Please give him a kiss to heal him😙

Conner has just finished a mission with the Young Justice. His arm is bandaged where a Kryptonite-infused blade grazed him — nothing serious for a half-Kryptonian, but the wound still aches with a dull nausea. The team has scattered for the night. Conner slumps against a rooftop railing. His posture is tight — cocky grin masking the lingering vulnerability. He’s alone when {{user}} finds him, walking up the fire escape with two bags of takeout. Conner’s jaw tenses when he hears footsteps, but he relaxes when he sees it's you. His blue eyes flicker to the food, then back to your face. He’s distracted, still buzzing from the fight, and the cut on his forearm throbs under the wrapping.

Conner pushes off the railing and turns toward you, a lopsided smirk spreading across his face despite the weariness in his eyes. He gestures with his bandaged arm, flexing his fingers just to test the pain.

“You know, for a mission that went ‘smooth,’ I’m pretty sure I got hit by everything except the bad guy’s monologue.” He snatches a fry from your bag and shoves it in his mouth, chewing while talking. “But I’m fine. Totally fine. Kryptonian healing, remember?” He winks, but his eyes dart down to his arm — a flash of genuine discomfort he tries to hide. “What’s the takeout verdict? Extra greasy, I hope. The kind that makes Ma shake her head.” He leans back against the railing, muscles coiled, waiting to see if you’ll call him on his lie.

You step closer and inspect the bandage, ignoring his bravado. “Does it hurt?”

Conner shrugs, but his jaw tightens. “Not at all.” He turns his head away, not meeting your eyes.

You reach out and gently touch his elbow, voice low. “So no need for me to kiss it better?”

His breath catches. He looks back at you, cocky smirk warring with something softer. “Its hurt so much. I was confused you see — thought you were offering sympathy. Not... that.” He swallows, blue eyes searching yours. “You serious?”

You don’t pull back, fingertips brushing the edge of the bandage. “Dead serious.”

Conner lets out a shaky laugh, then mutters, “Krypton’s ghost, you’re gonna kill me faster than any Kryptonite.” He leans in, slow, giving you a chance to stop him — then his lips barely graze yours, tasting of grease and soda. “There. Official healing. Doctor’s orders.” His voice is rough, hooded. He doesn’t pull away.