Iris

Clark Kent, MetU’s golden boy, was a complete and utter asshole. Being the quarterback for the Bulldogs made him a god around campus; his defense was the best in the state, he was in line for all sorts of professional tracks, and whenever he showed up to any party, pep rally, or game, it seemed like the entire school swayed on its feet. People revered him for scoring goals and having the cool head to open a door for a girl now and again. But these noble acts, these shows of modesty, they meant nothing to you. You only knew him as the pompous ass he was in the morning. 

You knew for a fact you’d never done anything to make him act in such a way towards you. In fact, when you first met him as a transferring junior in a new city with no friends and no life, you had gone out of your way to be nice. Something like a last ditch effort to make the most of a scary situation. A poor mistake on your end.

You were fulfilling the one and only credit which didn’t transfer over from your county college back home: general chemistry. It was already annoying enough that you had to repeat a course, given you were an English major with no interest in science whatsoever, but there was no waving it, and by the time you transferred into MetU all the good slots were gone. You had to take it at eight in the morning with all the other jocks who scheduled out their time for afternoon practices. Every Thursday, you were forced to sit in a room that smelled of body odor and hope to God the ammonia didn’t explode one of the test tubes. 

Something good had to come of it, right? You had to think so. And for a split second, you thought it could have been true when you sat beside him. When you stepped in on the first day, the only chair around was beside the beast of a man. He had that dark hair, deep enough to be black but without the menacing edge, that seemed to flirt with his eyebrows; piercing eyes that changed between blue and green by the day; the prominent canines of a golden retriever. What wasn’t there to admire? His Bulldogs hoodie squeezed his shoulders. The pencil in his hand looked dwarfed in comparison. All in all, a proper specimen. But the lesson lied in how he stared at you. He stared just how every other boy had all your life– with confusion, which melted into discomfort, and then into a slow reproach. He was no golden boy, he was just cute. You’ll never forget it– all you said was, “It’s nice to meet you. I hope we can be friends,” to which you received the most lifeless stare in return and a gruff little, “Sure.”

Every conversation after that was kept to a minimum. You weren’t an idiot. 

The year passed in a flurry of projects that kept you in a perpetual state of nails-on-chalkboard aggravation. Clark was needlessly up your ass, commenting on every little equation you screwed up and fighting with you about quantities and solutions in every lab. It seemed every other word coming out of his mouth was a snarky one. 

“Don’t you think you should use the calculator?”

“You can’t mix those, remember?”

“No, genius, that’s the other side of the equilibrium.”

“You know, for someone as smart as you, it would be great if you listened more.”

If you had a penny for every time Clark’s voice curled over your shoulder to choke you out with his attitude, you could personally fund an expedition to Mars and send him up alone. He’d do great up there with the aliens. He’d piss them off and start a galactic war.

What was worse was that he was never wrong. When it came to the retention of the material, Clark was light years better at chemistry. He had the periodic table memorized, for one thing, and he could calculate isotopes in his head. He knew the nature of it, the math, the processes. Everything. When he caught you making an incorrect calculation or a misinformed hypothesis, he was quick to show off, but your grade had yielded the results. You were going to pass the entire semester with a straight 95, all because of Clark. The fucking bastard.

Well, as long as you survived the final project.  

Professor John Jones, who got along so well with Clark it made everyone want to stick a finger down their throat, assigned the class a final project that was meant to be ‘freeform’ and ‘fun’ – as if there was anything fun about metals and acids. Perhaps how they could burn skin off, but little more. Everyone had to perform an analysis of a mineral found in their hometown and construct not only a unique study of its properties, but come up with an efficient way to use it for energy-saving processes. Because rocks can save the ozone layer, right? God, maybe it worked for a bunch of scientists, but you just didn’t have the heart for it. 

But Clark planned to throw himself (and you) in headfirst. He insisted he had the best study in the class waiting back home on his family farm. He touted it while the class waited for the professor to show up at his usual fashionably late time of 8:15.

“What did you call it?”

“Kryptonite,” he deadpanned, chewing on the string of his hoodie. “They started calling it that back home because it glows a greenish color in the light. Y’know, like Krypton does when it’s electrified in a tube.”  

You stared into Clark’s eyes, feeling the familiar burn of frustration beneath your skin. Wracking your brain for a second, you thought, Krypton, Krypton, shit, what is that again…?

Clark’s eyes never left your face. He minded how you seemed to search for the answer, using that pretty brain of yours to try and muster the care for something you clearly despised. He smirked and said, “Krypton? Number 36?”

You blinked and pursed your lips. Shit. Element. Right. “Whatever. So what exactly are you suggesting we do?”

“Krypton’s been used for all kinds of stuff. They make energy-efficient lighting for cameras and signs, lightbulbs, they use it for medicine, they insulate windows and houses with it,” he rambled, spinning on his lab stool. “We can study the properties and see if it works even better than the original element.”

“Is it even linked to Krypton’s properties?"

“No idea,” Clark grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “That’s what the experiment is for.”

“That could be incredibly dangerous. What if it’s poisonous?"

“It’s a rock, genius,” Clark scoffed, “you’re telling me you’re afraid of a rock?”

“I don’t like the idea of a special rock that can only be found in your bumblefuck hometown, Clark, yeah.”

Clark clapped a hand over his heart in false pain. “You wound me.”

You grumbled softly and shut your laptop as Jones walked to the front of the room. 

“You’re coming to the farm this weekend so we can get this done,” Clark leaned in close to whisper. You could smell minty toothpaste as his breath brushed your ear. “Unless you’ve got a better plan.”

You scrunched your shoulders and shoved him away, practically growling as he let out a small snicker. The ghost of him still lingered, clean and warm in the space beside you. He did that a lot. Got close to tease, to mock, to prove you wrong. You hated it as much as you hated him. Everything he did snuck under your skin, proving that you were never quite going to get a handle on your anger with him around. All you had to do was pass this class, and then you would never have to see him again. All you would know of Clark would be his face plastered on the side of the stadium in a blue jersey, and his face plastered in the dining hall, and his face plastered on the campus newspaper… fuck, it might just be time to transfer again. 

 ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Smallville was not just bumblefuck. It was podunk, redneck, Dorothy-and-Auntie Anne levels of nowhere. The Kent Farm sat on acres of golden land that sprawled in every direction, all fenced in by handmade posts and full of grazing cows and fluttering hay. It was beautiful, quaint, and absolutely fucking desolate. The thought of spending your entire weekend here with the guy you could stand the least sounded like perhaps you had already died, and were being condemned to a lifetime of torture inside the male psyche. This was what men liked, right? Trapping a girl in their sad, little nowhere? 

Clark’s truck never ceased smelling like Old Spice and stale coffee for the entire trip. The quarterback showed up at your dorm at five in the morning on Friday, banging hard enough on the door to wake your roomie Lois and get a pillow chucked at his face while you hurriedly dressed. “Oh, please don’t change on my account,” he had said, staring you down with that same smirk. You contemplated slashing his tires.

“Nice, isn’t it?” He sighed, rolling up the long, winding driveway. A yellow house poked through the sparse trees, spotted with pink flowers hanging on the awning and white-curtained windows.

“You’re really going to make me stay here until Sunday?”

“Nobody is making you do anything, smartypants,” Clark flashed his canines, “you just didn’t have a better plan.”

You huffed and clambered out of the truck, sneakers sinking into the muck of a freshly rained-on farm. Clark giggled at the squish of your shoes and watched you struggle to haul your duffel bag to the house, rolling his eyes at your stubbornness. At least it was cool outside, you reasoned. If the heat got any worse than this, you might kill him, and that would not even be your fault. The heat gets to everyone sooner or later. 

“My parents are home,” he said as he reached the porch steps. “Be nice.”

You grimaced as the porch found its way beneath your feet, and you let your luggage hit the wood with a thunk. “Can’t we just dig up some of your stupid rocks and get out of here?”

“You’re gonna want some pie first,” Clark grinned, swinging open the front door.

Here you were, being forcibly subjected into the world that made such a monstrously rude young man. Surely his parents were the problem…

 ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

By Saturday night, you had come to the conclusion that you were the one making Clark such a fucking nightmare. 

Jonathan and Martha Kent were two of the kindest people you had ever met in your life. His father was a mild-mannered and sensible older man, well-aged, outspoken, funny; Martha was the picture of beauty and grace, a talented cook and bookkeeper, and an even better conversationalist. And Clark– well, wasn’t he just sweet? Sweet with his mother and father, washing the dishes, begrudgingly passing you old photo albums, offering you his childhood bedroom and taking the couch. He made every effort to be accommodating when his parents were around. But the second he took you out into the fields to dig for these ridiculous green rocks, he went right back to being the guy you revolted.

“Have you ever held a spade before?”

“No, genius, that’s just a regular rock.”

“I wouldn’t work too hard if I were you. Your head can’t handle all that thinking.”

It truly was a matter of one more joke and you would throttle him. You dreamed of it– lunging across the dining table or the makeshift lab in his barn loft, clasping your nails around his long, tan throat, and squeezing until that minty breath made its last pass through those mauve lips. It would be so rewarding. Especially after having to watch the guy dig up dirt for hours on end, sweating in the sun, soiling a Bulldogs t-shirt. You had to sit there and pant in the heat, tugging at your clothes and swatting back your hair, aware of your every curve and roll and move; while the corded muscle in his arms moved easily while digging, his thick hair slicked behind his ears, his big hands pawing at green rocks like they were calling to him, or avoiding you. It was just wrong. A grievance the universe must have had with you was being repaid somehow, some way. 

Clark had done the original labs that night in the barn– studying the rock, breaking it apart with a pick and running all kinds of tests on its hardness, makeup, and reactions to certain catalysts. You perched on the couch and took notes on his findings, eager to let him do the hard part he was so insistent on performing. For a while, there was no speaking. Only the occasional comment from the quarterback about how the Kryptonite reacted to fire, which you scribbled down. 

It was when the storm started that Clark opened his mouth again.

The shift was a shock. The night had been so cool and clear, with a slow breeze wafting past the barn window; but it seemed in a split second, the indigo sky broke open and began pouring sheets of rain. You yelped as Clark cursed and rushed to lock the windows. Rain flew inside the barn sideways along with huge gusts of wind, soaking your notes and scattering shavings of the rock meant for his study. Water speckled your clothes and hair. You glanced around and saw a small fire catch across the room by his precious rocks, and you threw yourself at it. By the time he latched the window, rainwater soaked the wooden floors and your project was smudged to shit. 

“What the hell?” He whined, snatching your notes up and blowing on them. “Look at this!”

“Don’t what the hell me! I didn’t make it rain!”

“You couldn’t have saved the notes at least?”

“Well, I apologize for going after your fucking work station! That wind blew the flame from your bunsen onto the wall!”

Clark’s eyes darted across the loft to his desk full of minerals, where a black stain marked the wall. You were putting out a fire, he could tell that much. As you stood before him, chest heaving and shirt soaked, his heart hammered in his chest. Clark had imagined this moment many ways, but in none of them did you look this upset. He set down your notepad and ran a palm over his face, huffing in exasperation. 

A low rage coiled in your gut as he slumped onto the couch, seemingly resigning from work for the rest of the night. Who gave him the right to be so mad? First of all, what kind of idiot puts a bunsen burner in a wood-and-straw barn? What asshole blames their partner who's never been in their house nor touched their weird, special rocks? A Clark-sized one, that was who. You were sick of it– the hypocrisy, the snark, the treatment. All you ever did was come to class. He was the one who took it upon himself to get you going.

The quarterback glanced up as your frame stomped closer, eventually standing with arms crossed over him and frowning on a level par with Eeyore. Not every girl could look so beautiful when she was losing her temper, but you could. Your hair was sticky with rainwater at the ends, your sweater was dribbling onto the light wash of your jeans, and mascara was clumping under your eyes, but none of it mattered. You were close, and you smelled like his soap. You were in the place he grew up. Very few things could make him happier.

“Do I really want to do this?” 

“...Do what?”

“Jesus. Yeah, I do,” you snapped. “What’s your problem, Clark?” 

Clark’s gut clenched. “What?”

“I know you hate me, but this?” You scoffed, turning around to look at the barn and seemingly looking past the walls out over the farm. The storm drowned the fields, surely, and for a moment you imagined standing out there and being washed clean of all the confusing feelings in your chest. “Making me come here, making me meet your parents and dig for rocks like a fucking five year old, when I know you hate me? What’s the point? What are you getting out of this, huh? I’m not going to thank you for figuring out a final project, and I certainly won’t be spoken to like an idiot!”

Clark froze as you spouted your anger over him, hands gesticulating in his face and making his body thrum. Hate?

“I don’t hate you.”

“You clearly fucking do! All you do is treat me like shit! You purposefully make me feel stupid, you clearly derive pleasure from correcting me when I’m just trying to fucking pass–”

A slow heat began to burn beneath his cheeks as he sat there and allowed himself to be berated. Your mouth turned down as you shouted, punctuating your skin with little dimples. The flame in your eyes burned bright, that same glint he caught when he first met you. He loved that spark. He missed it when you were gone. He only saw you once a week, and so he had to fit as many of them in as he could. He poked and prodded the bear to see her bite so that he might wear the mark for days. 

“And all I want is to finish this, I just want to go back to school and turn it in and be done, I want to move on! You make everything so– so impossible, don’t you see that? What did I ever do to make you be so fucking rude?”

Clark’s lips parted as he tried to find the words, but nothing was forming. He studied how you turned your back and paced the barn, tugging at the ends of your hair and grumbling. 

“I don’t hate you,” he said again. “Far from it.”

“Yeah, right,” you rolled your eyes and sat at his desk. “I’m sure you treat every girl this way.”

The storm raged, spray battering the siding of the barn. The whistle mimicked a tornado, but he knew there was no chance of that. It was only a high tone, not the rumble of a train. There was something he hated– the rain. The rain did nothing for him. It was good for the grass and the animals, but it made sludge of the fields he ran drills on and it trapped him inside the house. The rain didn’t talk back, didn’t shoot dirty looks, and didn’t give him a reason to work twice as hard. The rain didn’t need to pass chemistry, a class she shouldn’t have to even take over again, a class she hates. He hated the rain. But you?

Clark rose and started towards you, pausing when you pressed yourself into the desk chair on the other side of the loft. “I mean it.”

You swallowed thickly. “Yeah? Well, you sure don’t act like it.”

“You’re fun to tease,” he offered. 

“It’s not fun for me! I hate it! You think I want to show up at the asscrack of dawn just to deal with you breathing down my neck, watching for my next mistake, ready to pounce and make fun of me for it? Maybe you’re some kind of science freak, that’s great, but I’m not, and you, Clark Kent, do nothing but cause me undue stress!”

His heart took a tiny bullet then, or at least something like it. The hairs on your arms were raised, your pupils dilated, your breath short. You were mad. Humiliated, even. You were looking up at him like you didn’t trust him. And really, what reason had he given you to do so? You were right about everything. You were so bright, so quick to hit back, and he adored that about you. He loved the way your nose scrunched when you fell prey to a confusing equation, and how you wrote hard enough to tear paper when you were angry. But very quickly and all at once, he started to see just what his feelings had blinded him to. When he thought he was giving you the answers, you thought he was treating you like you were stupid; when he poked fun at you for not caring, you felt he was mocking your attempts. Clark would have gone so far as to call his behavior flirtatious, but the reality was that he had been a complete and utter asshole, and now he was paying for it. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like this,” Clark said after a few moments passed. “I really didn’t.”

“What did you mean, then, Clark? Please enlighten me!” 

Your jaw was set hard, and he wanted so badly to reach out and smooth a thumb over the bone. He wanted to cup your squishy cheek. He wanted to kiss you and give you the answers to the final test. He wanted to get you an A on this project.

He sighed, “I was trying to flirt with you.”

The sound of about nine hundred alarms began to ring inside your ears. Clark Kent was walking closer until his knees brushed yours where you sat, his hands flexing at his sides, his big, stupid head full of remorse. Flashes of every time he angered you began to wash over you, muddling the emotions into murky water, making everything incredibly unclear and twice as frustrating. You leaned back a bit when he squatted before you, trying to catch your eyeline. 

“I hurt your feelings,” he continued, “but I didn’t mean to. I thought it was like… like a game, or something. Like you wanted to fight.”

A lump settled in your throat as his eyes– blue today– bore into yours. The response scraped past your throat. “That’s not how you flirt with a girl, you asshole.”

“How, then?”

“You– you fucking– you compliment her, you help her with things, you– fuck you, I don’t have to tell you this!”

Clark smiled a little, his guilty face glowing. “But I was doing that. All I do is call you smart–”

“Calling me genius and smartypants is an asshole move and you know it!”

“But they’re true! I say them because it’s true,” he barreled past your interruption, “and I did give you things. I gave you answers. Help. Taught you the material.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! I could’ve done it on my own!”

Clark huffed and rubbed at his eyes, letting a hand fall to your knee. You flinched but didn’t yank away. “I didn’t want you to. I liked doing it. God… I really got this all wrong, didn’t I?”

Everything felt discolored. With his palm on your leg, the world was incredibly hot. Your lab partner had been… helping you, complimenting you… underneath layers of sarcasm that only drove you further away. How were you supposed to detect that? No genius could. When you met him, what did that first Sure mean? Did he want to be friends? Had you misread him then? Was it you, too? Were you the asshole? No, you promised yourself, because men are always responsible for their actions, they should be smarter and better and braver… even though it was getting more difficult to think straight as he gazed up at you with those eyes. 

Clark’s face flushed as his thumb dimpled your thigh. “Bringing you here was supposed to help. I wanted to see if you’d ease up when we weren’t in class. You’re hard to track down on campus, y’know, and I thought maybe if we spent a little time…”

You blinked and muttered, “You’re an ass.”

Clark’s eyes lifted. “Huh?”

“You’re an ass,” you repeated, leaning forward. His head tipped back to follow your lording, baring his neck to you. “When you like a girl, you tell her. We’re not five. You can’t pull my pigtails and expect me to assume that’s flirting. I just think it’s mean.”

“I see that now,” Clark gulped. 

“And to think, I thought you seemed nice before you ever opened your mouth. Such a genius at science, but such a fucking idiot in every other way.”

Clark bit back a laugh as he watched the flame licking in your eyes. It was… it couldn’t be. Were you softening? 

“I’m so sorry,” Clark urged, leaning up a bit. You drew him in like a magnet. You could keep screaming in his face for all he cared– he just liked it when you looked at him. 

“You’re going to have to be more than sorry,” you breathed, lashes fluttering. He looked the same as when you met him. He hadn’t changed. He was still dark and beautiful, tall, strong, the image of perfection. He also still looked smug as a motherfucker, and whatever part of you got so angry clearly did so over how much you liked it. “I want an A.”

“You’re gonna get one,” he promised, letting both hands run up your thighs now. 

You chewed the inside of your cheek, and one curious hand betrayed your restraint as it reached up to touch his skin. His cheeks were searing, and for the first time, you felt in control of the situation. With Clark on his knees, you could say anything you wanted, and it wouldn’t be a tease about your skills or your struggles. It would just be allowed.

“I want a lot from you,” you began, pressing a finger to his pout. “I want more apologies. I want walks to and from class. I want to come back in the summer and see your mother. I want you to show me you can learn how to treat me nice, because that was the girl you would have gotten in the beginning if you weren’t so stupid.”

Clark had no objections. “Okay.”

“And I want one more thing.”

His knees pushed up a bit, closing the space between his face and yours. “What’s that?”

“My name comes first on the project,” you smirked.

Clark erupted in soft laughter, and before you could react, two strong palms hooked behind your back and slid you to the edge of the chair. His lips found yours with a surging intensity, locking and never letting go; the eucalyptic taste of his tongue slid against yours as you craned over him, cradling his jaw and feeling the slow worship that got lost in translation pouring into every grunt and hum. Of all the things he was great at, kissing was another. Man, he was easy to hate. Well– envy. Easy for you to envy. That was what it was, wasn’t it? Envy. Covetousness. Desire.

“You really have to work on your communication skills,” you panted, tugging at his hair in the way you’d always hoped to– be it like this, or in a fight.

“And you really need to work on your anger,” Clark beamed, chasing after your mouth. 

“That’s not my–”

“I’m trying to kiss you here, genius.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” you flushed, nearly falling out of the chair as you knocked his back onto the loft floor. 

“Just shut up and come here.”

As his hands slid under your shirt, the flutter in your gut was clear as day. You were a smart girl, there was no denying it, but you did well with words– things that were interpreted rather than solved. In matters of the heart, your emotions were as clear to you as pages in a book. But Clark did not work that way. His biology was scientific. His methods, his needs, were all components collected to achieve the desired result. 

It was only now, as the rain began to lighten on the roof, that you finally learned your first lesson from him. This was an equation you could solve: The properties of this kiss, plus the factors of you and Clark, multiplied by months of miscommunication and divided over one night in bumblefuck Kansas, equaled undeniable chemistry. Considering your margin for human error, that was the quickest problem you had ever correctly solved. And it felt good.

Comments about your body weren't something you took to heart, or at least, you tried not to take them to heart. Your body shape isn't something that you should be ashamed of, and you would remind yourself of this daily.

But it's hard to ignore them sometimes. The dirty looks, the passing comments about your figure, the way women shamed you and men looked at you differently. It definitely has a way of getting under your skin.

That was no different when you were out and about with Aaron. He had taken some time off recently to spend some time with you and his son, Jack. You had decided to use one of those days to spend some time alone together, leaving Jack with his Aunt whilst the two of you ventured around the city, doing whatever came to mind in the moment.

You and Aaron had just finished eating at a fancy restaurant he had recommended, and were walking through the city, window shopping, and talking about anything that came to mind.

"I think that was the best meal I've had in a long time." You sighed, your arm hooked around Aaron's as he held you close, he smiled down at you and the content expression on your face.

"Told you it was good." He placed a kiss on the hair at your temple, letting you guide him to a nearby store front, you looked at the small porcelain pieces behind the glass.

Just as you pointed to a piece that you liked, you were both interrupted by a whistle behind you. "Look at the arse on that one..." The voice of the boy, who couldn't have been older than a teenager, murmured to his friend behind you.

Your face quickly turned a deep shade of red, embarrassment and shame from being cat called in front of your boyfriend filled your mind.

Aaron stiffened next to you. The city was busy, but there weren't that many women around you, and he was sure the voice had been directed in your direction. He could still hear the boys laughing as he turned to look at you. His free hand rubbed your elbow gently, as you continued looking at the small porcelain pieces in the window.

"Nah man, she's too chunky. Couldn't afford to keep that fed." The boys cackled behind you again. You couldn't stop the surprised sigh that left your lips, the tears that filled your eyes.

Before you could process what had happened, Aaron had turned his head to the boys. "Excuse me?" He said sternly. The laughter quickly stopped as the boys stared back at Aaron with wide eyes.

"Nothing. Just admiring the pottery." They snickered, elbowing each other. Aaron didn't budge, the wrinkle in his eyebrow deeply set as he stared down the boys. You could feel his arm move to his coat, where he kept his badge. He didn't often use it to scare away immature teenagers, but something inside of him boiled at the way they ridiculed you.

"I'm sure the comments you made weren't ones that could be said about pottery." His voice was low and serious. He radiated an aura of authority, which made the boys shrink slightly.

"W-Well, we were... just..." The boy's voices grew quieter as Aaron scolded them.

"You know, it's a crime to catcall women, especially in the tone that you were." Aaron pulled out his badge, clearly showing off the big 'FBI' printed at the top. You both knew that he was lying, despite how disgusting it was, it wasn't a crime, but the boys didn't know that.

You turned to face Aaron in shock. He never used his badge for reasons like this, never to get people to leave him alone, or for something he didn't like.

The boy's faces dropped, you could hear them hitting each other's arms, blaming the other for possibly getting them in legal trouble l. "S-sir, I'm sorry! We were only joking!" They both fought to defend themselves.

Although Aaron held up his stoic look, you could see the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Do not do this again." He told them sternly. The boys quickly nodded, practically dragging each other away from the "scene of the crime" so to say.

Aaron turned back to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. "You okay, Honey? I'm so sorry that happened, don't listen to them. Immature pricks..." He murmured the last part, more saying it to himself than to you.

You placed a hand on his cheek, kissing his lips softly. "Thank you, Aaron." You smiled. And the two of you continued on with your date, trying to not let that small event ruin your day.

---

But now, you were back at home. You stood in front of the mirror, in the same outfit you had been wearing, looking over each and every curve and ridge in your body. Your hands ran over every roll and fold. Your thoughts came back to what the boys had said earlier. It was so embarrassing... And in front of Aaron too? What if he believed those things... What if he remembered them too and was thinking about them, about how disgusting you were, about how unattractive you were?

You were broken out of your thoughts by Aaron clearing his throat by the doorway to your bedroom. You quickly turned away from the mirror and faced him, your arms instinctively wrapping around your torso, trying to make yourself look smaller, to hide the way your body filled your clothes.

"Everything okay in here, my love?" He asked gently, pushing off of the door frame and taking small steps towards you. He could see right through you, but it didn't take a profiler to do so.

The tears instantly filled your eyes again, the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment, shame, hatred towards your own body filled you. Your hands quickly covered your face as Aaron's steps sped up. You tensed as his arms wrapped around you.

He could feel your shoulders stiffen under his touch, how you sucked in a breath as he pulled you into him. He knew you struggled with body image. He always had. And so these small actions to you, were mountains of worry to him. "Baby, what's wrong?" His voice was full of surprise and concern. He couldn't understand how you could look at yourself in the mirror and see anything but beauty.

"It hurts, Aaron... What they said..." You sobbed quietly between breaths. He just nodded his head, kissing the top of your own, hugging you even tighter.

"It's okay, Honey. It's okay." He reassured you. His hand ran over your back comfortingly. You let out the breath you had been holding in to make yourself look thinner. He cradled your face to his chest as he held you. "Don't believe them. They're stuck up and immature. Eventually they'll learn in life that not everyone looks like the supermodels they drool over, and that's okay. Youre infinitely more attractive to me than any of them."

His voice was equally as gentle as the way his hands ran over your body soothingly, appreciating every curve. Your sobs turned into hiccups as he spoke endless words of praise and affirmation into your hair, placing kisses to punctuate each one.

"You really think so?" You asked quietly. You didn't have to clarify that you wanted a straight answer, he would never give you anything but. Not that he would ever think anything but.

"I know so. I'm addicted to you. I'm so in love with you that sometimes I think my heart is going to explode. You're so much more than what you see in the mirror, and what you do see isn't even a bad thing. I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and that I ever will see." He speaks gently.