ahead. One stacked textbooks into her boyfriend's arms, adding another heavy volume to the growing pile. The other handed her boyfriend a sweater with a dismissive gesture.

  "Hold this for me, would you?"

  "Sure, babe. Whatever you want."

  Both guys were football players. Tyson, Lana, and Clark said nothing, continuing down the hallway.

  "Yeah, so the party's gonna be way kick," a third cheerleader said ahead of them.

  "Yeah, pool party! Great!" her boyfriend replied, holding up a compact mirror so she could apply her lipstick.

  Tyson stopped walking. "Okay, something strange is definitely happening here. Is this some Kansas Smallville ritual I'm not aware of? Is homecoming coming up and the players dote on the cheerleaders for a week?"

  They entered the Torch office where Chloe sat at her desk, typing rapidly on her laptop. Tyson continued without breaking stride. "Is it just that I'm the only guy on the team that doesn't have a girlfriend?"

  Lana shook her head. "No. It is strange." She turned to Chloe. "Hey, Chloe, have you seen the way the football players are acting?"

  "Yeah," Chloe said without looking up from her screen. "And I noticed one of them unloaded a shotgun in the boys' locker room." She glanced up, meeting Tyson's eyes. "Tyson, nice save by the way. You're like our very own afterschool superhero. First me at the Torch fire, now Coach Teague. Oh, and you stopped Eric last week." She tilted her head, studying him with open suspicion. "Maybe you are a superhero. I was thinking about maybe doing an article on it..."

  Lana stepped forward quickly. "Actually, Eric kicked his ass. Tyson got lucky. Whatever powered Eric up faded as they fought. Isn't that right, Tyson?"

  After the embarrassing situation he'd put Lana in with the Kents, Martha walking in on them in the bathroom, he couldn't fault her for taking a shot at him. What surprised him was that she was covering for him now. "Yup. Total ass kicking."

  Chloe raised an eyebrow. "It couldn't have been that bad. You're fine now."

  Tyson said nothing. He'd healed himself using Greg Arkin's power, molting all the bruised tissue in the shower. But Chloe didn't need to know that.

  "Whatever," Chloe said, returning to her laptop. "Anyway, I need to go to the Smallville Medical Center. Apparently, our gun-toting ex-quarterback, second string thanks to Clark, woke up this morning, and he's feeling the sting of his second-degree burns. He's still got a grudge against Coach Teague, so..." She turned to Clark. "I need you to talk to Coach Teague."

  Clark hesitated, his face uncomfortable. "Actually, Chloe, with this whole football thing, I'm gonna have to dial back my time at the Torch."

  Chloe's fingers stopped moving on the keyboard. She stared at Clark.

  "Oh." Her voice was carefully neutral. "I guess I've got my work cut out for me."

  "I'm sorry," Clark said. "You know, my priorities..."

  Chloe smiled, but Tyson caught the hurt beneath it. "You know what? Don't worry about it."

  After school on the football field, players in red and yellow jerseys ran drills. The rhythmic thud of helmets colliding and coaches' whistles filled the air. Chloe Sullivan walked along the sideline, her reporter's notebook tucked under one arm, scanning for Coach Teague.

  She spotted him near the twenty-yard line, arms crossed, a whistle hanging from his neck.

  "Coach Teague. Hey."

  Jason turned. His face shifted from focused to guarded. "Hey."

  Chloe offered her most professional smile. "I'm, uh, doing a story in the Torch on Dan Cormier, and I was just wondering if I could talk to you for a little bit."

  Jason's jaw tightened slightly. He glanced back at the field where his players were running. "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of practice."

  "It's only gonna take, like, two seconds, I promise." Chloe held up her notebook hopefully.

  "I'll do it later." Jason's tone was final. He was already turning back to the field.

  Chloe's confidence wavered. "Okay."

  "I will," Jason said over his shoulder, not turning back.

  "Okay." Chloe stood there for a moment before turning away from the field, tucking her notebook back under her arm. Her gaze drifted to the bleachers where a familiar figure sat halfway up, a book open in her lap. Lana Lang's attention seemed split between the pages and the practice field below.

  Chloe slid onto the bench beside her. "Reminiscing about your cheerleader days?"

  Lana looked up from her book with a soft laugh. "Ha, no. I had something delivered to the theater, and I was waiting until Tyson got out of practice."

  Chloe glanced down at the field. Tyson was easy to spot, his brown skin standing out among the predominantly white team. He ran a route, catching a pass from Clark. The two of them had developed an almost supernatural chemistry on the field over the past few weeks.

  "Must be nice," Chloe said, settling onto the bench. "Having someone to wait for."

  "We're just friends, Chloe." Lana assured.

  "Right. Friends who shower together."

  Lana's cheeks flushed. "Of course, you found out about that. That was a misunderstanding. Martha knocked at the worst possible moment."

  "I'm sure." Chloe's tone was light, teasing, but she studied Lana's reaction carefully. The flush deepened, spreading down her neck. Interesting.

  On the field, Coach Teague blew his whistle. "Water break! Five minutes!"

  Players jogged toward the sideline where water coolers waited. Tyson and Clark walked together, helmets in hand, talking about something Chloe couldn't hear from this distance.

  "So what did you have delivered?" Chloe asked, genuinely curious now.

  Lana closed her book, marking her place with a finger. "Paint samples. I'm helping Tyson pick colors for the apartment above the flower shop."

  "That's very domestic of you."

  "It's just paint, Chloe."

  Nearby, a group of four cheerleaders, including Mandy, walked toward the drinks table.

  Lana was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting back to the field. "They seem so devoted lately." She gestured toward the football players doting on the cheerleaders when they should've been paying attention to practice.

  "Devoted." Chloe wrote the word down. "That's one way to put it. Dan Cormier tried to shoot Coach Teague over a girl. That's not devoted, that's obsessed."

  Two of the cheerleaders held several squeeze bottles of green punch, while the other two carried a large cooler and a stack of plastic cups. They placed everything on the table with a thud.

  Mandy supervised the setup. She gestured to Rhonda, who adjusted the placement of the cooler, making sure it was front and center where the players would naturally gravitate. Another cheerleader arranged the squeeze bottles like she was following a plan they'd rehearsed. The precision of it caught Lana's attention from the bleachers. This wasn't casual. This was coordinated. Mandy checked her phone then smiled at the other girls with a knowing expression.

  Something about the whole scene felt wrong, but Lana couldn't put her finger on exactly what. Just that it reminded her of when the cheerleaders had been preparing for some elaborate prank.

  Jason Teague approached, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He grabbed a plastic cup from the stack.

  "Hey, ladies."

  He filled the cup with green punch from the cooler.

  Mandy stepped closer, her voice dropping to a flirtatious purr. "Gee, Coach Teague, I sure hope you have someone special in your life."

  Jason laughed, but the sound was uncomfortable. He took a step back. "Well, Mandy, I don't think that's any of your business."

  He drained the cup in one gulp, the green liquid disappearing in seconds. When he lowered the cup, Mandy was still there with that smile.

  Jason shifted his weight. "But yeah, I do have somebody," he said, turning to Lana. He walked away from the table and out to the field where the guys were running drills.

  Nearby, another group of players stood on the field talking. Among them was Brett Anderson, his helmet tucked under one arm. He took a swig from his squeeze bottle, savoring the green drink as Abby Fine jogged past on the track that circled the field, her ponytail swinging with each stride.

  "Check out Scabby Abby," one of the guys said.

  Another player smirked. "They're fake, you know." He gestured at his chest.

  A third guy shrugged. "Who cares?"

  Several wolf whistles pierced the air. Brett stared at Abby with a dreamy expression. "Are you kidding me?" His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Man, is she hot."

  Abby slowed her jog, making eye contact with Brett across the field. For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she started jogging away as the guys continued to call after her.

  "Guys!" Jason's voice cut through the catcalls. "You gotta give your quarterback some protection. You gotta hold the pocket!" He pointed at one of the linemen. "Hey, Carlsen! You gotta move around, pal!"

  The players shuffled into position, but their attention kept drifting back to the track where Abby had disappeared around the far curve.

  Jason blew his whistle. "All right, guys. Let's grab a drink before scrimmage."

  He took another swig of green punch from a squeeze bottle, then turned toward the bleachers. Lana sat there with Chloe Sullivan, still focused on Tyson.

  Clark walked toward the drinks table, pulling off his helmet. Chloe stood quickly, moving to intercept him. She dropped her notepad on top of the cooler and grabbed a plastic cup, filling it with the green punch.

  "Hey, Clark! Hi." She tried to keep her voice casual. "I know you're not exactly journalistically inclined right now, but I was just—"

  Clark poured himself a glass of green punch, not quite meeting her eyes. "This isn't a good time, Chloe."

  He kept walking toward the field, leaving her standing by the drinks table.

  "Right." Chloe's voice was flat. "Priorities."

  She headed back to the bleachers and sat next to Lana.

  They both turned their attention to the field as Tyson ran a route, cutting sharply at the fifteen-yard line. Clark's pass spiraled through the air, and Tyson caught it cleanly, tucking it against his chest as he turned upfield.

  "Did you notice when Tyson asked if he was the only guy on the football team that didn't have a girlfriend, he looked at you?"

  Lana's cheeks flushed pink. "We're just friends."

  "We kissed, you know."

  Lana gasped, turning to stare at Chloe. "When?"

  "Well, I kissed him after he saved me from the fire." Chloe stared down at the green liquid in her cup. "I thought I was going to die, and the adrenaline... I just didn't think about it and did it."

  Lana smiled, something soft crossing her face. "Bet he loved that. Getting to be the hero, saving the girl, getting a kiss."

  "He seemed into it, but then he joked and played it off." Chloe handed the cup of green sports drink to Lana, who took a sip as the ball sailed through the air and landed in Tyson's hands again.

  Lana's voice was soft, her smile bright as she tracked his movement across the field. "That's what he does..." She paused. "Tyson..."

  The word hung in the air between them, carrying more weight than Lana probably intended. Chloe glanced at her friend, noting the way Lana's fingers tightened around the plastic cup, the way her gaze never left Tyson's figure on the field.

  Just friends, Chloe thought. Right.

  Lana took another sip of the green punch.

  Clark walked back toward the field, lifting the plastic cup to his lips. The green liquid disappeared in one long gulp.

  He'd barely lowered the cup when his stomach clenched violently.

  The pain hit like a meteor rock pressed directly against his skin.

  Clark doubled over, gagging. His helmet slipped from his other hand and hit the grass with a dull thud.

  The world tilted sideways.

  The pain radiated from his core outward, a cold fire spreading through his chest and into his limbs. His vision tunneled at the edges. The sounds of practice, whistles, shouting, the thud of bodies colliding, became distant and muffled, like he was underwater.

  His invulnerability, that constant presence he never thought about because it was always just there, flickered. He felt the weight of his pads. The pressure of the grass under his cleats. The slight chill in the September air. Things he never felt. Things his body automatically compensated for.

  Just like when Eric had taken his powers, Clark Kent felt fragile.

  "Kent." Jason Teague's voice cut through the roaring in Clark's ears. "What's wrong with you?"

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Clark couldn't straighten. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. "Coach, I'm not feeling very good." The words came out strangled. "I think I'd better leave."

  "You're gonna walk away because you don't feel well." Jason's tone was flat, disappointed. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across Clark's hunched form. "You know, maybe I was wrong about you, Kent."

  "Coach, I..." Clark tried to stand straighter, failed. His vision swam.

  "You know, your team's waiting for you out there." Jason's voice hardened. "Are you a leader or not?"

  Clark forced himself upright through sheer willpower. His stomach churned, threatening to empty itself onto the grass. He nodded once, not trusting his voice, and stumbled toward the field.

  Each step felt like wading through concrete.

  Behind him, Nate Carlsen started to follow. Jason's hand shot out, stopping him.

  "Tell the rest of the guys they got a green light on Tyson." Jason's voice was low, meant only for Nate's ears. "I've been too easy on him. All that running he's been doing hasn't been enough." He paused, taking another long drink from his squeeze bottle. "I want you to make the scarecrow incident look like an afterschool prank."

  Nate's grin was vicious. "Yes, Coach."

  He sprinted toward the field, practically vibrating with excitement.

  Jason raised the bottle again, draining it.

  Clark hunched behind the center, his hands positioned under the guard's legs. The football felt heavier than it should. His vision kept blurring at the edges.

  "Blue-37!" His voice cracked. "Hike!"

  The ball snapped into his hands.

  Clark backpedaled, searching downfield for Tyson. His arm felt weak, disconnected. He threw anyway.

  The ball wobbled through the air, falling short by at least five yards.

  Tyson cut back immediately, reading the bad throw. He was almost to the ball when Nate Carlsen came from his blind side like a freight train.

  The hit echoed across the field.

  "Ooooh!" The collective gasp from the bleachers was audible even over the grunts and collisions of practice.

  Tyson hit the ground hard.

  Nate stood over him, grinning down. "How's it taste?"

  His laughter was cruel, mocking.

  Tyson was on his feet in a second. "You must be out of your damn mind." His voice was quiet, dangerous. "Catch me cross-field again."

  From the sideline, Jason stood with narrowed eyes. Nearby, the cheerleaders chanted in synchronized voices.

  Clark positioned himself behind another player, fighting the nausea that kept threatening to overwhelm him. His hands trembled as he called the play.

  "Blue-37! Hike!"

  The ball snapped.

  Clark caught it, immediately pitching to Tyson on a sweep.

  A yellow jersey launched himself at Tyson's back. Tyson didn't go down. He carried the defender forward, legs churning. Two more players piled on, their combined weight finally bringing him to the ground after another five yards.

  In the bleachers, Lana was on her feet. "Oh! Keep going, baby!"

  Chloe glanced at her, eyebrows raised. Lana's cheeks flushed, but she didn't sit down.

  "Hike!"

  Clark passed to another receiver and started running downfield.

  A yellow jersey appeared in front of him.

  The block caught him square in the chest, and suddenly, Clark was off his feet.

  He hit the ground on his back, the impact jarring every bone in his body.

  The sky spun above him.

  Another play.

  Clark tossed the football, then felt hands grabbing his jersey.

  He went down hard again, his helmet bouncing against the turf.

  Downfield, Tyson caught the pass cleanly. Nate was already charging, laughing as he closed the distance.

  "Atta boy, Tyson!"

  Tyson lowered his shoulder at the last second.

  The collision was brutal.

  Nate's laughter cut off abruptly as he hit the ground, his body going limp.

  Jason's whistle shrieked across the field.

  "Go, Tyson! Good hit!" Lana's voice carried clearly from the bleachers.

  Clark was still on the ground, staring through his face mask as Mandy and another cheerleader lifted the cooler from the drinks table. They carried it between them, heading back toward the school building. The green liquid sloshed inside. He adjusted his helmet, his mind working through the fog of pain and nausea.

  Jason jogged toward where Nate lay motionless. Tyson walked over to Clark instead, offering his hand. "You alright? You've never thrown short before."

  Clark took the offered hand, letting Tyson pull him to his feet. "Think I'm sick. It feels like meteor rock poisoning, but I felt it the moment I drank the Gatorade."

  Tyson's face shifted. He guided Clark toward the sideline, one hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, it looked like he was just checking on his teammate.

  "Hold still," Tyson murmured.

  His hands settled on Clark's shoulders.

  The warmth started immediately, spreading from the points of contact.

  Clark felt it flow through him, a gentle current pushing against the sickness. The light was subtle, barely visible in the afternoon sun, but Clark could feel it working.

  Then his stomach clenched violently.

  Clark bent over and vomited.

  Green liquid splashed onto the grassa. He heaved again, and again, until nothing remained.

  When he finally straightened, the relief was immediate.

  The nausea was gone. The weakness had vanished.

  Clark took a full breath for the first time since drinking the punch.

  His friend had just healed him without hesitation, without asking questions. Tyson just acted, the way he always did when someone needed help. Clark had spent so much of his life hiding, keeping people at arm's length because of his secret. But Tyson knew. Had known almost from arriving, and he'd never once used that knowledge as leverage or made Clark feel like a freak. He just... accepted it. Accepted him.

  "Better?" Tyson asked.

  "Yeah." Clark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks."

  Tyson's face was grim. "Why the hell was the kryptonite in the Gatorade?"

  Clark turned toward the school building where the cheerleaders had disappeared with the cooler. Then his gaze shifted to the drinks table, to the remaining squeeze bottles of green liquid. To Jason Teague, who was helping Nate to his feet with an empty squeeze bottle visible in the coach's back pocket.

  "I don't know," Clark said quietly. "But I think we need to find out."

  In the stands, while everyone was focused on Nate, Lana snuck over to where the players left their bags. She went into Tyson's backpack and grabbed the keys to the theater.

  — Meteor Freak —

  Chloe turned a corner in the hallway of Smallville High. Mandy stood at the center of three other girls, all in their red and yellow uniforms. Rhonda leaned against a locker, arms crossed, while two other cheerleaders flanked Mandy like ladies-in-waiting.

  "Seriously, Mandy, the twenty-four-hour mourning period is over," Rhonda said, examining her nails. "You need a new boyfriend to take to our pool party."

  Mandy shifted her weight, one hand on her hip. "Okay, I'm not taking a step down from Dan and dating some wide receiver, Rhonda."

  A brunette cheerleader brightened. "Well, Clark Kent's the starting quarterback."

  "And he's hot," another added, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "But he has a girlfriend." She paused, glancing at the others. "What about Tyson? He's single, right? I know you said no receivers, but for him, you should make an exception."

  The other girls laughed and nodded, exchanging knowing glances.

  Mandy tilted her head, considering. "No decisions. I'll scope both of them out."

  Chloe slowed her pace. Something about the casual way they discussed boyfriends, a day after Dan had threatened Coach Teague with a shotgun, felt wrong. She edged closer, pretending to adjust her bag while straining to hear more.

  Rhonda's gaze flicked toward her. The cheerleader's face shifted from casual conversation to awareness in an instant. She gestured subtly to the other girls, who turned.

  Chloe straightened, deciding to own it. She walked directly toward them, her chin up.

  "Mandy," she said. "I'm doing an article for the Torch about what happened to your boyfriend."

  Rhonda stepped forward, positioning herself between Chloe and Mandy like a bodyguard. "She doesn't want to talk about it."

  Mandy's face hardened, her earlier playfulness vanishing. "I wouldn't give that geek rag a quote if it were the last paper on earth."

  Three football players approached from the opposite end of the hall, the cheerleaders' usual entourage. Each girl's face lit up as their respective boyfriends arrived, except Mandy, who stood alone.

  "Oh, look," Chloe said, her tone light. "Your valets are here." She let her gaze settle on Mandy. "Except you don't have one anymore, do you?"

  Mandy's jaw tightened. She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the hallway. "I could have another boyfriend like that."

  "It's amazing what a short skirt will get ya," Chloe replied.

  The other cheerleaders exchanged glances, but Rhonda moved to her locker, pulling it open with more force than necessary. She grabbed a folder and handed it to her boyfriend without a glance. He fumbled the catch, and the folder hit the floor, papers scattering across the linoleum.

  Chloe crouched automatically, gathering the loose sheets before anyone could step on them. As she straightened the papers, her gaze caught the title page: "The Love Molecule." Below it, a chemical diagram dominated the page, a molecular structure labeled phenylethylamine. The structure was familiar from chemistry class, but seeing it here, in Rhonda's folder, the day after Dan's violent outburst over Mandy…

  "You want a quote?" Mandy's voice cut through her thoughts.

  Chloe stood slowly, still holding the folder. "Yeah."

  Mandy stepped closer, her smile cold and sharp. "Back off, bitch."

  The football players shifted uncomfortably, and one of the other cheerleaders let out a nervous giggle that died quickly. Chloe stood there, the folder still in her hands. She met Mandy's gaze, refusing to flinch. The hallway seemed to quiet around them, other students slowing to watch the confrontation.

  But Chloe's mind was already filing away details.

  Phenylethylamine. The love molecule. Why would a cheerleader have detailed chemistry notes on a compound that affected emotional bonding? And not just notes, that folder looked like research. Systematic. Intentional.

  Dan Cormier had gone from an indifferent boyfriend to an obsessively devoted one in the span of minutes. Literally minutes, if the timeline added up. One moment brushing Mandy off, the next ready to skip practice to go shopping with her. Ready to shoot Coach Teague for allegedly staring at her.

  The other football players were acting the same way. Carrying purses, holding mirrors, following their cheerleader girlfriends around like devoted puppies. Not all of them, Tyson and Clark seemed fine, but enough to form a pattern.

  She thought about the drinks table, about Mandy handing Dan that bottle of green sports drink. About the way the other cheerleaders had stood there with knowing smiles. About phenylethylamine and how it could theoretically be synthesized, concentrated, administered.

  And if they could dose the football players, who else could they target? Teachers? Administrators? This wasn't just high school drama. This was assault. Chemical manipulation of people's emotions and decision-making. The kind of thing that could destroy lives.

  Dan had tried to kill Coach Teague. What would happen when the next player decided his devotion meant eliminating anyone he perceived as a threat? What if one of the cheerleaders decided she wanted someone who was already taken?

  Chloe's reporter instincts screamed at her to expose this immediately, but she needed to be methodical. She needed evidence. Needed to connect the phenylethylamine to the sports drinks to the behavioral changes. Needed to prove it before anyone else got hurt.

  The Torch reporter in her brain started composing the headline.

  "Cheerleaders Dose Football Team with Love Potion."

  But she needed proof. Needed to connect the chemical compound to the behavioral changes. Needed to figure out how meteor rocks fit into this equation, because in Smallville, they always did.

  "That's quite a quote," Chloe said evenly. She held out the folder to Rhonda, who snatched it back without a word.

  Mandy's smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Print it. I'm sure your three readers will be fascinated."

  The cheerleaders laughed on cue, and their boyfriends joined in with forced, uncomfortable sounds.

  "Thanks for your time." Chloe turned and began walking away.

  "Oh, and Chloe?" Mandy called out, her tone saccharine. "Tell Tyson I said hi. I'd love to get to know him better."

  Abby rounded the corner, her ponytail swinging with each step. Down the hall, voices carried. Mandy's sharp tone cut through the quiet, followed by laughter from the other cheerleaders.

  "Back off, bitch."

  More laughter. Then Chloe Sullivan's voice, calmer but with an edge Abby recognized. She'd heard that tone before, usually right before Chloe published something that made people uncomfortable.

  Abby kept her gaze forward, focusing on her locker. The confrontation wasn't her business. She'd worked too hard these past weeks to risk getting pulled into cheerleader drama. The old Abby, Scabby Abby, would have been invisible in moments like this. The new Abby had options. Had possibilities.

  She reached her locker and spun the combination lock. Behind her, footsteps retreated, the cheerleaders dispersing. The lock clicked open.

  The first thing she saw was the mirror mounted inside the door.

  Her reflection stared back. Clear skin, bright eyes, the kind of face that made people do double-takes now. She adjusted a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. The dampness from her run made it curl slightly at her temple.

  "Hey."

  Abby jumped, a small gasp escaping as she spun around. Her hand flew to her chest.

  Brett Anderson stood two feet away, his letterman jacket hanging open over a white t-shirt.

  He held up both hands in apology. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

  Abby laughed, the sound nervous and breathless. "God, Brett. You can't just sneak up on people like that."

  "I know, I know." He stepped closer. "I can't stop thinking about you."

  Abby's smile faltered, uncertainty creeping in. She glanced down at her locker, then back at him. "You mean the girl you nicknamed Scabby Abby?"

  Brett winced. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I totally deserved that. Maybe if I'd been more patient, I would've seen who you really are." He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. "The most beautiful girl in school."

  His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing her cheek.

  The touch was gentle, almost reverent.

  Abby felt her breath catch. She'd imagined moments like this. Brett Anderson, the guy who'd made her life miserable for years, looking at her like she mattered.

  She smiled. He smiled back.

  Movement caught her eye. Lana Lang walked past, keys in her hands, her gaze flicked toward them, and for a moment, their eyes met. Then Lana continued down the hall, heading toward the main entrance.

  "I have a lot to apologize for," Brett said, drawing her attention back. His thumb traced along her jawline. "What do you say we go someplace a little more quiet?"

  His hand continued its gentle path across her face.

  Abby's smile grew as she considered. The hallway felt too exposed, too public. She thought about the chemistry lab, the library, a dozen other places.

  "Okay," she heard herself say.

  She closed her locker with a soft click. Brett's hand found hers, his fingers interlacing with hers as he led her down the hall. Their footsteps fell into rhythm.

  "So where're we going?" Abby asked.

  Brett glanced back at her, taking her hand. "My house."

  — Meteor Freak —

  Tyson walked up to the Talon theater. The marquee above still needed work, but the renovations were nearly complete. He reached into his gym bag for his keys, fingers searching through the jumble of workout clothes and protein bars.

  Nothing.

  He checked the side pocket. Empty. The front pocket. Still nothing.

  Where had he put them?

  Tyson turned back toward the school, mentally retracing his steps. Field, locker room, probably left them on the bench when he changed. But his hand was already on the door, leaning against it, and it pushed open.

  He froze.

  The door swung inward. Tyson stared at the darkened lobby, certain he'd locked up that morning. He always locked up. The electrician had finished days earlier, and there were no other workmen scheduled for the week. He stepped inside and locked the door behind him, the deadbolt clicking into place with a solid thunk.

  Everything looked in order.

  The theater itself was empty. But he could hear someone moving around upstairs. Footsteps. The creak of floorboards. And he thought he could smell... meat? Something cooking.

  Tyson's shoulders relaxed slightly. No one would break in with the intention of making dinner.

  He walked to the stairs, taking them two at a time. The apartment door was cracked open.

  He stepped inside.

  Lana stood over the stove, spatula in hand.

  "Lana, what are you doing here?"

  She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. "Thought you could use some dinner after practice. Found these burgers in the freezer. You don't have a grill, so I figured I'd make them on the stove."

  She was wearing one of his t-shirts. The fabric hung loose and oversized on her frame, the hem falling to mid-thigh, sleeves drooping past her elbows.

  Tyson chuckled. "Make yourself at home."

  "Already did." She said, flipping a burger.

  "I'm going to hop in the shower." He walked toward the bedroom to put his bag down. As he passed the kitchen island, he noticed her bare legs beneath the shirt's hem. She must have changed out of the jeans she'd been wearing earlier. The shorts she had on weren't visible under his oversized shirt.

  Tyson set his bag on the bedroom floor and tossed his practice clothes into the laundry basket. The smell of cooking meat followed him as he grabbed a towel and headed for the bathroom.

  Steam filled the room as hewashed off, hot water sluicing away the dirt and grass stains from practice. He worked shampoo through his hair, eyes closed against the suds.

  The door opened.

  "If you have to go, you can use the bathroom in the theater," Tyson said.

  "I don't need to go."

  Tyson laughed. "Oh? Getting me back for the Mrs. Kent thing? Come on, that was funny."

  He was rinsing out his hair when the shower curtain rollers peeled back, metal rings scraping against the rod.

  "A voyeur?" Tyson said, eyes still closed against the shampoo. "I thought exhibitionism was your thing," he joked.

  Then hands settled on his shoulders, beginning to massage.

  He froze.

  The hands were warm, slick with water. They kneaded the tight muscles of his shoulders.

  Tyson turned comically slowly, water streaming down his face as he blinked his eyes open.

  Lana stood in the shower with him.

  Not joking. Not clothed.

  Completely naked, water cascading over her shoulders and down her body. Her hair was already getting wet, plastered to her neck and back. She looked up at him with an expression that was neither shy nor uncertain.

  "Lana—"

  "You're tense," she said, her hands still working his shoulders. "Let me help."

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "I just told you, I'm helping you relax." Her hands slid down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle.

  Tyson's heart hammered against his ribs. "I know you're not Tina," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. "I took her power. Were you out in the woods again, by that accident site? I thought I burned that place to the ground."

  Lana's hand traced lower down his chest, fingers splaying across his abdomen.

  "I was at football practice the whole time, so you know I wasn't." Her voice was soft, certain. "It's me, Tyson. I just want to make you happy. I see how you look at me."

  She stepped back slightly, water streaming between them. "Look at me."

  Tyson had maintained strict eye contact, but now Lana moved back. The water ran in rivulets down her neck, over the curve of her shoulders. Her skin was flushed from the heat, droplets clinging to her collarbone before sliding down further. Her dark hair was plastered against her back, a few strands clinging to her chest. Her breasts sat high on her chest, large handfuls proportioned perfectly, topped with nipples that were quickly hardening. She was slender, athletic from cheerleading, with gentle curves the water seemed to accentuate. Her green eyes held his gaze without wavering.

  He mumbled, "Didn't we do this already? The shower, you under the influence of some meteor rock thing or another. The almost kiss that I inevitably stop because I know it isn't right."

  Lana stepped closer. Water dripped from her eyelashes as she looked up at him.

  "Except now there's no clothes to get in our way. What about this doesn't feel right?"

  Everything about this felt right in the worst possible way. The warmth of her body. The way she looked at him. The desire and tension building between them, her body that seemed so achingly familiar because of Tina, but he was only now seeing for the first time.

  "Did you drink the Gatorade at football practice?"

  Lana leaned in, rising on her toes like she was going to kiss him. Her breath was warm against his lips. "Yes."

  Tyson gently pushed her away by her shoulders. He turned his back and shut off the shower. He reached outside the curtain and grabbed a towel, turning back to wrap it around her.

  "What's wrong? I know you want this. Want me."

  Tyson grabbed his own towel, wrapping it around his waist. He looked at her, the confusion in her eyes, the hurt beginning to creep in at the edges.

  "The Gatorade was laced with meteor rock."

  Lana blinked. "What?"

  Tyson pulled up the toilet seat. The porcelain clinked against the tank. He turned back to her with an apologetic expression.

  "I'm going to heal you now. It's going to get messy." He gestured to the toilet. "I'll hold back your hair."

  Lana stared at him. "What?"

  Tyson moved closer. "The last time I healed you from meteor rock exposure, you felt pleasure. I have a feeling this is going to be different."

  "Tyson, I don't understand—"

  "Trust me," he said. "Please."

  She looked between him and the toilet, realization beginning to dawn. The towel slipped slightly, and she clutched it tighter against her chest. He positioned her in front of the toilet, one hand gathering her wet hair at the nape of her neck. "Ready?"

  "No, wait—"

  But Tyson had already placed his other hand on her bare shoulder.

  His power flowed into her, but the pleasure she'd experienced last time didn't come.

  Lana's stomach lurched violently.

  The world tilted.

  "Oh god—"

  True to his word, Tyson held back her hair as she puked into the toilet.

  Her body convulsed, expelling the contaminated liquid in violent heaves. The towel slipped from her grip, forgotten, as she braced herself against the toilet bowl. Tyson kept one hand in her hair, the other on her shoulder, continuing to channel his healing energy through her system.

  "I've got you," he said quietly. "Just let it out."

  Lana retched again, her whole body shaking. Tears streamed down her face. Tyson pulled the meteor rock from her system. Her body was doing the rest, purging the physical toxins the only way it could.

  Another heave.

  Another violent expulsion.

  Tyson kept his grip gentle but steady, his healing energy flowing in controlled pulses.

  "Almost done," he murmured. "You're doing great."

  Lana coughed, spitting into the toilet. Her breathing was ragged, her skin clammy. She dry-heaved twice more before her body finally began to settle.

  Tyson pulled the last traces of the meteor rock energy from her system. He withdrew his hand from her shoulder but kept holding her hair.

  "Is it over?" Lana asked weakly.

  "Yeah. It's over."

  She slumped against the toilet, her forehead resting on her arm. Her breathing was still uneven, but the violent convulsions had stopped.

  Tyson released her hair and reached for the toilet paper, tearing off several sheets. He handed them to her.

  "Here."

  Lana took them with a shaking hand, wiping her mouth. She didn't look at him. Couldn't look at him.

  The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional drip from the showerhead and Lana's ragged breathing.

  Tyson flushed the toilet and stood, giving her space. He retrieved the towel she'd dropped and draped it over her shoulders again.

  "Take your time," he said.

  Lana nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Her hands clutched the towel, knuckles white.

  Tyson stepped back, leaning against the bathroom counter. He crossed his arms over his chest, the towel around his waist still damp against his skin.

  The girl who had walked into his shower with such confidence was gone. In her place was someone smaller, vulnerable, wrapped in a towel, trying not to cry.

  "Lana—"

  "Don't." Her voice was hoarse. "Just... don't."

  Tyson closed his mouth and waited.

  Lana sat on the bathroom floor, the towel wrapped around her shoulders, her knees drawn up to her chest. She stared at the tile between her feet, tracing the grout lines with her eyes. Her breathing had steadied, but her hands still trembled slightly.

  Tyson remained against the counter, chest tight. Not at her, but at this goddamn town and its endless supply of ways to fuck with people.

  Three times.

  Three times, he'd had something that should've been between just him and her. The first time with Tina wearing her face, he'd been violated, used. The second time in the theater when meteor rock infection made her strip. Now this? The third time in as many weeks?

  The worst part was knowing how this looked from her side. Every time she tried to take control, something ripped that control away. Made her a passenger in her own body. Made her doubt whether anything she felt was real. And he couldn't fix it. Couldn't heal this. Couldn't use any of the abilities he'd collected to give her back what these situations kept taking.

  All he could do was stand here and watch her process trauma he'd witnessed but couldn't prevent.

  The silence stretched.

  Water dripped from the showerhead in a steady rhythm.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Finally, Lana spoke, her voice rough. "This is the third time."

  Tyson didn't respond, just listened.

  "Tina." Lana's fingers tightened on the towel. "She pretended to be me. And you..." She paused, swallowing hard. "You thought it was me. You were with her, thinking she was me."

  "Lana—"

  "I don't blame you," she said quickly, still not looking at him. "I know you didn't know. But it doesn't change how it feels."

  Tyson waited.

  "Then in the theater." Lana's voice dropped lower. "I started taking my clothes off. And you stopped me because you knew something was wrong. You realized I wasn't myself." She finally looked up at him, her green eyes red-rimmed. "And now this. Two weeks later. Same thing. I throw myself at you, and you have to stop me again because I'm not in my right mind."

  Tyson shifted his weight but didn't interrupt.

  "Do you know what that's like?" Lana asked. Her voice cracked slightly. "To have someone else live out something that should have been mine? To try to do it myself and have it taken away? Twice?"

  She pulled the towel tighter around herself. "I know you're a good man, Tyson. I know that. You stopped me both times because you wanted me to be safe. Because you wanted me to actually choose it, not have it be some meteor rock making my decisions for me."

  A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  "I appreciate that. I do. You could have... You could have just gone along with it. Both times. No one would have known. But you didn't." Her voice softened. "You made sure I was safe. That I was really consenting."

  Tyson finally spoke, his voice gentle. "You deserve that."

  Lana nodded, another tear falling. "I know. And that's what makes this so frustrating."

  She stood slowly. Her legs were still shaky, but she managed to get to her feet. She faced him, the towel clutched around her body.

  "Because the truth is..." She took a breath. "The truth is, I do want this. Want you. Not because of meteor rocks or mind control or whatever else this town throws at us. Just... because."

  When she said it, Lana simultaneously terrified and relieved. She'd never been this direct before, not with Whitney, not with anyone. Whitney had always pushed, always assumed, always acted like her feelings were a given rather than something she needed to choose. She'd spent so much of that relationship trying to figure out what she was supposed to feel instead of what she actually felt.

  But with Tyson, standing here vulnerable and honest after he'd just saved her from herself again, Lana realized something important.

  She was tired of waiting for the perfect moment. Tired of second-guessing herself. Tired of letting fear or confusion or other people's expectations make her decisions for her.

  Whitney had loved the idea of her, the girl next door, the cheerleader, the perfect small-town sweetheart, but never seemed interested in who she actually was beneath the surface. Tyson just... saw her. Messy and complicated, still figuring things out. And he waited. Let her come to him. Respected her enough to turn her down when she wasn't herself.

  That mattered more than any perfect romantic moment ever could.

  "I've wanted it since before Tina," Lana continued. "Since you saved me from Greg. Since you helped me with the flower shop. Since you've been there, just being you." She laughed, a broken sound. "And every time I try to act on it, something gets in the way. Either it's not me, or not really me, or I'm not really in control, or..."

  She trailed off, looking down at herself. At the towel. At the situation they were in.

  "Or I end up puking my guts out while you hold my hair back."

  Tyson's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Not exactly romantic."

  "No." Lana shook her head. "It's really not."

  She moved to the sink, turning on the faucet. She cupped water in her hands and rinsed her mouth, spitting into the basin. She did it again, then splashed water on her face. When she straightened, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Hair plastered to her head. Eyes puffy. Skin pale.

  "I look awful," she said.

  "You are one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, even after all that," Tyson said. "A solid 8.5 out of 10."

  Lana turned to face him again. "I'm being serious, Tyson. I need you to understand something."

  "Okay."

  "When I'm ready, when I'm actually ready, and it's actually me making the choice, I'm going to come to you." Her voice was steady now, despite everything. "And I need you to believe me when I do. I need you to trust that I know what I want."

  He studied her face. "How will I know it's really you? That you're not being influenced by something?"

  "Because I'll tell you." Lana met his gaze directly. "I'll use a safe word or something. I don't know. We'll figure it out. But I need you to know that this..." She gestured between them. "This isn't just meteor rocks. It's not just chemicals or mind control or whatever. There's something real here."

  She stepped closer, close enough to see the water droplets still clinging to his shoulders.

  "I'm not asking you to do anything about it right now. I know the timing is terrible. I know I just threw up, and I'm standing here in a towel, and this is probably the least sexy moment of my entire life." A small, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. "But I need you to know. When the time is right, when I'm clearheaded and safe and actually choosing it... I'm going to choose you."

  Tyson's expression softened. "Lana..."

  "You don't have to say anything," she said quickly. "I just needed you to hear it. The real me. Not Tina. Not meteor-rock-influenced me. Just... me."

  Tyson stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders.

  Lana tensed slightly, then relaxed as his healing power flowed into her.

  The connection was different this time. More intimate than any previous healing. Maybe it was the context. Both of them barely dressed, emotions raw and honest. Maybe it was because Lana was finally choosing to be here, to let him help her, without chemicals or confusion clouding the moment.

  The warmth spread through her body, gentle and soothing. Not the violent purging from before. This was restoration.

  Her muscles unknotted.

  The nausea faded completely.

  The weakness in her legs disappeared.

  Color returned to her cheeks.

  And yes, there was pleasure. Not overwhelming, not controlling. Just a gentle wave of it washing through her system as her body remembered what it was to be whole and healthy.

  He couldn't fix the violation of having her agency stolen. Couldn't heal the pattern of meteor rocks targeting her specifically. But he could give her a body that was whole and strong. A moment of genuine care with no strings, no expectations, no hidden agendas.

  Lana's eyes fluttered closed.

  A soft sigh escaped her lips.

  When Tyson pulled his hands away, she opened her eyes to find him with that same gentle expression.

  "The timing isn't terrible," he said quietly. "It's just right."

  Lana blinked. "What?"

  "You think this is the worst moment. That you're not at your best." His hands remained on her shoulders, thumbs brushing against her collarbones. "But you're wrong. You're beautiful, Lana. Even now. Especially now."

  Her throat tightened.

  "You're honest," Tyson continued. "You're vulnerable. You're real. That's more beautiful than any perfect moment could ever be."

  A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.

  "And when you're ready," he said, his voice dropping lower, "when you come to me and tell me that's what you want... I'll accept you."

  Lana looked up at him. He'd saved her from Greg. From Tina. From meteor rocks three times now. He'd helped with the flower shop. He'd listened to her talk about Whitney, about her confusion, about her feelings, and never once tried to push her toward any decision. He'd pushed her away twice when she'd thrown herself at him, not because he didn't want her, but because he wanted her to actually choose it.

  Everything the others weren't, Tyson was.

  Whitney had been impatient, always pushing for more, for commitment, for her to be what he needed. Tyson waited. Tyson let her come to him.

  Clark looked at her like she was fragile, something to be protected. Tyson looked at her like she was strong enough to make her own choices.

  And standing here, in his bathroom, wrapped in a towel after he'd just healed her from meteor rock poisoning, Lana realized something.

  She'd spent so much of her life waiting. Waiting for her parents to come back, waiting to understand what happened to them, waiting for the grief to fade. Waiting for the right moment, the right feeling, the right certainty before making any choice that mattered.

  But there was no perfect moment coming. There never was.

  Life in Smallville had taught her that if nothing else. Tomorrow she could be struck by a meteor rock. Could be possessed, controlled, or killed by any of the weekly disasters that seemed to target this town. Hell, tomorrow, Tyson could be gone, moved away, killed saving someone, or just disappear like so many people in this town eventually did.

  The only moment she actually had was this one.

  Right here. Right now.

  Standing in Tyson's bathroom wearing his towel after he'd saved her from herself for the third time.

  And the truth, the real, honest truth she'd been dancing around for weeks, was that she didn't want perfect. She wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to stop letting fear and timing and other people's expectations dictate when she was allowed to feel what she already felt.

  She was so tired of being careful. Of being good. Of waiting for permission from the universe to want something for herself.

  She didn't want to wait.

  She wanted him. Now. The real her wanted the real him, and that was enough.

  "Tyson," she said.

  "Yeah?"

  Lana reached up and placed her hands over his, still resting on her shoulders. She held them there.

  "What if I don't want to wait?"

  His expression shifted, became more cautious. "Lana—"

  "I'm clearheaded," she said quickly. "You just healed me. I know exactly what I'm saying and what I'm doing."

  "You just went through something—"

  "I did," she agreed. "And you were there. Like you've been there every time something happens to me in this town." She squeezed his hands. "That's not trauma talking. That's me realizing something I should have realized weeks ago."

  "You're emotional right now. You're grateful, and that's—"

  "Stop," Lana said firmly. She pulled his hands down from her shoulders but didn't let go. "Stop trying to protect me from myself."

  "I'm trying to make sure you don't do something you'll regret."

  "I won't." She stepped even closer, until there was barely any space between them. "Do you know what I would regret? Waiting for some perfect moment that never comes. Pushing you away because I'm scared or confused or worried about what other people think."

  She looked down at their joined hands, then back up at his face.

  "You're a good man, Tyson. A good friend. You've been patient with me when I didn't deserve it. You've been honest when everyone else in my life keeps secrets." Her voice wavered slightly. "You're what I want."

  "Lana—"

  "I know what you're thinking," she said. "You're thinking I'm confused. That I'm mixing up gratitude with attraction. That I'm rebounding from Whitney or any number of things that aren't true."

  She released one of his hands to reach up and touch his face, her palm against his cheek.

  "But I'm not confused. I don't want to wait anymore. I don't want to make you wait. I don't want some perfect moment. I just want you."

  Tyson closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, something raw flickered across his face.

  "You're sure," he said. Not a question. A confirmation.

  "I'm sure. This is me," Lana said. "Just me. Choosing you."

  She rose on her toes, bringing her face closer to his. Close enough to feel his breath against her lips.

  "I'm choosing you, Tyson," she whispered. "Right now. In this moment."

  For a long second, Tyson just looked at her.

  And Lana was seen in a way she'd never experienced before. Not as the girl who lost her parents. Not as the popular cheerleader, the flower shop girl, or Whitney's girlfriend. Not as someone who needed protecting or saving or careful handling.

  Just as Lana. Messy and confused and still figuring things out, but knowing what she wanted right now.

  Something shifted in Tyson's expression. Not surprise, exactly. More like relief. Like he'd been holding his breath for weeks, waiting for this moment, but never willing to push for it. Never willing to take the choice away from her, even when it was offered.

  That's what made this different from every other almost-moment they'd had. This time, it was really her. No meteor rocks, no mind control, no alcohol or adrenaline or any other excuse to hide behind. Just Lana Lang, standing in front of someone she cared about, making a choice.

  And for the first time in a very long time, Lana was powerful. Not because of some external force or meteor-given ability. Because she was finally, finally in control of her own story.

  And then she kissed him.

  — Lemons Begin —

  The kiss started gentle, tentative, like Lana was still half-expecting him to pull away. But Tyson didn't pull away. He leaned into it, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her damp hair.

  Lana made a soft sound against his mouth, her free hand sliding up his bare chest. His skin was warm under her palm, and his heartbeat was steady and strong.

  When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Tyson's eyes searched hers.

  "Still sure?" he asked quietly.

  "Yes," Lana said. No hesitation.

  Tyson's hands moved to her waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the bathroom counter. Lana let out a surprised laugh, gripping his shoulders for balance as he positioned her on the cool marble surface.

  "Better?" he asked, stepping between her legs.

  "Much better," Lana said, grinning. The height difference was gone now. She was eye-level with him, and it was right. Equal.

  She wrapped her legs loosely around his waist, drawing him closer. The towel around her body shifted with the movement, loosening at her chest.

  Tyson noticed. His gaze dropped briefly, then back to her face. "Your towel's slipping."

  "I know," Lana said.

  She didn't move to fix it. Didn't pull it tighter or adjust it. Just looked at him.

  The towel slipped further, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the top of her chest. Still, she didn't move.

  "I want you to see me," she said simply. "All of me."

  Tyson's hands remained on her waist, his thumbs brushing against her skin just above the towel. "You're beautiful."

  "You keep saying that."

  "Because it's true."

  Lana reached up and touched his face again, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Then show me you mean it."

  Tyson leaned in and kissed her again. This time there was more heat to it, more urgency. His mouth moved against hers with purpose, and Lana responded in kind, her fingers sliding into his hair.

  The towel slipped further. The top edge dropped below her breasts, catching at her waist.

  Cool air hit her skin, then Tyson's chest pressed against hers, skin to skin.

  She broke the kiss with a gasp, her head tilting back slightly.

  Tyson's mouth didn't stop. He kissed along her jaw, down the side of her neck. His lips were soft, reverent, taking his time with each touch.

  "Tyson," Lana breathed.

  "Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured against her skin.

  "Don't stop."

  His kisses moved lower, across her collarbone, down to the hollow of her throat. Lana's hands tightened in his hair.

  When his mouth reached her chest, he paused. Looked up at her.

  Lana met his gaze and nodded.

  Tyson's lips brushed against the swell of her breast, feather-light. Then again, firmer. His hands came up to cup her, gentle but sure, and Lana's breath caught.

  "You're perfect," he said quietly.

  Then his mouth closed over her nipple, and Lana's whole body arched.

  His tongue circled the sensitive peak, his lips creating suction, and a sound between a gasp and a moan escaped her.

  "Oh god," she whispered.

  Tyson's hand came up to her other breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple in time with the movements of his mouth. The dual sensation made Lana's head spin.

  She'd never been touched like this before. Whitney had touched her before, but rushed, always pushing for more. This was different. This was worship.

  Tyson took his time, lavishing attention on her breast, his tongue swirling and flicking, his teeth grazing gently. When he finally pulled back, Lana whimpered at the loss.

  Then his mouth moved to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. Lana's hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, her nails digging in slightly as the pleasure built.

  "Tyson," she gasped. "That feels so good."

  His hand slid down her side, over the curve of her waist, coming to rest on her hip. The towel had fallen completely away now, pooled around her waist on the counter. She was bare before him, and instead of exposed or vulnerable, she was seen. Cherished.

  Tyson's mouth continued its exploration, kissing down the center of her chest, across her ribs, down to her stomach. Each kiss was deliberate, purposeful, like he was mapping every inch of her.

  "So perfect," he said between kisses.

  Lana's breath came in short bursts. Her whole body was alive, every nerve ending singing. She'd never been worshipped like this.

  "I want you to enjoy this," Tyson said, his hands stroking up and down her sides. "I want you to feel good. That's all that matters right now."

  "I do," Lana managed.

  Tyson smiled against her skin. "Good."

  His kisses moved back up, across her ribs, between her breasts. His hands cupped her face, tilting her head down so he could look at her.

  "This is your first time," he said. Not a question.

  Lana nodded, suddenly shy despite everything. "Is that okay?"

  "It's more than okay." Tyson's thumbs brushed across her cheekbones. "It means I get to make sure it's everything you deserve."

  "What do I deserve?"

  "To feel safe. To feel good. To be in control." He kissed her softly. "To know you can stop anytime, and I won't be upset or disappointed or anything except supportive."

  Tears pricked at her eyes. "You really mean that."

  "Every word."

  She pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper, more passionate. Her legs tightened around his waist, drawing him flush against her. She could feel him through the towel around his hips, hard and ready, but he made no move to rush things.

  When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Lana rested her forehead against his.

  "I want this," she said. "I want you. But I'm also nervous."

  "That's normal," Tyson said. "We can take it as slow as you need."

  "What if I'm not good at it?"

  "Lana." He pulled back to look at her. "There's no 'good at it.' There's just us, figuring it out together. And I promise you, whatever happens, it's going to be good."

  Some of the tension left her shoulders. "You're really good at this."

  "At what?"

  "Making me feel like I'm not going to mess it up."

  Tyson smiled. "You couldn't mess this up if you tried."

  He kissed her again, slow and deep, and Lana let herself sink into it. Let herself stop worrying and just feel.

  His hands roamed her body, learning her curves, finding the places that made her gasp or arch or sigh. Every touch was careful, attentive, focused entirely on her pleasure.

  "Tell me what feels good," he murmured against her lips.

  "Everything," Lana breathed. "All of it."

  "Be specific. I want to know."

  Lana's cheeks flushed, but she pushed through the embarrassment. "When you... when your mouth was on my breasts. That was really good."

  "Like this?" Tyson's mouth found her nipple again, sucking gently.

  "Yes," Lana gasped. "Just like that."

  His hand slid down her stomach, fingers splaying across her skin. "And this? Does this feel good?"

  "Yes."

  "What about here?" His hand moved lower, stopping just above where the towel still covered her.

  Lana's breath hitched. "I... I think so. I don't know. I've never..."

  "We'll find out together," Tyson said.

  He kissed her again, and Lana's nervousness melted away. Whatever happened next, she knew she was safe. She knew she was cared for.

  She knew she'd made the right choice.

  Tyson's mouth returned to her breasts, his tongue circling one nipple while his fingers teased the other. Lana's head fell back against the mirror.

  He took his time, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction, until both peaks were tight and sensitive.

  "Oh," Lana breathed, gripping his shoulders.

  Tyson kissed down the center of her chest, across her ribs. His hands slid to her hips, fingers curling around the edge of the towel still bunched at her waist.

  "Can I?" he asked, looking up at her.

  Lana nodded, not trusting her voice.

  He unwrapped the towel slowly, letting it fall away completely. Lana sat bare before him on the marble counter, her legs still loosely wrapped around his waist.

  "Perfect," Tyson said quietly.

  His hands returned to her hips, and in one smooth motion, he slid her forward toward the edge of the counter. Lana let out a surprised giggle at how easily he moved her, like she weighed nothing at all.

  "Strong," she managed.

  "Perks of the job," Tyson said with a small smile.

  The giggle died in her throat as he knelt before her, his hands spreading her thighs wider. Lana's breath caught. She'd never been this exposed to anyone, never been looked at like this.

  Tyson kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, along her inner thigh. Soft, reverent kisses that made her skin tingle. His hands stroked up and down her legs, soothing and arousing at the same time.

  "Tell me if anything doesn't feel good," he said between kisses.

  "Okay," Lana whispered.

  His mouth moved higher, and Lana tensed in anticipation.

  When his breath ghosted across her most sensitive area, she jerked slightly.

  Then his tongue touched her, and Lana's eyes flew wide.

  "Oh god," she gasped.

  The sensation was unlike anything she'd imagined. Warm and wet and impossibly good. Tyson's tongue moved slowly, exploring, learning what made her gasp or arch or grip the edge of the counter.

  "That's... oh..." Lana couldn't form complete sentences.

  Tyson's hands held her thighs steady as his mouth worked. He started with broad, flat strokes of his tongue, then more focused attention on the small bundle of nerves that made her whole body jolt.

  "Too much?" he asked, pulling back slightly.

  "No," Lana managed. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

  His mouth returned, and this time he added suction.

  Lana's hips bucked involuntarily, and Tyson's hands tightened on her thighs, holding her in place.

  She tried to relax, tried to stop thinking and just experience. The pleasure built steadily, making her toes curl and her fingers dig into the marble. Tyson varied his approach, alternating between gentle licks and firmer pressure, between broad strokes and focused attention. Every time Lana thought she'd gotten used to one sensation, he'd change it, keeping her off-balance in the best possible way.

  "Tyson," she breathed. "That feels so good."

  His tongue circled that sensitive spot, then flicked across it rapidly.

  Lana's back arched, her head pressing back against the mirror.

  "Oh god, oh god," she chanted.

  One of Tyson's hands left her thigh, sliding up her stomach to cup her breast. His thumb brushed across her nipple in time with the movements of his tongue, and the dual sensation made Lana cry out.

  "You taste amazing," Tyson said, his voice rough.

  The words sent a fresh wave of heat through her. No one had ever talked to her like this, made her feel desired like this.

  His tongue moved lower, dipping inside her.

  Lana gasped at the intrusion, her inner muscles clenching. Strange and good at the same time.

  He did it again, his tongue pushing deeper this time. Lana forced herself to relax, and the sensation shifted from strange to pleasurable.

  He worked her slowly, his tongue moving in and out while his thumb continued to circle her nipple.

  His mouth returned to her clit, and this time he added a finger, sliding it slowly inside her.

  Lana took a shaky breath, then another. Tyson didn't move the finger, just let her adjust.

  "Okay?" he asked.

  "Okay," Lana said.

  He began to move, slow and gentle, his finger sliding in and out while his tongue worked her clit. The combination was overwhelming in the best way. Lana could feel pressure building low in her belly, something coiling tighter and tighter.

  "Tyson," she gasped. "Something's... I think..."

  "Let it happen," he said against her. "Don't fight it."

  His finger curled inside her, finding a spot that made her whole body jolt. He stroked it deliberately while his tongue flicked rapidly across her clit.

  "Oh god, oh god, I can't... I'm going to..."

  The pressure built to a breaking point, and then Lana shattered.

  Her whole body went rigid, then convulsed. She heard herself cry out, heard herself say Tyson's name over and over, but it was distant, like someone else was making those sounds.

  Tyson didn't stop. His mouth and finger continued their work, drawing out her orgasm until Lana was shaking and oversensitive and begging him to stop.

  When he finally pulled back, Lana slumped against the mirror, boneless and spent. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

  Tyson stood, his hands gentle on her thighs. His face was flushed, his lips wet.

  "You okay?" he asked softly.

  Lana nodded, still unable to form words.

  Tyson smiled and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then finally her mouth. Lana could taste herself on his lips, and instead of being embarrassed, she found it arousing.

  "That was..." she finally managed. "I didn't know it could feel like that."

  "Good," Tyson said. "It's all part of my master plan to ruin you for any other men."

  Lana laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Mission accomplished then."

  Before she could say anything else, Tyson's hands slid under her, and in one smooth motion, he lifted her off the counter. Lana yelped in surprise, her arms wrapping around his neck instinctively.

  "Warning next time!" she said, but she was grinning.

  "Where's the fun in that?" Tyson easily carried her through the doorway into the bedroom.

  The bed was still unmade from that morning, sheets rumpled and pillows askew. Tyson lay her down gently in the center, his hands supporting her head until it rested on a pillow.

  Lana looked up at him, her hair fanning out around her face. Her body was flushed pink from her orgasm, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. She'd never been more exposed or more safe at the same time.

  Tyson stood beside the bed, the towel still wrapped around his hips. His gaze moved over her body, not leering but appreciative, like he was memorizing every detail.

  "You're staring," Lana said.

  "Can you blame me?"

  He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself above her. His weight settled partially on his forearms, keeping most of his body suspended so he wouldn't crush her. Lana could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could see the defined muscles of his chest and shoulders.

  "Hi," she said softly.

  "Hi." Tyson leaned down and kissed her.

  This kiss was slower, deeper, more intimate somehow. Lana's hands came up to his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw as their mouths moved together.

  When they broke apart, Tyson's forehead rested against hers.

  "We can stop here if you want," he said. "What we just did, that's more than enough for one night."

  Lana shook her head. "I don't want to stop."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure." She looked into his eyes. "I want all of it. With you."

  Tyson kissed her again, and lowered his body lower slightly, more of his weight pressing against her. The contact was good, his bare chest against hers, his hips settling between her thighs.

  She could feel him through the towel, hard and ready. The knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through her.

  "Tell me if anything hurts," Tyson said. "Or if you want to slow down. Or stop completely."

  "I will."

  His mouth moved to her neck, kissing and sucking gently. Lana tilted her head to give him better access, her hands sliding down to his shoulders.

  Tyson shifted his weight to one side, his hand moving to the towel at his waist. He unwrapped it slowly, letting the fabric fall away and drop to the floor beside the bed.

  Lana's eyes widened. She'd felt him through the towel, but this was different. He was bigger than she'd expected, and a flutter of nervousness went through her stomach.

  "Hey," Tyson had noticed. "We're going to take this slow. I promise."

  Lana nodded, swallowing. "Okay."

  He settled back between her thighs, his body warm against hers.

  "Look at me," he said.

  Lana met his eyes.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," Tyson said. "And if anything doesn't feel good, you tell me immediately. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  He kissed her, slow and deep, and Lana some of the tension leave her body. His mouth moved to her neck, then lower, across her collarbone. His hands roamed her sides, her hips, her thighs.

  By the time his hand slid between her legs, Lana was already breathing hard again.

  His fingers found her wet and ready, and he stroked gently, building her arousal back up.

  "That's it," he murmured against her skin. "Just relax."

  His fingers worked her slowly, one sliding inside while his thumb circled her clit. Lana's hips moved instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure.

  Tyson moved his fingers slowly, letting her adjust, and soon the strangeness faded into pleasure. Lana's hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in slightly.

  "How does that feel?" he asked.

  "Good," Lana managed. "Really good."

  He continued for several minutes, his fingers moving in and out while his thumb worked her clit. Lana felt the pressure building again, that same coiling tension from before.

  "I want you relaxed and ready."

  His fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that made her whole body jolt. He stroked it deliberately while his thumb increased its pressure, and within moments Lana was crying out, her second orgasm crashing through her.

  This one was different from the first. Less intense but deeper somehow, radiating through her whole body. Her inner muscles clenched around his fingers, and Tyson worked her through it until she was trembling and oversensitive.

  When he finally withdrew his hand, Lana was boneless and pliant, her body completely relaxed.

  "Perfect," Tyson said softly.

  He shifted his hips, positioning himself at her entrance. His head pressed against her, and her breath caught.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  Lana nodded. "Yes."

  Tyson pushed forward slowly, just the tip entering her.

  Lana gasped at the sensation. He was bigger than his fingers, the stretch more pronounced. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then another.

  He held still, giving her time to adjust.

  "Okay?" he asked.

  "Okay."

  He pushed forward another inch, moving glacially slow. The stretch increased, her body accommodating him. It didn't hurt exactly, but it was intense.

  Another inch. Lana's hands gripped his shoulders tighter, her breathing coming in short bursts.

  "You're taking me so well."

  The praise sent a flush of warmth through her. She focused on his voice, on the gentle encouragement, and tried to stay relaxed.

  Tyson's hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit. He circled it gently, and Lana gasped as pleasure cut through the intensity of the stretching sensation.

  "That's it," he said. "Focus on how good that feels."

  He pushed forward again, and this time Lana barely noticed the stretch because his fingers were working magic between her legs. The pleasure built quickly, and she found herself rocking her hips slightly, seeking more.

  "There you go," Tyson said. "Move however feels good."

  Lana experimented, tilting her hips up slightly.

  The angle changed, and suddenly he slid deeper, nearly all the way in.

  "Oh," she gasped.

  "Too much?"

  "No. It's... it's good."

  Tyson pushed the final inch, seating himself fully inside her.

  Lana was impossibly full, stretched in a way that was both strange and arousing.

  He held still, his fingers still working her clit, giving her time to adjust. Lana took several deep breaths, her body slowly relaxing around him.

  "How does it feel?"

  "Full," Lana said. "Really full. But good. I think."

  "You think?"

  "I don't know yet. It's a lot."

  Tyson smiled and kissed her forehead. His fingers increased their pressure on her clit, and Lana pleasure begin to override the strangeness. Her hips moved slightly, and he shifted inside her.

  "Oh," she breathed. "That's... do that again."

  Tyson pulled back slightly, then pushed forward. A slow, shallow thrust that made Lana's eyes widen.

  "Like that?" he asked.

  "Yes. Exactly like that."

  He did it again, establishing a gentle rhythm. His fingers never stopped their work on her clit, keeping her arousal high. Lana found herself moving with him, her hips rising to meet his thrusts.

  The combination of sensations was overwhelming. The fullness of him inside her, the friction as he moved, the pleasure from his fingers on her clit. Lana's whole body was alight with sensation.

  "Faster?" Tyson asked.

  "A little."

  He increased his pace slightly, still careful and controlled. Each thrust sent sparks of pleasure through her, and Lana heard herself making small sounds of enjoyment.

  "You feel amazing," Tyson said, his voice rough. "So tight and wet and perfect."

  The words made Lana flush with pleasure. She'd never heard anyone talk to her like this, never been made to feel so desired.

  "Tyson," she gasped. "It feels really good now."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. I didn't think... I didn't know it would feel like this."

  He smiled and kissed her, his hips never stopping their steady rhythm. "It gets better."

  "How?" Lana asked breathlessly.

  "Like this."

  He shifted the angle of his hips slightly, and suddenly he was hitting a spot inside her that made her whole body jolt.

  Lana cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders.

  "Oh god," she gasped. "What was that?"

  "That's your G-spot," Tyson said. "And I'm going to make you feel so good."

  He thrust again, hitting that same spot deliberately. Lana's back arched, pleasure shooting through her like lightning. His fingers worked her clit faster, and the dual sensation was almost too much.

  "I can't... it's too much," Lana panted.

  "Yes you can," Tyson said. "Let it happen. Let me make you feel good."

  He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming firmer, more purposeful. Each one hit that spot inside her, and combined with the pressure on her clit, sent Lana hurtling toward another orgasm.

  "Tyson, I'm going to... I'm..."

  "Come for me," he said. "Let me feel you."

  Three more thrusts and Lana shattered.

  This orgasm was different from the others. More intense, more consuming. Her whole body convulsed, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around him. She heard herself cry out his name, heard herself make sounds she'd never made before.

  Tyson didn't stop. He worked her through it, his hips and fingers maintaining their rhythm until Lana was shaking and oversensitive and begging incoherently.

  When the waves finally subsided, Lana collapsed back against the pillows, her chest heaving. Her whole body was jelly, warm and satisfied and utterly spent.

  Tyson slowed his movements, then stilled completely, still buried inside her.

  "You okay?" he asked softly.

  Lana nodded, unable to form words yet.

  "That was incredible," Tyson said. "You're incredible."

  She finally found her voice. "That was... I can't even describe it."

  "Good incredible or bad incredible?"

  "Very, very good incredible." Lana looked up at him. "You haven't... you didn't..."

  "I'm fine," Tyson said. "This was about you. Making sure your first time was everything it should be."

  "But don't you want to...?"

  He smiled. "Of course I do. But we've got plenty of time."

  Tyson grinned and rolled Lana onto her stomach in one smooth motion. She let out a surprised laugh, her hair spilling across the pillow.

  "Hey!" she protested, but there was no heat in it.

  Lana shifted, getting comfortable on her stomach. Then she did something that made Tyson's breath catch. She arched her back slightly and wiggled her hips, her bottom lifting in a way that was both playful and incredibly enticing.

  "Like what you see?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder with a mischievous smile.

  Tyson's gaze traveled down the curve of her spine to the small of her back, where an intricate tattoo marked her skin. He'd seen it before, of course. But now, in this context, with her body flushed and relaxed from pleasure, it added a new layer of eroticism. The tattoo was beautiful work, the lines clean and precise. Feminine and artistic, perfectly suited to Lana.

  Lana wiggled her hips again, more deliberately this time. "Are you going to stare all day or actually do something?"

  Tyson laughed. "Oh, cheeky. You want more?" He ran his hand down her spine, tracing a path to the tattoo with his fingers. "Haven't had enough?"

  Lana turned her head to look at him fully, her green eyes bright with amusement and desire. "I think I can handle it."

  "Is that right?" Tyson's hand moved lower, cupping the curve of her bottom.

  "Mmhmm." Lana shifted again, pressing back against his hand. "Unless you're too tired?"

  "Too tired?" Tyson positioned himself behind her, his hands settling on her hips. "I'll show you tired."

  He helped her adjust, guiding her up onto her knees while her upper body remained pressed against the mattress. The position displayed her beautifully, the tattoo on full display, her body open and inviting.

  "Comfortable?" he asked.

  "Very," Lana said, her voice slightly muffled by the pillow.

  Tyson ran his hands over her back, down her sides, across her hips. He took his time, enjoying the view, the feel of her skin under his palms. Lana made a small sound of contentment, her body relaxing under his touch.

  When he finally positioned himself at her entrance, Lana's breath hitched. He pushed forward slowly, watching as her body accepted him inch by inch. From this angle, he could see everything; the way her muscles tensed and relaxed, the way her fingers gripped the sheets, the way the tattoo on her lower back almost seemed to shimmer.

  "Oh god," Lana breathed as he seated himself fully inside her.

  "Still okay?" Tyson asked, his hands gripping her hips.

  "Better than okay." She pushed back against him experimentally. "This feels different."

  "Different good or different bad?"

  "Different amazing." Lana shifted again, finding an angle that made her gasp. "You're so deep like this."

  Tyson pulled back and thrust forward, establishing a rhythm. This position let him go deeper, hit different angles, and from the sounds Lana was making, she was enjoying every second of it.

  "Yes," she gasped. "Just like that."

  He increased his pace slightly, his hands sliding from her hips to her waist. Lana's back arched more, changing the angle again, and Tyson groaned at the sensation.

  "You feel incredible," he said.

  Lana laughed breathlessly. "You're not so bad yourself."

  Her breathing became ragged, punctuated by small moans and gasps. Her hands fisted in the sheets, her whole body trembling.

  "Tyson," she panted. "I'm close again. How am I close again?"

  His thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. Lana's back arched impossibly further, her body taut as a bowstring.

  "Come for me," Tyson said. "One more time."

  It only took a few more thrusts before Lana's inner muscles began clenching rhythmically around him. She cried out into the pillow, her voice muffled but still clearly full of pleasure.

  The sensation of her orgasm pushed Tyson over the edge. His own release built, that familiar pressure at the base of his core. At the last possible second, he pulled out, his hand moving quickly to stroke himself through completion. His release spilled across her lower back, painting the tattoo and the skin around it.

  Tyson took several deep breaths, his heart pounding. Lana remained where she was, her body still trembling slightly from her orgasm, her breathing heavy.

  "Don't move," Tyson said softly as they came down.

  He grabbed the towel he'd discarded earlier. Gently, he cleaned her back, wiping away the evidence of his release. The towel was soft against her skin, and Lana made a small sound of contentment.

  "That feels nice," she murmured.

  Tyson finished cleaning her, then tossed the towel aside. He lay down beside her, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her face.

  Lana turned her head to look at him. "I don't even have words." She shifted slightly, wincing. "Though I might be a little sore tomorrow."

  Tyson placed his hand on her lower back, right over the tattoo. He channeled a small amount of healing energy, just enough to soothe any soreness or discomfort. Lana's eyes fluttered closed, and she let out a long, contented sigh.

  "That's incredible," she breathed. "Like a warm bath but better."

  "One of the perks of dating someone with powers," Tyson said.

  Lana laughed softly. "I could get used to this."

  — Lemons End —

  — Meteor Freak —

  Lana paused, her eyes opening. She shifted onto her side to face Tyson properly, the sheet pooling around her waist. "Wait. Dating?"

  Tyson met her gaze. "Is that a thing you want?"

  "I don't know." Lana propped herself up on one elbow, mirroring his position. "What do you think? Want to go public or sneak around? Just our little secret?"

  She said it lightly, but there was a genuine question underneath. They'd crossed a line tonight, a significant one, and now they had to figure out what came next.

  Tyson was quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on her lower back. "What do you want, Lana? Not what you think I want, or what would be easier. What do you actually want?"

  Tyson had been nothing but honest with her from the start. He'd helped her when Tina impersonated her, never judged her for the confusion and hurt that followed. He'd been patient tonight, careful, making sure everything was about her pleasure and comfort.

  "I want..." Lana took a breath.

  Whatever Lana was going to say died on her lips as the apartment door swung open with a sharp crack.

  She yanked the sheet up to her chest. Tyson was already moving, rolling off the bed and onto his feet. He positioned himself between Lana and the door.

  Jason Teague stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. His hair was disheveled, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. In his right hand, he held a revolver. The metal was tarnished with age. Even from across the room, Tyson could make out the pentagram carved into the wooden grip.

  His eyes had the glassy, unfocused quality of someone who'd been drinking, but underneath that was something worse. Something manic and desperate and barely holding on to rational thought.

  Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His skin had a sallow quality that suggested he'd been running on adrenaline and obsession. His shirt wasn't just untucked. it was misbuttoned, inside out at the collar. His hair stuck up in different directions like he'd been running his hands through it compulsively.

  The gun trembled in his grip. Not from weakness. From chemicals flooding his system that were never meant to be there, warping every emotion into something sharp and dangerous.

  "Fuck," Tyson said under his breath.

  The Gatorade.

  Jason had been drinking the same kryptonite-laced punch as the other football players. Tyson should have anticipated this.

  "Jason!" Lana's voice was sharp with shock. "What are you doing?"

  Jason pointed the gun at Tyson with an unsteady hand. "Get away from her."

  "Jason, put the gun down," Tyson said, keeping his voice calm and level. He didn't move, didn't make any sudden gestures. "You don't want to do this."

  "Don't tell me what I want!" Jason's voice rose, cracking slightly. He took a step into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. "You think you can just... just take whatever you want? She's mine!"

  Lana sat up straighter, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Excuse me? I'm yours?"

  "We have something special, Lana." Jason's gaze flickered to her, then back to Tyson. "We had a future. And then this... this thing shows up and ruins everything."

  "I'm not a thing," Tyson said quietly. "And Lana's not property. She makes her own choices."

  "Choices?" Jason laughed, the sound bitter and slightly unhinged. "You manipulated her. Used your powers or whatever the hell you are to get inside her head."

  Tyson's jaw tightened. "I didn't manipulate anyone."

  "Jason, you need to leave." Lana's voice was firm despite the fear in her eyes. "Right now. Before you do something you'll regret."

  "Regret?" Jason's hand shook as he kept the gun trained on Tyson. "The only thing I regret is not seeing what you were sooner." He took another step forward. "I've been watching you. The way you move, the things you can do. You're not normal."

  "Lots of people in Smallville aren't normal," Tyson said.

  "Not like you." Jason's voice dropped lower. "I've seen you. The healing, the strength."

  Tyson didn't respond. His mind was racing, calculating distances, angles, possibilities. The gun was old but it was still a gun. Even with his powers, a bullet could do serious damage and he needed to make sure Lana didn't get caught in the crossfire.

  "I did some research," Jason continued. "Asked around. Talked to people who've seen things in this town. And you know what I figured out?" He laughed again, that same unhinged sound. "You're not human."

  Lana made a small sound of protest, but Jason ignored her.

  "I don't know what you are exactly. Vampire? Some kind of Demon? Doesn't really matter, does it? Point is, you're not one of us. You're something else. Something dangerous."

  "Jason," Tyson said. "That Gatorade did something to you. You're not thinking clearly."

  "Ever since you showed up, everything's been wrong. People getting hurt, strange things happening. And you're always right there in the middle of it."

  "That's not fair," Lana said. "Tyson's helped people. He saved you from Dan. He stopped Eric Summers. He—"

  "He's fooled everyone," Jason interrupted. "Made you all think he's some kind of hero. But I see through it. I see what you really are."

  Tyson's hands clenched at his sides. He could feel the electricity building under his skin, responding to his stress and anger. "Put the gun down, Jason. Last chance."

  "Or what? You'll kill me?" Jason's smile was sharp and cold. "Go ahead and try. See what happens."

  "I don't want to hurt you," Tyson said.

  "That's the difference between us." Jason's finger moved to the trigger. "I don't have a problem hurting you."

  "Jason, please!" Lana's voice broke. "Don't do this!"

  Jason's face softened slightly when he turned to her. "I'm doing this for you, Lana. For us. Once he's gone, we can be together like we're supposed to be."

  "We were never supposed to be together," Lana said quietly. "I never felt that way about you."

  Hurt, anger, and betrayal flickered across Jason's face. His grip tightened. "You're just confused. He's gotten into your head, made you think—"

  "He hasn't done anything except treat me like a person," Lana said. "Like someone who can make her own decisions."

  Jason's jaw clenched. He turned his full attention back to Tyson. "It doesn't matter anyway. What you are, what you can do, none of it matters."

  "Why's that?" Tyson asked.

  Jason's smile returned, wider this time. "Because this gun is special."

  He held it up slightly, showing off the pentagram on the grip.

  "Back in 1835, when Halley's Comet was overhead..." Jason's voice took on the cadence of someone reciting a story they'd heard many times. "The same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun."

  Tyson's stomach dropped.

  His mouth went dry.

  His pulse hammered in his ears.

  "He made it for a hunter," Jason continued. "The story goes he made thirteen bullets. This hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him."

  "Jason—" Tyson started.

  "They say..." Jason's eyes glittered with something dark and triumphant. "They say this gun can kill anything."

  The apartment fell silent except for the sound of their breathing.

  Tyson stared at the weapon in Jason's hand, at the pentagram carved into the grip.

  His chest tightened.

  His hands went cold.

  He'd absorbed powers from meteor freaks. Had felt confident in his growing abilities. Had started to believe he could handle whatever this town threw at him.

  But the Colt wasn't meteor rock.

  It was something that operated on different rules.

  He'd died once already, or close enough that the distinction didn't matter. Waking up in Smallville with no memory of how he'd arrived. The thought of dying again, permanently this time, with Lana watching…

  His breath came shorter. His legs felt unsteady.

  For the first time since arriving in this insane town, Tyson wasn't sure he could survive.

  Behind the Scenes

  - This Episode covered Season 4 Episode 3: Facade, and Episode 4: Devoted. In Facade, we see Rhonda Chandler, who was played by the same actress and had the same personality as Felice Chandler in Season 1 Episode 18: Drone.

  - I fully intended on drawing the Lana stuff out forever, just like the show did. But I don't know how long I'm going to write this story, so I figured, might as well do it. Sometimes when I write, the story just flows. I was at the section where Lana said, "But I need you to know. When the time is right, when I'm clearheaded and safe and actually choosing it... I'm going to choose you." And I thought, this would be a very Lana line to tie up this scene with.

  But then I didn't want to.

  You can only drag things out so much before they become annoying. And I started to tie it up and got annoyed at myself. So I just went for it.

  In Season 1, the emotional climax with Kara happens at the very end. Here it happens... I'm not exactly sure since I haven't written this whole season yet, but I think we're near the midpoint.

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