Enchanting Night (Part 2)

Clark's heart nearly broke.

He rushed to his side, quickly admitting fault with a repentant attitude but a willingness to repeat the offense.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It was all my fault, I shouldn't have ignored you."

"You don't even care about me..." Soren muttered, his voice filled with hurt.

"I do! How could I not?" Clark denied it immediately, his eyes full of sorrow, "You're the most important person in the world to me. I love you."

Soren gritted his teeth.

"But clearly you... ugh!" He stopped, remembering the state of his poor feet, "Are you some kind of freak, Clark Kent?!"

Clark, without hesitation, admitted, "Because your feet are so cute... I just couldn't help myself."

Soren was stunned.

How did Clark Kent suddenly develop such thick skin overnight?

He couldn't help but tearfully reminisce about the innocent Boy Scout Clark had been just the day before.

But that Clark was gone.

Now, Clark wasn't the blushing, naive man he once was.

With his Kryptonian brain, he'd learned too quickly, and in just one night had mastered all sorts of knowledge—becoming, without a doubt, a total pervert!

When Soren went to put on his socks, he realized that the soles of his feet were actually rubbed raw.

The soft, pale skin of his arches was flushed with a deep red, slightly swollen, and tender to the touch, sending jolts of pain through him with even the lightest press.

Soren glared at Clark, completely incredulous.

Clark tenderly held Soren's foot, guilt filling his voice as he said, "It's my fault, all my fault. I put some medicine on it—does it still hurt?"

Soren stretched his leg forward, threatening to kick him in frustration.

But Clark didn't budge an inch, remaining perfectly still, his superhuman strength softened just for Soren, even lowering his head to plant a gentle kiss on his toes.

Soren: !!!!

Help!! This Clark Kent is broken!!!

Not only were his feet sore, but his butt hurt even more.

Walking on his own was out of the question, so Clark had to carry him downstairs.

Clark held him like a baby, supporting his buttocks with one hand.

When they reached the dining table, Clark shifted Soren in his arms, holding him snugly while feeding him oatmeal with milk.

Soren was starving, and each time Clark brought a spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth, he obediently ate it.

The bright yellow ceramic spoon slipped past those rose-petal-like lips, leaving a small trace of white milk at the corner of his mouth.

As Clark fed him, the vivid memory of yesterday's events involving Soren suddenly flashed before his eyes, causing his ears to flush red.

Soren sensed something was off and immediately felt on edge.

"Clark!" Soren shouted in alarm, terrified that Clark Kent might suggest doing that again.

He truly couldn't handle it anymore—his little butt would definitely be broken!

Clark, equally flustered, blushed deeply.

He awkwardly rubbed his nose and coughed a few times, saying, "It's nothing, don't worry about it... Just finish eating. Do you want some strawberry jam? You like strawberries."

Soren, tense all over, nodded cautiously, finishing his meal in fear that his butt end might be in for another round of torment.

After breakfast, Clark quickly tidied up the kitchen and then hurried off to the storage shed next to the house.

... A house left empty for a long time tends to decay quickly, and earlier that morning Clark had discovered a crack in one of the beams on the second-floor ceiling.

He needed to build a new support beam.

Fortunately, all the tools Jonathan had left behind were still neatly stored in the shed.

Clark worked carefully at the workbench, using a planer to smooth a piece of wood, while Soren sat nearby, thoroughly entertained by watching Clark work.

Clark had originally planned to carry Soren upstairs to rest, but Soren insisted on watching him do carpentry.

Left with no other choice, Clark allowed him to sit nearby, but made Soren promise not to touch anything to avoid getting hurt by the sharp tools.

Clark was still wearing that same T-shirt, his muscular arms fully visible as he focused on carving a piece of wood he had found in the woods.

The wood shavings, like a cascade of khaki-colored foam, poured out from the planer, slowly covering half the workbench.

During moments like this, the usual aura of power Clark exuded seemed to fade away.

Instead, he was simply focused, serious, and dedicated to his woodworking.

With graying temples, a strand of curly hair falling over his forehead, his strong nose, and tightly pressed lips, he gave off a rugged yet reliable charm.

He looked like the kind of Kansas farmer who'd spend his whole life driving a pickup truck and working hard on the farm—strong, dependable, and offering a comforting sense of safety.

Soren couldn't help but watch him intently, his heartbeat quickening.

Clark glanced at him and noticed Soren playing with the curly wood shavings, so he gently reprimanded, "Don't play with the wood shavings, they'll get your hands dirty."

"It's fine," Soren replied, resting his chin on one hand, his gaze drifting over Clark.

He couldn't help but feel a little captivated by the sight of him.

Feeling warmth rising to his cheeks, Soren switched hands to support his chin, leaning against the workbench like a cat asking to be held.

He absentmindedly flicked the shavings around with his fingers, sending a few onto the back of Clark's hand.

Crack—

Suddenly, Clark miscalculated his strength and snapped the piece of wood he was working on in two.

The sound of the wood breaking made Soren sit up straight, but Clark was already frowning.

His voice was low and serious as he said, "Soren."

As if punishing Soren for distracting him, Clark calmly cleared a clean space on the workbench.

Without warning, he wrapped his arms around Soren's waist and lifted him onto the table, "Stop messing with me."

Soren froze for a moment.

Clark's deep, slightly threatening tone made him curl his toes involuntarily.

In a small, apologetic voice, he quickly defended himself, "I wasn't doing anything…"