That's my first thought when I wake up. Lucila's apartment is much nicer than mine. And it really is. She's not rich, no -- I mean, she's a street reporter for a local Fox affiliate, not a CNN anchor with her own show -- but she gets paid better than I ever did. So I stare at the walls of her apartment when I wake up, scrupulously clean and tidy, like the houses of some of my friends growing up. You know, the kind where it looks like nobody lives in them at all, too clean for a human to live there much less two children.
I don't want to move. She's in my arms, still asleep, and she feels so good there that I'd rather have my bladder burst than to slip away (or worse, wake her up) for a piss.
At about 2 AM, the police and the paramedics had finally let her -- let us -- go, and we took a taxi back to her place. She hadn't said anything, hadn't asked or told me to stay with her, just held on to my hand and wouldn't let go after we got out of the warehouse. I would've flown her back, but her clothes were still wet, so a taxi it was. She said nothing on the way other than to tell the cabbie her address, and just leaned on me the whole way back. Not so much distressed as just tired.
Unwilling to be left alone just then, Lucila had drawn me into her apartment after her, left me in her little den only long enough to change out of her damp clothes and into a long nightgown. It enveloped her figure, hiding and hinting instead of revealing. She could have been in a black plastic garbage bag and still been beautiful to me, though. All I cared about was that she was safe.
I'd shed my overcoat and pants, joined her on the couch to watch some shitty late-night movie, and we fell asleep curled up together like that. Nothing happened, though God knows I wanted it to. But not like that, not after just getting her back, not after she'd just been kidnapped, even if it was an accident and she hadn't been harmed. It would feel too much like taking advantage of her.
I wake up early, ridiculously early, and glance around her apartment while I sit there with her in my arms. There's no way to overstate how lucky I feel, right now, to have drawn the attention and affection of this beautiful woman. But at the same time, I can't help but worry, if I make enemies other than Nefa-- Ned, she'd said his name was. Ned. If I make any enemies other than Ned, how many of them would think the superwoman's "normal" girlfriend is a good way to get at me?
That's a big part of the reason why most of the rest of the super community keeps secret identities; so they can have friends and families that aren't vulnerable to retribution. Just last year, Millennia got outed as someone named Emily Spaetzer, and her husband was dead inside a day at the hands of some nut with a grudge. Millennia killed the bastard herself not long after, but it certainly didn't bring her husband back. Nobody knows where she is, now.
Meanwhile, I'd outed myself from the start. Lucila might never be some stereotypical damsel in distress, but even the strongest person could end up as a case file in the homicide department.