🩵🩷

the students buzz with a familiar friday restlessness, a soft hum of pent-up excitement that builds with every passing minute. you feel it before you even hear it. you always do. it’s the last class of the day—your fifth-grade biology group—and although they try to stay focused, their eyes drift toward the clock every few seconds. their feet tap, their fingers fidget, their whispers slip out in tiny bursts you gently rein in. you guide them through the final points of the lesson, doing your best to keep their concentration from scattering like marbles on a floor.

the hallway bell rings—long, shrill, and merciful—and the room erupts. chairs screech, backpacks zip open and shut, notebooks are shoved inside with questionable accuracy. you raise your voice above the chaos and call, “have a great weekend!” and most of them toss back eager goodbyes while waving enthusiastically, already halfway out the door before their hands even drop.

the classroom empties quickly, the lively chatter dissolving into faint echoes down the hallway. silence settles—soft, familiar, a comforting afterglow of a full day’s work. but you’re not entirely alone. gabriella lingers behind.

she bounces toward your desk in small, cheerful skips, her ponytail swaying. “should we tidy the classroom?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“it is that time of day,” you say, smiling warmly. you’re grateful for the help—after a full day of classes, the papers, wrappers, and stray pens always reappear no matter how many times you clean. gabi’s company makes the end-of-day ritual feel less like a chore and more like a quiet moment shared.

the two of you fall into an easy rhythm. you sort worksheets and file them neatly into the cupboard while gabi replaces the bin bag with practiced efficiency. she’s grown so responsible this year, and you can’t help but feel proud watching her move around the classroom with purpose. twenty minutes pass, and the place looks spotless—ready to face another week of eager young minds.

“ready to go to my place, gabs?” you ask as you sling your own bag over your shoulder.

“ready!” she beams, looping the strap of her backpack confidently across her chest.

you turn off the lights, lock the classroom door, and walk together out into the open afternoon air. the car park is calm, a few lingering staff cars and the faint hum of distant traffic. you both buckle in, and you start the engine, listening to it rumble softly to life before pulling out onto the road.

as you drive, you say, “gabi, your dad texted me earlier. he’ll be coming a bit late to pick you up tonight. he said we should have dinner without him.”

gabi nods like she expected it. “do you think i can get away with saving my homework for the weekend?” she asks with a hopeful tilt of her head.

“i think you could,” you reply with a half-grin. “is it a tough assignment?”

“kinda. we have to write about which arachnid we relate to and list some facts about it.” she sighs. “my dad knows a lot of them, so i want to wait for him and ask for his help.”

“your dad’s an arachnid enthusiast?” you ask, honestly surprised—and maybe a little intrigued. there’s always something new to learn about miguel o’hara.

“yeah,” she says, leaning back. “he has a giant tattoo of a spider on his back.”

you try to picture it. miguel—tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly strong—carrying a massive dark spider tattoo etched across his back. maybe a black widow, maybe something more stylized, its legs spanning across those sculpted muscles. you imagine how the lines of the tattoo shift when he rolls his shoulders or stretches after a long day, how the muscles under his skin tense and release. you’ve seen him in fitted shirts before; you can easily imagine how that tattoo might move with him, how—

“miss teacher?” gabi calls, snapping you out of your runaway imagination.

“mm?” you glance at her quickly and smile, a little flustered. “sorry, gabs, i was in my head for a second.”

you pull into your driveway shortly after. once inside, gabi kicks off her shoes and washes her hands like she always does before she wanders to the living room. “i’m gonna relax a bit and do my homework later,” she calls.

“that’s cool,” you say. with her settling down, you head to the kitchen and gather some snacks. you’re in a generous mood—it’s friday, after all—so you bring out something you’ve been saving.

“i have something special for us,” you announce as you walk into the living room. when you set the dish on the coffee table, gabi’s gasp is immediate and dramatic.

“ice cream baklava!”

her eyes light up like small stars. you laugh softly. “dig in.”

she wastes no time, rolling up a piece and biting into it with pure, unfiltered delight. her little groans of satisfaction tell you everything. she reaches for a second piece almost immediately.

“good, right?” you say.

“as good as dipping french fries in ice cream.” she nods seriously, like she’s offering the highest culinary compliment possible.

you try one yourself. even frozen, the filo pastry retains its honeyed sweetness, the crunchy layers blending perfectly with the cold ice cream nestled inside. it’s decadent, nostalgic, and everything a friday afternoon should taste like.

the room quiets for a bit. then gabi speaks, her voice small, uncertain in a way you’re not used to hearing from her. “i wish i were pretty like you.”

your heart sinks. you turn to look at her, really look at her—her dark brown eyes downcast, thumbs fidgeting in her lap, her smile fading into a little frown. it hurts more than you expect.

“gabi,” you say softly, sliding down to sit cross-legged beside her so you’re eye-level. “do you not feel beautiful about yourself?”

she hesitates before nodding. “i look different compared to everyone else,” she whispers. “sometimes i wish i looked more like my mum. she’s pretty. and… i don’t look like her. i look more like my dad.”

“gabriella.” your voice stays gentle, full of warmth. “you are beautiful. so, so beautiful. everyone is meant to look different from everyone else.”

“i know, but…” she sighs, looking away. “i just want to be different sometimes.”

it’s painful, hearing such self-doubt from such a bright, kind young girl. you’ve known gabi since the moment you became her homeroom teacher. she’s confident, perceptive, brave. seeing this new vulnerability weighs on you. but you understand it—kids her age start to notice differences. insecurities bloom quietly.

“you’re still growing, gabs,” you say. “in a few years, you might look completely different from how you look now. your face will change, your body will mature. you might end up looking more like your mum… or more like your dad… or like both. everything shifts as you grow.”

she stays quiet, finally meeting your eyes. the sadness eases, replaced by a softness, a thoughtful understanding.

“but you,” you continue, brushing her hair gently behind her ear, “are beautiful right now. inside and out. whether you look more like your mum or your dad or neither. your presence is special. it always brightens my day.”

she thinks quietly, little brows furrowing. then she smiles—small at first, then growing. “thank you for reminding me that i’m beautiful.”

“you’re welcome,” you say. “and you can talk to me about anything that bothers you. always.”

she scoots closer and wraps her arms tightly around you. “girl hug!”

you laugh softly and hug her back. “girl hug. and girl talk.”

she giggles and pulls away. “miss, do you actually think my dad is handsome?”

heat rushes to your ears. “between you and me,” you murmur, trying not to look flustered, “your dad is a good-looking man.”

she giggles triumphantly. “but don’t tell him i said that,” you add quickly. “i’m not prepared for that conversation.”

“i think you’re really pretty too,” she says. “and my dad seems to think so.”

your breath catches—not visibly, you hope. you manage a steady smile. “then tell your dad i appreciate the compliment.”

she nods eagerly. “can we keep what we said a secret? just us?”

“our girls’ secret.” you hold out a pinky. she hooks hers around yours with serious intensity. “i won’t say a word.”

time passes softly. gabi finishes her homework, you make dinner, and the evening grows warm and calm. at 6:30, miguel arrives.

you open the door and gabi barrels into him with a running hug. “tackling me, huh?” he laughs, lifting her slightly.

you step aside to let him in—and he surprises you with a bouquet. again. the sixth one he’s brought you.

“picked it up on the way,” he explains, sounding almost shy. “sorry for running late.”

gabi returns with her backpack on, ready to go. the three of you walk out together. she climbs into the car, leaving you and miguel standing by the curb for a lingering moment.

“thank you for looking after her,” he says. “she behaved, i hope?”

“always,” you reply. but you study his expression—there’s weariness there, and something heavier.

“miguel, what’s wrong?” you ask quietly.

he exhales, shoulders slumping slightly. “i feel like i’m not spending enough time with her. mornings from six to eight, then evenings from six to ten… i try to make up for it on weekends, but i still feel guilty.”

you soften. “gabi knows how much effort you make. she’s happiest when she’s with you.”

he chuckles weakly. “you always know how to cheer me up.”

“i try,” you say.

“no,” he says gently, meeting your eyes. “you do.”

the world quiets around you. something unspoken hangs between you, warm and almost fragile. then a tapping comes from the car window—gabi, impatient, mouthing, “are you going home or not?”

miguel laughs and turns back to you. “have a good night. i’ll text when we get home.”

“drive safe,” you say.

he climbs into the car, waves once more, then pulls away into the dimming street.

the drive home is peaceful. gabi swings her feet and hums softly. then she says, “daddy, i love you.”

he smiles. “i love you too, mija.”

after a moment, she adds, “you’re handsome.”

miguel glances at her in the mirror, eyebrow raised. “thank you, princesa. what brought that on?”

“nothing,” she says. then, far too casually, “miss teacher thinks you’re handsome. but it’s a secret.”

miguel almost laughs. your secret opinion warms him more than he expects. “that’s supposed to stay a secret, isn’t it?” he asks.

“yeah, but i wanted you to know,” she says with a mischievous grin. “don’t tell her i told you.”

“shh.” he presses a finger to his lips. “secret’s safe with me.”

she beams and kicks her feet in the air. miguel’s chest tightens as he smiles at her. then his thoughts drift—unbidden, soft—to you. earlier, you looked beautiful. you always do. and sitting at your table today—watching you and gabi laugh, talk, glow with contentment—he felt something dangerously close to longing. like maybe the three of you belonged in that space together. like maybe he wasn’t just imagining a future… but wanting one.

wanting you.

since the evening you offered miguel the opportunity to look after his daughter after school, it has been three weeks since then.

it’s quite a change to your after-school routine, but you adapt to it within the first week of trialling. it’s a good thing to say that gabriella feels the same way. she enjoys spending time with you after school and makes it known by how excitedly she waits for you by your desk after half-past three in the afternoon. gabriella helps with tidying up the classroom, telling you about the conversations she has with her friends during lunch and in between lessons. you’ve always had a good relationship with the young girl, but when you take upon the responsibility of looking after her, your relationship with gabriella turns out better.

gabriella is truly the epitome of a gracious child. when you invite her into your room, she goes to the kitchen to wash her hands. then sets herself in your living room to sit close by the coffee table, laying out her homework and snacks. she does her work without supervision and occasionally asks you for help if she needs it. gabriella falls into the routine easily too and when she is done with her homework, the two of you bond over arts and crafts or something on the telly playing in the background.

at exactly 6pm sharp, the doorbell rings and miguel stands at the front pouch. he would come in, thank you again for looking after his daughter, embrace gabriella, and the three of you would make it to the dining table and share a meal. you and miguel would take turns bringing food for dinners—you would cook on mondays and tuesdays, and miguel would bring something over on thursdays and fridays. this new routine brings out a feeling of home and togetherness, so it’s a pleasant change of routine to your usual time living on your own.

“what is england like, miss?” gabriella asks. you have informed your students when you began your teaching career about your childhood in another country. it was rather a little obvious with the slight out-of-place accent and the difference in spelling that your students pointed out. and it doesn’t seem like miguel is surprised by the revelation as he takes a spoonful of food as gabriella talks.

“well…” you think for a moment as you try to recall your life. “if we are referring to the weather, it’s very unpredictable over there in england. sometimes it’s a burst of beautiful sunshine outside and other times, the skies are grey. from time to time, you feel little droplets of hail raining down on you out of nowhere. and sometimes, the weather is chilly too.”

“hail?” gabriella repeats.

“hailstones,” you smile. “like tiny crystals of ice.”

“we haven’t been to england, haven’t we, gabs?” miguel says. “maybe we should consider it one summer.”

“i want to go to where they plant so many flowers,” gabriella suggested.

you flash gabriella a smile when you realise the location she’s talking about. “that’s the eden project down south in cornwall, at the edge of england.” you explain. “they have nice beaches there, too.”

“corn-wall,” gabriella repeats slowly, with a tone of awe. “i want to go there.”

“maybe we should consider,” miguel says to his daughter.

you look at him who sits across from you, relaxed after coming back from work. “i haven’t been to mexico before,” you say. “or any parts of south america. where do you guys suggest i go visit?”

miguel and gabriella hum as the two of them think together. their mouths press in a thin line, the bottom of their lip sticking out a small pout. as you study their expressions, you can’t help but find them endearing the same similarities in their mannerisms. like father, like daughter.

“if you enjoy the beaches, tulum is a good place to start,” miguel says. “although it’s further down the country. or, there’s the seaside town of tecolutla or acapulco beach. they’re both about a four-hour drive from mexico city.”

“acapulco!” gabriella beamed in excitement. “i want to go there again this summer.”

miguel chuckles and playfully ruffles her hair. a smile blooms on your face, and the three of you eat in peace. gabriella’s question catches your attention and you look right in front of her. “do you talk to your mama and papa every day since they are so far away?” gabriella asks.

“well,” you exhale softly. “i still talk to my siblings and my good friends from england.”

“what about your mama?”

even though it has been a while, the dread of telling the story makes your stomach churn uncomfortably, no matter how you simplify or summarise the story. “my mama passed away when i was nineteen. she had been sick for a while and her body couldn’t handle it anymore.”

miguel looks up, and his eyes meet yours. gabriella turns to look at him with a puzzled look and the room falls into silence that’s all too familiar. “we’re sorry to hear that.”

“it was a while ago,” you reply with a hesitant smile. “but thank you.”

gabriella looks at you and although the surprise on her face lingers, there’s also curiosity like every young child has. “what about your papa?”

“my papa,” you sigh. “i have two papas who are not nice people, so i have not spoken to them or seen them in a very long time.”

you didn’t dare to look at miguel when you revealed your backstory because you knew the look on his face from the corner of your eyes. sympathy, disbelief, unsure and silent. because how could someone like you—lively and brave—grow up with a fate so horrendous and unthinkable?

“but,” gabriella says, her lips downcast in a frown. she turns to look at her father, her tone quiet and glum. “aren’t papas supposed to be good people?”

miguel presses his lips into a thin line. “fathers are supposed to be good people, mija. to protect their family.” he says solemnly. “but sadly, not all fathers are like that. not all fathers are protectors.”

miguel flickers his eyes at you. he must have pieced together your history and the story of how to move to the states that you mentioned. “my condolences. i’m really sorry to hear that,” he says. “you deserve better things, and i hope you will experience them all.”

gabriella turns to look at you with a similar expression to miguel’s. “i’m sorry you don’t have a mama and papa anymore.”

“thank you, and it’s okay.” you give them a kind smile. no one knows this about you since you’ve kept it to yourself ever since you migrated to the states on your own. your life wasn’t the greatest in the beginning, but you made it through the dark and stormy years to make it this far. “my family and i have our differences that are sometimes different to overcome without having fights.” you explain. “but we still care for one another.”

the dining room falls quiet. despite it closes the end of the conversation, it feels a sense of uncertainty on how to dwell on a different topic. although what you had to endure was a while ago, the tragedy carries within you unfathomably.

suddenly, gabriella pushes back her seat and walks around the table, coming to you. her small arms crisscross around you. “you’re my family too, miss.”

you wrap your arms around her and embrace gabriella with an equal force of appreciation for her kindness. you hold her and squeeze her gently, resting your cheek on top of her head. “thank you, gabi. that means a lot to me.”

“you’re my favourite,” gabi says, then turns her head to look at miguel and grins. “after papa, of course.”

you look at miguel, and he chuckles, smirking at the two of you. “glad to know that i’m still your number one favourite, mija.”

“then after that is aunty jess,” gabi adds. she holds out three of her fingers and counts them down at every list of names she announces. “daddy, miss teacher and then aunty jess. in that order.”

laughter from you and miguel fills the dining room. your chest warms at the thought of comfort you find yourself in—thinking of jess, gabriella and miguel. the people you didn’t think you would ever meet and change your life for the better. you flicker your eyes and meet miguel’s gaze.

a smile appears on his face, reminding you of warmth and comfort that you truly didn’t have. a flutter in your stomach makes you snuggle gabriella even more with another new physical symptom you feel in the moment as your heart races.

the skies turn a colour of blue and grey when you walk miguel and gabriella to the front porch of the house. miguel thinks that he’s overstayed for dinner and tells his daughter that it’s time to start the journey and drive home.

gabriella runs to the car, opens the door and slides herself inside. it only leaves you and miguel together outside in the quiet evening.

“hey,” miguel turns to face you. “i just want to say that you are a very strong person after hearing your story. i cannot imagine going through what you had to do.”

“ah, it’s nothing. as they say, when life gives you lemons, you make a lemonade, right?” you say sheepishly. “and perhaps not just lemonade. i gotta make the best of what i have.”

this causes miguel to chuckle, and the corner of his mouth curves up to a grin. “you’re right,” he nods. “and you have done that. you’re just an amazing person like that, you know? just like how i believed you were when we first met.”

“thank you, miguel.” you smile. you’re used to hearing people praise you for your courage and bravery. but hearing it from miguel feels different—it is different. is it because of the way he smiles at you? his eyes are a welcoming warm brown that makes your body relax just by looking at him. or is it because of his emotional and intellectual when the two of you talk that draws you in?

“and i can’t thank you enough for being so good to my daughter.” miguel adds. “you’re a good person. don’t forget that.”

“that means a lot.” your voice softens. “now, i can see how gabriella gets that charm from.”

miguel lets out a laugh. “do i sound cheesy?”

“no,” you shake your head. “it’s kind.”

you catch his hands in his pockets and miguel moves a little closer to you. his gaze holds you in place. “honestly, i think gabi learns that from you.”

before neither of you could say more, you heard a soft knock from the car and gabriella was leaning forward in the window. she looks between the two of you and although her voice is muffled, you can still make out what she’s saying to miguel. “daddy, are we ready to go?”

“sorry, mija. i’ll be with you.” miguel replies, then turns to look at you. “thank you for tonight. i’ll bring food over on thursday. same time again?”

you nod, “yes, definitely.”

miguel greets you a good evening and gets in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life. you wave gabriella and miguel goodbye before the car drives off, leaving you on the pathway and hoping that they have a safe journey back home.

another day has passed, and by wednesday, you’re getting the hang of this week.  

when you come home, you’re greeted by the smell of spices lingering throughout the hallway of the house. it’s a little unusual because it’s only 5:30pm and you return to the house early after work. no one is home around this time. so today catches you by surprise. 

“miguel?” you call out, taking a step in. you go to the kitchen and hear something sizzling on the stove. he stands in the kitchen with his back facing you, and you realise that he’s cooking. you didn’t expect him to return home this early.   

when miguel turns around, he has his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, an apron protecting his front. your heart skips a beat as a thought of miguel being domestic and homely makes your stomach flutter in awe. “hey, you’re back.” 

“i am,” you say, keeping your gaze on him. the kitchen is warm just as when you entered and the igniter on the stove is turned on. something is bubbling in one pot and the other fizzles. the aroma of spices fills up your nostrils and it smells delicious and homemade. “someone’s cooking something nice.”  

“my speciality for our dinner today,” miguel says. he reaches his hand out towards your face and with the back of his fingers, he brushes away the strands of hair out front of the corner of your eye and tucks them behind your ear. “why don’t you go rest and wait for me until i call you? it should be done in half an hour or so.” 

his touch makes you soft, and you nod your head, complying with his words. “don’t take too long. i’m getting hungry.”  

“it won’t,” miguel grins and focuses back on the stove. “tonight, i will please your expectations.”  

true to his words, the dinner miguel surprised you to meet your expectations—possibly beyond what you expect too. it’s rather romantic and intimate for a dinner between two friends with an indoor picnic setting, but you don’t mind. what you have with miguel o’hara is surely beyond that—more than friends and housemates. it’s beneficial, but it’s also… more.  

you should just stop reading too much into it. even when he’s putting churros on your lips and telling you to open your mouth for him (to take a bite of the food, of course). looking into your eyes with such an intense hold, like you’re the only one in his vision.  

“that was superb.” you say as you walk into the kitchen. “it feels like an indoor picnic.”  

“i’m glad you enjoy it,” miguel says. you clean off the food remaining on the plates and cutlery as he loads them in the dishwasher. there isn’t much leftover to clean up, and when you look at the counter expecting more cutlery to wash off for the dishwasher, there’s a single cup of unused ice left.   

“hey, do you need any ice for your drink?” you ask miguel and look into the cup, the ice clinks when you give it a quick shake. “there’s still some left in here.”  

“no,” miguel replies. moments later, he turns to look at you, and his hand reaches for the cup. “maybe for one thing.”  

his fingers dip into the contents, and miguel pulls out one ice cube that has slightly melted but still retains its original shape. a drip of water trickles down his finger, and he brushes it off with his thumb. “have you heard of sensual play?”  

a flash of curiosity appears on your face. you’re no stranger to the concept of it, and some of the adult-rated books you read explore the concept of erotic pleasure. it can be as simple as from a touch of a finger trailing down one’s body to extreme measures of testing the limits of the five senses until they quiver and beg for release. “i have, yes.”  

miguel nods and looks at the ice, then back at you. “curious to explore that?”  

you gulped and flicked your eyes to him, your throat tightening at the thought of it and your heart racing. this has to be part of the challenge, right? and in all honesty, you are rather curious about the idea of sensual play. miguel is skilled with his hands, as you recall the way his large, warm, and rough texture of his fingers explores your skin as he touches you. a shiver of desire runs down to your clit and aches as you recall the way miguel rubs your little pearl and plays with your aroused folds.  

“yes.” you say. “i want to give it a go.”  

miguel chuckles and smirks. “where do you want the ice to be?”  

you think about the question and glance over your shoulder, feeling his gaze on you. “maybe behind my ear and slowly make its way down?”  

“of course.” miguel nods his head. “this will get a little cold, but it won’t be long, i promise.”  

you feel his fingers hover behind your ear right before the ice chills your skin as soon as cold shivers down your body, nearly making you flinch. taking in a soft and sharp breath, you force yourself to stay still and take in the coldness. and then, your sense of touch accepts it, letting you feel every tingle and shudder as the ice cools against your skin.   

“how does it feel?” miguel’s voice is low as he whispers close to your ear. 

“it’s okay,” you reply. the ice cube slides up and down the side of your neck in a slow and steady motion, and water droplets that have seemingly melted the ice trickle down the column of your neck. “nice even. it’s not as cold as i was expecting.”  

“good,” his voice murmurs close to your ear, his voice like a velvet caress. “that’s good to hear.”  

miguel repeats the motion of gliding the ice up and down the nape of your neck. a soft sigh escapes from your mouth as you tilt your head back, relaxing the muscles of your neck. your skin adjusts to the coldness, and what remains is the sensual tingling that makes you close your eyes and breathe quietly and a little ragged.  

more little droplets of water trickled down your neck. “can i try something else on a different part of you?” 

you can feel miguel hover next to you, and you open your eyes to meet his red-coloured eyes gazing at you. “yeah, sure.”  

miguel nods and pulls the ice cube away from the back of your neck. he reaches for the mug and pulls out a new ice cube about the same size as the one he had used. circling one arm around your waist and the other arm over your chest, he moves the ice down your cleavage and slowly glides down the valley of your breasts, moving it up and down. “how does this feel?”  

your lips parted slightly from the coldness, and you rolled your shoulders as it sent shivers down your back. when you looked down, there was a trail of wetness between your breasts and your skin glistened. “it feels good.”  

miguel smirked at your response, and he dragged the ice cube up your chest, then circled it around your right breast. “i’ve been thinking about us for the past two days,” he whispered. “how are you feeling so far with the challenge?” 

“i’ve been enjoying it. truly.” you spoke. “but i still think you’re crazy for suggesting something like this with me.”  

he chuckled, “that’s the thrill, isn’t it?”  

miguel’s fingers brushed against your nipple and circled the ice cube around your areola, making you gasp out loud. “look at that perky nipple,” he murmured. “all wet and sensitive. must be quite cold, huh?”  

“miguel,” you gasped softly, arching your back a little. the coldness tingled your nipple as he continued to rub the ice on your nipple. his other hand pinched and rolled another of your taut nipples between his fingers.  

“guapa (pretty).” he whispered and pressed a kiss on your cheek. “you’re so beautiful to me.”  

blood rushed down to your clit at his praise, and miguel didn’t stop his ministration. his lips trailed down from your cheek, moving lower to the jugular of your neck and shoulder. your nipples were both warm and both from his touch and the ice. it made your skin hot with the need for miguel’s touch—or just the thought of him in general.  

“should i rub it on your pussy?” miguel whispered into your ear. “i bet it’ll feel really good.”  

you blushed at his words, and there was a faint smell of your arousal between your legs. when you flickered your eyes to look at miguel, there was a grin on his smirk, and his eyes twinkled in amusement. his hand travelled down, and the coldness from the ice chilled your skin despite it not touching you. 

“ah!” you softly gasped and squirmed a little. the coldness hit you as miguel rubbed the ice on your folds, lubricating them. he rubbed it against your clit and it sent shivers down your body, causing you to tremble in his arms and squirm even more. “miguel, it’s…”

“damn, hermosa, you’re trying to suck my fingers in or something?” miguel asks teasingly, and you tell that he’s smirking at the question. his other hand remains on your left breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, as he leans down to suck the pulse on your neck gently. 

he chuckles and rubs the ice on your folds; it’s slippery, and you feel little droplets of water trickling down his fingers. with your legs slightly shaken as you feel yourself more aroused by the second, you can’t help yourself to push your hips back and rub your ass against his strained and bulging loins. you sound breathy when you softly moan and groan, responding to him. “it’s cold.” 

you hear a growl rumbling from miguel’s chest and your back shivers when you feel his clothed cock twitch between your butt. his grip squeezes on your hip. “bend over the counter.” he commands with a hoarse voice. 

when you do as you’re told—bending over the counter for him—it earns you a chuckle. miguel then chucks the ice into the sink without moving an inch from his spot. the ice clanks against the stainless steel sink. 

you hear the rustling of clothes and belt unbuckle, knowing that miguel has his pants taken off. there’s a soft, squelching noise when you turn to look over your shoulder and he grunts softly whilst stroking his cock. “you ready, beautiful?” miguel asks and then he lightly smacks the side of your ass. 

as soon as you nod your head, his length stretches your walls open as he enters. you moan and miguel groans when he bottoms out that sends shivers down your back. less than a moment, he pulls his hips back and thrusts back into you that turns into a rhythm pace of thrusting. 

your back arches and arms stretch on the counter top, the kitchen filled with groans and moans from you and miguel. “you’ve been a good girl the past two days in this challenge,” miguel whispers. his lips brush the shell of your earlobe and grazes his teeth on the tiny, soft skin. “it’s making you feel good, huh? trusting me to take good care of you and your needs. toda una princesa (what a princess).” 

when miguel presses himself deep into you, your body trembles as he stays still, his member twitching in your warm walls. the kitchen is almost eerily quiet except the soft panting coming from both of you. you feel his fingers gripping your hips and the outline of his v-line on his lower abdomen against your ass. then, nothing happens. a standstill but his cock is deeply embedded in your pussy. 

suddenly, miguel pulls back—you’re confused—and then he thrusts his member back into you so that you moan loudly. the pace picks up faster and harder, squelching noises from him constantly thrusting and burying his pack into your pussy repeatedly is drowned by the sounds of your cries and his grunts. 

miguel’s hand goes under your chin and pulls you back against his chest, making you arch your back. he doesn’t stop thrusting into you even then. you’re dizzy, high, and euphoric, being pounded from behind like an animal in heat. then it hits you; your orgasm comes in like crashing, tidal waves. thighs quivering, lips parted open as you moan and cry, your cunt gripping around miguel’s cock like a vice, fluttering and clenching. he still goes on, but it’s now sloppy and urgent, feeling his length quivering. and then, miguel follows and cums loads and ropes of white as he orgasms with a grunt. 

the aftermath of both climaxes leaves you and miguel breathless. panting softly together. he weighs on your back as you try to catch your breath. he’s resting his forehead on the back of your head. “you okay?” miguel whispers. he combs strands of your hair to the back in a ponytail and kisses just below the area that connects your jawline and neck. “did i go too far?” 

“no,” you shake your head. despite your weariness from the intense pleasure, you turn to your side to look at miguel, your eyes roaming his face. “that was perfect.” 

“yeah?” miguel smiles, his eyes raking over your face. “you can tell me to stop at any time. you know that, right? at any point if it’s too much.”

your eyes gaze at his face; the way his dark brown eyes captivate you with just one stare, and his lips parted just so, ever slightly open. oh goodness, he’s a lot more handsome than you recall. “i don’t think i want to stop.” 

miguel smiles and gently pinches the tip of your nose by surprise. “then we have four days left to go.”

tuesday has never been your favourite day.

when you return home, you feel your body ache and a glooming weight hovering above your head. something just irks you today and all you want to do is retreat to your room until the whole day is over. at least, there are only a few hours left until tuesday ends. another seven hours left, to be precise. even the thought of it still dampens your mood and you wish that time would speed up so you can get over the tuesday blues.

the moment you arrive home, you’re greeted with brief quietness, before hearing someone going through the cupboards in the kitchen. although you acknowledge miguel's home first, you don’t walk past to greet him. instead, you go straight to the second floor and into your room. shutting the door behind you, you strip off your work clothes and hop into the shower. the warm water calms your skin and loosens your muscles. yet, you feel dissatisfied even when you come out clean, smelling fresh and changed into comfortable baggy loungewear.

you dive into the comfort of your bed, tangling yourself under the duvet that makes your muscles curl comfortably. something vibrates under your pillow and when your hand moves under to reach for your phone — pulling it out to your sight — it lights up a received message from miguel. he tells you that he’s planning to run some errands and asks if you would like anything. 

your reply is polite but a little unenthusiastic. it wasn’t long after texting miguel back that you heard a knock on your door. the barrier opens and your roommate peaks his head in by the doorway. your eyes immediately meet miguel’s crimson eyes. “long day?” he asks.

you sigh and nod, pressing your lips together. “extremely. today is just… i don’t know, not my day.”

“lo siento, bonita (i’m sorry, beautiful),” miguel says. he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “i had a feeling you weren’t yourself when you got back.”

“s’okay.” you shrug. “Just a few more hours until tuesday is over.”

the room falls into a comfortable silence between the two of you. you twiddle your thumbs, unsure of what to do when you feel the bed shifted under its weight when miguel takes it forward to sit on the bed in front of you. his thumb and index fingers reach out for your chin and gently angle your face up to meet his gaze. “is there anything i could do to help?”

“i’ll be okay,” you shoot him a soft smile. “maybe i’ll sleep early tonight to let the time pass.”

miguel goes quiet when you say this. he gazes away to his right — seemingly in thought – before his eyes meet yours again. “there could be something we can do to pass the time. but only if you want to.” 

this has caught your attention. “what are you thinking of?” 

“today may have not been a nice day for you, but we could change that.” miguel begins. “the continuation of our challenge from yesterday.” 

your chest tightens a little as you hitch a breath, recalling the deal made and yesterday’s events. it heats your cheeks and goosebumps run down your back when your mind replays the way your body aches in pleasure when he thrusts deep into you. a sudden jolt of pulse travels down to your cunt as you think about the way he rubbed your clit yesterday with fervent abandon from the challenge. 

you’re now reminded that today is the second day of the week’s challenge. 

“it might help you forget about what’s upsetting you today.” miguel continues, his tone lowers and sounds a little husky. he pauses for a moment as he gently circles on your inner wrist in a mindless pattern. “i want you to take the reins this time to make you feel empowered. have you done whatever you want to me.” 

in that moment, your chest tightens even more with the way your heart races. this is the first time you’ve been offered something like this, and throughout your situationship with him, miguel has always been the one to lead in the sexual activities. so his proposal has taken you by surprise and yet you couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement at the new prospect specially made for you.  

“really?” your voice holds an innocence to it. “you’ll let me do whatever i want?”

“whatever you want, nena,” miguel smirks. “i’m yours to use as your playground.” 

you gaze away as you think, still feeling the rush of excitement and arousal. “there’s always something that i’ve been wanting to try.” you begin, pause for a dramatic effect, and then look at him with feign innocence and curiosity. “thigh fucking?” 

miguel raises a brow at you and a wide grin appears on his face. “you plan on torturing me with those sweet, soft thighs of yours, bonita?” 

you giggle softly, “not torture you, per se. more like… want to know what it feels like.” 

“mm,” miguel hums. his hand reaches out to brush away some unkempt strands of hair out of your view. “if that’s what you want to do, then let’s do it.” 

nodding, the two of you began to undress each other’s pants, the clothes all tossed aside in the corner of your bedroom. you quickly settled on the and laid your back on the headboard, with miguel joining to be in front of you. he kneels on the bed and spreads your legs open, moving closer between them. he takes hold of his large cock in his hand and places his throbbing member on your bikini area, giving it playful taps that have you squirming a little and giggling. 

you slowly bring your legs together, the inner of your thighs brushing against his member softly between the thigh gaps. then with your legs clasped together, you raise your legs and then down slowly. soon, the motion repeats as your inner thighs drag his cock up and down in strokes. you swear you could feel his member throb between your muscles. 

“oh, mierda, that’s it,” miguel murmurs with his eyes closed. “your thighs are so soft and warm.” 

“you think so?” you ask as you proceed to move your thighs up and down, looking at him under his gaze innocently. 

miguel smirks and lets out a breathy chortle once you’re confident stroking him with your thighs. bring your upper legs up and down like you’re doing a seated knee crunch exercise on his cock with your upper leg muscles. with every stroke, miguel’s member quivers and he groans. his chest is rising up and down slowly, eyes closed as his lips parted slightly whenever he breathes heavily. 

“fuck, your thighs.” a low growl emits out of miguel. his brows creased as he pants. “so soft and beautiful and mierda (fuck)—” he let out a breathy, almost strangled gasp as his eyes gazed down at his cock and your thighs stroked him. “tan perfecta, hermosa.” 

the praises coming out of his mouth feeds your confidence and it certainly shows it on the smile of your face. you continue to tease him and perhaps like miguel said earlier — torture him a little. seeing the way the foreskin of his cock would roll up and down to the movements of your thighs in between them — hiding between the muscles and revealing itself like it was a peek-a-boo game. the head of his cock is already glistened with precum. “something else.” he rasps. “please.” 

“oh? you’re telling me what to do, now?” you ask with a raised brow, your tone teasing. “though you told me that you’re my playground to use.” 

“you’re right,” miguel rasps with a sheepish smirk. still using his thighs to stroke his cock, you can see the way his brows furrowed together as miguel breathes rhythmically in an attempt for some sort of control and restraint. “are you going to keep playing with me like this?” 

you glance up at him. the movement of your thighs going up and down slows down until it comes to a stop. his cock throbs, being buried in between the soft muscles of your upper legs. “you’re right, i should do something about it.” you declare. 

carefully, you open up your legs, seeing the way it glistened with arousal ─ a mixture of his and yours painting your skin. you already miss the way his member feels between your thighs but you have a different idea. leaning yourself forward close to miguel, your right hand reaches for his cock and soon, your hand replaces your thighs to stroke him. a gentle grip on his dick as you move up and down on him. 

you hear miguel groaning your name, sounding even more hoarse than before. “you know that’s not what i meant.” he says brusquely, though it sounds gentle. “tú, pequeña zorra (you little vixen).” 

“whatever do you mean?” you giggle softly. 

“want to have your pussy around my cock.” miguel murmurs. his head is tilted back with eyes closed, deeply groaning and his dick pulsates even more in your hand. 

the growing smile on your face doesn’t falter as you take full control of miguel’s pleasure, watching the way he’s beginning to lose composure. you feel more confident and empowered in this situation because you’ve always been a bit of a princess and letting miguel have his way with you. but this time, the role is reversed. 

“how do you want to have my pussy?” you ask, still stroking his cock with your hand. “should i ride you?”

“yes, yes por favour (please),” miguel says, his voice sounding breathy. he groans again and the muscles of his biceps tighten as his body shudders in pleasure. his member twitches in your palm. “hermosa, nena, por favor (beautiful, baby, please).” 

you chuckle softly, seeing how miguel has succumbed to a whimpering mess. a different sight but a beautiful one. you’ve always known miguel to be confident, intimidating, and somewhat snarky. but in the moment and right in front of you, he is neither of those. he is yours to toy with and as he said before—he’s your playground to be used for the night. 

“what did i tell you about telling me what to do?” you lightly scold miguel. and yet, your hand slowly comes to a stop and lets him go. getting up onto your knees, you gently nudge miguel to lean back a little. when he does so, you carefully crawl onto him, settling yourself on his lap. his hands instantly go to hold onto your waist. the two of you stare at each other, eyes gazing over each other’s expressions and facial features. 

“you ready?” your voice is soft when you ask, hand reaching down to hold his cock and aligning it upwards between your legs. 

“yes,” miguel whispers. his eyes darken in lust, and the grip on your hips is strong as if he’s trying to imprint his fingers into your skin. almost holding back your breath, you mentally prepare to embrace yourself, remembering to take it nice and slow. 

steady, you lower yourself down onto miguel, the head of his cock breaches in slowly until the two of you are groaning and moaning. your walls warmly welcome the intrusion, wrapping around his cock in a vice grip till you could feel the tip of its head brushing inside your womb. “fuck, fuck. you’re so tight.” 

you rest your forehead on miguel’s when the shudder of pleasure overwhelms you. breathing softly as you hold onto him, mind clouded in lust and sheepishness. when a thought inadvertently enters your mind, the notion is forgotten when you feel his hands guiding you close to him by the waist. 

“you’re doing so well,” miguel says softly, his lips almost brushing yours. 

his words made your heart leap and you exhaled a soft sigh that you didn't realise was holding back. “i want you to get comfortable.” 

“i already am.” the corner of miguel’s mouth curves up in a grin. his hands cup your rear cheeks and he lifts you easily off the bed to switch positions. miguel sits at the edge of the bed and his gaze focuses on you, his hands going onto your hips as you proudly sit on his lap. 

you begin to roll your hips as you sit on his lap, with his cock settled buried inside you; its girth hits your vaginal walls, his pelvis rubbing your clit and you swear you could feel his cockhead hitting your cervix. the muscles of miguel’s thighs flex a little underneath your weight and he heaves heavily when your cunt grips onto his dick whenever you roll yourself onto him. “that’s it,” he groans. “grinding on my cock so well.” 

with your hands placed behind his muscular thighs as you steady yourself in this whole new position, you angle your hips and begin to bounce on him. it starts gently at first for you to adjust to the feeling and idea of taking charge. but then, the pace picks up moments later as you begin to feel comfortable. the wanton swiftness of miguel’s cock hitting your g-spot relentlessly. you’re unsure who’s controlling the movements — whether it's your rhythm or his hand on your hips guiding you to lift up and then down onto his length. but it doesn’t matter who did what because being on top of miguel o’hara feels like the sweetest and most well-deserved victory for yourself. 

the bedroom is filled with the sounds of wet skin slapping with mixed arousal, your breathy gasp and his throaty groans. it doesn’t take long until you feel the knot in your stomach tighten, making you drive your hips up and down on miguel faster. you hear him shudder a breath, his hands grab your buttcheeks. “oh fuck, hermosa—” 

a throaty groan from miguel and a strangled cry from you fill in the bedroom. your cunt tightens around his cock and it throbs just in time for miguel to spill his cum inside of you. your clit pulsates from the pleasure, the two of you gasping and groaning from the euphoric sensation of cumming at the same time. 

“díos,” miguel murmurs breathlessly. his lips brush on the valley of your chest as he catches his breath. your eyes are closed, regaining your breath as well. “that was… wow,” miguel adds. he chuckles softly. “didn’t know you have a wild side of you.” 

“i…” your voice trails. a sheepish smile curves up the corners of your lips. “was that too much?” 

miguel laughs and then shakes his hand. his hands squeeze your hips. “if anything, it was the best.” 

your arms circle his neck as you press yourself chest to chest on him. the climax settles down, leaving the room quiet. neither of you pull away despite how overly warm and a little sweaty the two of you are, and you prefer the way you’re both not separating from each other yet. 

"hey," miguel's soft tone catches your attention. "i have been meaning to ask. why is tuesday your least favourite day? is it a personal thing?"

his question surprises you because you didn’t think he or anyone in your life would notice that the second day of the week is your least favourite day. you stay silent, figuring out how to put your explanation in words. “in all my life, tuesday seems to be the day where i’m out of luck and rough days seem to happen that would hinder my mood. a bad grade at school when i was younger. or i found out that one of the co-workers i hate at work made a complaint about me for something insignificant. even when… my mum passed away a few years ago, it was on a tuesday too.”

things fall peacefully quiet in your bedroom as the two of you sit together on the sheets. “i’m sorry to hear that,” miguel says apologetically. the pad of his thumb brushes on your inner wrist and you don't pull your hand away. instead, let his warmth comfort you. 

“well, i hope that i’ve made your tuesday a little better for you,” miguel adds softly. he still caresses where your pulse and arteries are pumping under your skin.

your eyes gaze at him and a smile appears on your face. you couldn’t help but agree because he did make your day a little brighter than the other tuesdays you experienced in the past.

it’s three in the afternoon when miguel walks out of his meeting. his assistant, lyla, tells him that jessica drew left a message for him and asks if he can call her back. he’s puzzled by the request but complies anyway. settling into his seat at the mahogany desk, miguel searches for jess’s contact details and hits the call button, lifting the phone to his ear. it rings as it tries to connect.

by the fifth ring, she finally answers. “hey, jess. sorry, i was in a meeting,” miguel says. “what’s up?”

“hey miguel, listen. unexpected news, but i’ve just gone into labour,” jess says. “i’m at the hospital with the labour nurses. my husband is on the way.”

“oh wow.” his eyes widen slightly. “are you okay? congrats, by the way.”

“thank you. i’m being taken care of until he gets here.” he hears distant voices on her end, but jess sounds calm. “listen, i’m sorry to do this, but i can’t pick gabi up after school. i told her i’m in the hospital.”

miguel shakes his head. “don’t apologise,” he says. “i’ll pick her up and let her know to stay in school until i arrive.”

he waits through the muffled voices in the background, assuming a nurse is talking to jess about her birthing plan. when he hears jess thank her, she returns her attention to him. “i called in a favour and asked gabriella’s teacher if she could look after gabi for a few hours until you’re done with work.”

miguel stills, blinking as the words sink in. he knows exactly who she means, and his heart thrums quietly as he leans back in his chair. “what did she say? is she okay with it?”

“oh yeah, she is. she loves gabriella, so it’s not an issue,” jess says casually, making miguel’s chest tighten. “i know you won’t finish until six, and the teachers usually leave by four or four-thirty. so… gabi would be locked in school if she waited for you.”

miguel frowns slightly, realising he hadn’t even considered that. most days, jess picks up his daughter after school, and he picks her up after work. that’s been the arrangement for as long as he can remember. but he knows that eventually he’ll have to take over that responsibility. today seems to be that day.

“i asked miss [last name] if she can look after gabriella until you finish work. you can pick her up from her place,” jess says. “i know i should have asked you first, but gabi is on board with the idea. you can text her teacher about the plan if you like.”

“i don’t think i have her number,” miguel admits, disappointment flickering through him at the thought of you.

“i passed your number to her. you should have gotten a text. did you get it?”

he pulls the phone away to check his notifications, scrolling down the screen. he almost misses it—an unsaved number. the message reads:

unknown: hi, miguel. it’s gabriella’s homeroom teacher. jess gave me your number—hope that’s okay. she told me about going into early labour and asked if i could watch gabi for a few hours. i can have your daughter at my place until you finish work. i really don’t mind. i heard you finish at 6pm. i hope the arrangement is okay with you.

miguel sits up abruptly and leans closer to the screen, arms braced on the desk. his eyes widen as he reads the message again and again. he finally has your number. he swallows lightly as he rereads it, ignoring the tightness building in his chest.

“miguel, did you get her message?” jess asks.

“yup, just read it,” he says quickly. “i’ll work it out with her. thanks, jess. congrats again—can’t wait to see if baby gerry is a carbon copy of you or his father. and thank you for picking up gabriella all this time. let me know if you need anything.”

jess laughs. “you’re welcome, miguel. i’ll update you and gabi after the delivery.”

the call ends, leaving miguel alone with his thoughts, staring at your message again. he rereads it for the nth time, fingers hovering over his keyboard as he debates whether his draft sounds casual or desperate. after a moment of back-and-forth, he finally sends:

miguel: hi, thanks for the message. please forgive the unexpected burden i’ve placed on you. i’m grateful for you watching gabriella. i’ll request an early leave so i can pick her up.

while he waits for your reply, he saves your number. it doesn’t take long before another notification pops up.

gabi’s teacher (you): hey, no worries. gabi is staying over at my house for now and we’re planning to make dinner together. she’s doing her homework, so no rush. i’ll send you my address so you can come by.

miguel smiles, relieved. his daughter is safe and happy. his muscles relax as he leans back in his chair. he knows he’ll need to rearrange his schedule soon—picking gabriella up himself, adjusting hours, finding a new routine. but for now, he sets it aside and focuses on work for a few more hours.

when he closes his car door in the alchemax parking structure, miguel lets out a long, relieved sigh as he finally clocks out.

it’s half-past five when he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. he’s ready to drive when he remembers he’s not heading to jess’s place. the thought of you makes his chest lighten. he opens the overhead compartment, checks the mirror briefly, then grabs his phone.

he brings it to his ear as it rings. tapping a finger on the steering wheel, he waits.

the line connects. “hey, it’s miguel. i’m finally done with work. i’m about to drive to your place.”

“hi, miguel,” you say, warmth in your voice, and he imagines you smiling. “gabi just finished her homework and we’re about to start dinner. you might make it in time.”

he hears his daughter’s excited voice in the background, telling him she’s having a great time. he also hears her asking you questions about the kitchen. “did you get my address? i hope it’s not too far from alchemax.”

“the drive isn’t long. i should be there in less than half an hour—depends on traffic,” miguel says. he glances at the digital clock, mentally mapping alternate routes.

“as long as you’re driving safely, miguel,” you tell him. “gabriella and i are just having fun.”

“without me?” he teases, chuckling when you laugh softly in return. “sounds like a girls’ night.”

“girls’ night!” gabriella squeals in the background, making miguel laugh.

“enjoy your girls’ night while you can, mija,” he says. “because i’m coming to get you.”

she squeals again and runs off. he smiles, listening. “i’ll start driving now. see you both soon.”

“see you soon, miguel.”

the call disconnects, leaving him in quiet. it’s been two weeks since he ran into you at the grocery store. ever since, he’s asked gabriella about you during dinner, listening intently whenever your name comes up in her stories.

once the engine hums back to life, he drives. traffic isn’t as bad as expected, and in under half an hour he pulls onto a peaceful urban street he’s never visited. the gps reads out the address as he parks in front of what he assumes is your house.

miguel steps out, locks the car, and walks up to the porch. he rings the doorbell and hears footsteps inside. his chest thumps. when the door opens, he finds you smiling at him.

“miguel, hi!”

“hi,” he says. “i hope i’m not too late.”

“you’re just in time. come in.” you open the door wider, and he steps in for the first time. he notices the stairs leading up, then the open living room to the left. he follows you into the dining room, where gabriella is setting the table. she turns, sees him, and beams.

“daddy!”

“hello, mija.” miguel smiles as she runs into his arms. “i’m sorry i couldn’t pick you up sooner.”

she shrugs and tells him she’s been great with you—actually, she’s had a lot of fun. the warm smell of homemade food reaches him, and he notices the two of you have been preparing dinner together.

“we were about to eat,” you say. “and you’re just in time.”

he blinks, almost stumbling over his words at your hospitality. gabriella pulls out her chair and sits, already scooping food onto her plate. the aroma makes his stomach growl.

“let’s eat, daddy,” she says. “miss [reader] and i made this together.”

“you don’t say,” miguel smiles.

you catch his gaze. “you haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

“no,” he admits, eyeing the extra plate you’ve set out.

you sit beside gabriella and look up at him. “come eat with us, miguel. i made enough for three, just in case.”

he blinks, then sits down beside his daughter. the three of you share dinner, with gabriella excitedly recounting her day. miguel treasures every moment with her—but when he glances at you sitting across from him, listening and laughing softly, he feels something warm settle in his chest. something like… togetherness.

after dinner, miguel clears the table and carries dishes to the kitchen. he insists on helping to thank you for the hospitality. while gabriella heads to the restroom before the drive home, he rinses dishes for you to load into the dishwasher.

“i can’t thank you enough for looking after gabriella today,” miguel says. “i really appreciate it.”

“it’s nothing, miguel. i love spending time with her. she’s great company,” you say, smiling.

his shoulders loosen at your reassurance. he hands you another rinsed plate. as he works, he thinks about the challenge ahead—requesting flexible hours, rearranging his schedule, figuring out a new routine for pick-ups.

“i’ve been thinking,” you say, drawing his attention. “jess told me about gabriella’s routine and how you usually get her after work.”

“yes,” miguel nods. “during summer, gabi spends a few hours with jess and her kids. the only exceptions are school holidays when i can shift my hours.”

he sighs, arms crossing as he leans against the counter. “but i’ll need to adjust my schedule. maybe mornings at the office, afternoons working from home.”

he’s lost in thought when your voice cuts in gently. “i don’t mind looking after gabriella after school.”

“i’m sure you have enough dealing with kids past three,” he jokes.

you laugh and shake your head. “i actually finish at four. if gabriella is okay staying with me after that, i can take her home until you finish work.”

home. the word sends a flutter up his chest before he reminds himself you mean your home. “are you sure you’re okay babysitting my daughter?”

“i’m perfectly fine,” you assure him. “though i need wednesdays off for my extracurricular program.”

a smile grows on his face. “you’re keen on having gabriella all to yourself.”

you laugh again—warm and genuine. “she’s my favourite kid.”

the kitchen grows quiet for a moment until gabriella calls out that she’s ready to go. miguel tells her he’ll be right there, then turns back to you.

“i think we should try this arrangement for a month,” you suggest. “what do you think?”

miguel nods, worries easing from his shoulders. “i think we should try it too.”

miguel knows it’s that time of the month for grocery shopping. it isn’t his favorite thing to do, but he understands it’s necessary. he finds himself in the supermarket with gabriella on a weekend, buying essentials for himself and his daughter: food, a few things he needs, and anything gabriella might want. while the world around him buzzes with people, he focuses intently on his shopping list, eager to check off each item.

he isn’t alone; his good friend jess drew is with him. she has her own list, shopping for her growing family. they always help each other out, supporting their households. without jess, miguel doesn’t think he can manage as a single father, and he’s grateful for her presence. there are things he feels inadequate discussing or understanding when it comes to gabriella’s needs. sometimes he makes mistakes, but he tries his best to be a good father.

“this brand is good for chicken broth,” jess says, holding up a package. he glances at the label, taking note. “have you thought about what type of chicken you’re cooking with?”

miguel thinks for a moment. “a mix of thighs and drumsticks. maybe some wings too.”

“wings cook faster, so don’t be surprised if they fall apart,” she advises.

“daddy!” gabriella calls. he turns to see her holding up a cereal box covered with labels like “delicious,” “nutritious,” and “cravingly good.” he hasn’t seen this brand before, but he already knows what’s coming. “can we try this?”

“of course, mija. put it in the trolley,” he says, placing it in the cart. gabriella skips ahead happily.

alongside jess, miguel continues gathering items from his list while keeping an eye on his daughter. he ignores the lingering glances from mothers who pass by, clearly noticing him.

“hey,” jess says suddenly. “gabi, isn’t that one of your teachers?”

miguel doesn’t process her words before gabriella yells louder, catching the attention of people near the fridge section. he looks up to see her sprinting toward someone he doesn’t recognize at first. when they turn, his eyes widen.

“miss [last name]!” gabriella exclaims, waving at you. confusion crosses your face before you brighten, recognizing her. you hug her tightly, almost stumbling back from her excitement. “gabi, hi! i’m glad to see you.”

miguel watches as she pulls away and asks, “do you come to this target often?”

“i do,” you nod. “i just needed a couple things before heading home.”

when you lift your head, your eyes meet miguel’s. he barely hears jess speaking. gabriella calls him again, pulling him from the moment. “daddy, look who i found!”

“hi,” miguel greets, leaving his cart and walking toward you both. his mind stutters as he takes you in—leggings, workout sneakers, a fitted fitness jacket, your hair neatly pushed back.

if he hadn’t met you before, he wouldn’t believe you’re a middle school teacher; you look so different from your usual work outfits. he tries not to stare. “it’s been a while.”

“hi,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “it has been a while. almost three weeks, right?”

“yes,” he nods. he’s been counting the days; three weeks feels like forever.

“i’m so glad we ran into you,” gabriella chimes, her brown eyes sparkling.

you smile at her and gently ruffle her hair. when you look back at miguel, his throat tightens. “how have you two been?”

“we’ve been good,” miguel answers, unable to look away. you look almost unrecognizable—and more than that, you look great. he wonders what your life outside of school is like, imagining something warm and content. maybe that’s why he thinks your face glows when he looks at you.

“hey, girl!” jess suddenly calls, hugging you tightly. “you look real good, lovely.”

you give a sheepish smile. “thank you. i just got back from the gym.” you glance between them. “are you two grocery shopping together?”

“daddy’s making the food auntie jess makes for me after school,” gabriella explains proudly.

miguel nods. he considers himself a decent cook, but now that you know he’s making something, he can’t help wanting to impress you a little. he notices the way your lips curve into a smile. “i’ve always wanted to try your recipes, jess.”

“only if you trade me some of your baked treats,” jess counters.

“i’m altering my marble cookie recipe next week,” you say. “i’ll give you a free sample.”

jess grins and glances at miguel before turning back to you. “have you tried mexican food before? i can’t remember.”

“oh,” you say, smiling at miguel. “unfortunately, not yet.”

“mexican food is the best!” gabriella announces.

“if you’re interested, miguel is your guy,” jess says, clearly up to something. “he makes amazing dishes.”

“oh, really?” you ask, looking at him.

miguel nods, nearly stumbling over his words, which never happens. “i can. tell me your preferences, and i’ll make something.”

“we can trade,” you say, eyes lighting up. “you cook something, and i’ll bake something for you.”

“sounds like a good trade,” he says with a grin.

your gaze meets his, creating a moment of stillness in the busy store. you look at him in a way that makes his chest tighten—not uncomfortably, but in a way that startles him. he can’t get over how different you look today. how good you look. his eyes drift down your figure before he forces himself to pull back.

“i should get going,” you say softly. “but it was nice seeing all of you—especially you, gabi.”

gabriella beams. “see you at school, miss [last name]!”

“bye, gabi,” you wave. “and goodbye, jess, miguel. hope we run into each other again.”

“see ya later, girl,” jess says. miguel is so lost in thought that he only notices her leaving when she nudges his arm.

he blinks, recomposes himself, and nods your way. “hope to see you again soon.”

“i hope so too,” you say with one last smile.

miguel watches you walk away. gabriella starts talking about your baking and the recipes she hopes you’ll make. he turns to jess. “she loves baking?”

“her baking is to die for,” jess sighs dramatically. “those marble cookies are my favorite. i hope i get some before i have this baby next month.”

miguel lingers where you stood, the memory of your presence still vivid. even when gabriella calls him down another aisle, you linger in his thoughts. he hopes to see you again—because the third time’s the charm, right?

it’s monday afternoon, and you’re in your classroom when jess stops by to wait for gabriella to finish soccer practice. you’re exhausted after a long day of teaching and caring for your students. school hours are over, but your work isn’t; you still have papers to grade, your classroom to tidy, and lesson plans to prepare.

“oh thank goodness for these,” jess says as you set a tupperware of cookies on your desk. seeing someone enjoy your baking always lifts your spirits. “thank you so much.”

you hear her open the container, followed by a pleased groan. “you always know the way to a person’s heart.”

you smile sheepishly. “i’ll take that as a compliment.”

while she eats, you reorganize the paperwork on your desk. you plan to finish grading before heading home, avoiding the habit of bringing work with you.

“so… tell me. what did you think of miguel o’hara the other day?”

“miguel?” you look up. “he’s a good father. i can see why gabi admires him so much.”

“anything else?” jess asks, humming.

“nothing else,” you answer, though you suspect where she’s going. her growing smile makes you laugh nervously. “he’s just a good man who loves his daughter.”

“miguel isn’t seeing anyone,” she adds quickly. “i’m just saying.”

“jessica,” you sigh with a nervous smile. “i’m not going to take it as a sign just because he’s available.” you wonder briefly if miguel was once married, but shake the thought away. “i care about gabi too much to risk making her uncomfortable.”

“i get it,” she says kindly. “but i don’t think you could upset her. she looks up to you a lot. you’re one of her role models. i think she loves you like a guardian.”

you can’t help smiling. you know teachers shouldn’t have favorites, but gabi is special. she’s the sweetest child, bright and kind, and she’ll grow into an incredible young woman. miguel is lucky to have her. “i try to set a good example.”

“you do,” jess says. “don’t underestimate yourself.”

you return to grading, though your mind keeps drifting back to the o’haras. you think about the unexpected encounter yesterday—and about miguel. it’s been three weeks since your first meeting, and part of you wonders if fate is pushing you toward him. you were a bit self-conscious about smelling like sweat after working out, but the way he looked at you… you swear he was checking you out behind those sunglasses.

“he is handsome, isn’t he?” you admit with a soft smile. “those shades… though i’ve seen his eyes before. they’re brown, right? but they looked lighter—almost red—the first time we met.”

“he’s your type,” jess laughs.

“i mean… yeah,” you admit, amused. “but that doesn’t mean i’m going to pursue him.”

“girl, he is exactly your type,” she insists.

you groan and hide your face in your arms, burning with embarrassment as she teases you. but no matter how much the conversation shifts afterward, miguel o’hara stays in your mind for the rest of the afternoon.

miguel: could you meet me in the living room when you return for a few minutes? there’s something i want to talk to you about.

that’s the text message you receive from miguel in the car park while you load groceries into your car.

he doesn’t elaborate, and the lack of detail follows you the entire drive home. curiosity gnaws at you as you wonder what he could possibly want to talk about. you and miguel are housemates, sharing the same house for nearly two and a half years. when you agree to take the empty room he advertises for rent and sign the lease, you have a vague idea of what you’re getting yourself into.

miguel o’hara is an attractive man, and at times the attraction grows into something dangerously close to lust. lingering glances across the room, the brief brush of skin against skin—each moment leaves behind a heated message. it becomes impossible to ignore the elephant in the room: the pull between you, the urge to let your hands trace the contours of his body.

and then it happens. hands move in a rush, clothes are stripped and tugged aside, skin meeting warmth beneath fabric. you and miguel fumble your way into his bedroom, surrendering to a long, pleasurable night. it doesn’t take long to figure out that you’re addicted to the way miguel fucks you. but gods, no one does it like he does. you would feel empty unless he fills you up again to the brim. your body has adjusted to him and only him, addicted to the way he knows how to make you scream and shake, leaving you breathless and alive. in the end, you and miguel come to a mutual agreement together; stay housemates with benefits. friends with benefits. it’s both your dirty little secret. 

when you pull into the residential car park, you unload your groceries from the car and carry them into the shared house. just as you expect, miguel isn’t home yet. the place greets you with quiet—the open-plan living room and kitchen sitting still and empty.

you organize the groceries in the kitchen, putting everything where it belongs. with time to spare before miguel returns, you retreat to your en-suite bathroom and take a quick shower to freshen up.

thirty minutes later, you walk downstairs, thinking about settling into the living room and turning on the tv, when you hear the front door unlock.

“welcome home.”

miguel looks up toward the staircase and sees you. relief flickers across his face, weariness from work settling into his shoulders as they slump slightly. “hey, hermosa.”

“how was work?” you ask, following him into the kitchen. he unpacks his lunch box, rinses it, and places it neatly on the drying rack. you’ve seen him do this countless times, yet it never fails to make you feel strangely domesticated by the routine. a man who cleans up after himself is undeniably sexy.

“it was a pretty good day, surprisingly,” miguel replies.

“i got your message,” you say. “you mentioned there was something you wanted to talk to me about?”

he turns to look at you, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “sí, hermosa,” he says. “it’s about our arrangement. come—let’s talk in the living room.”

the seriousness in his tone makes worry stir in your chest. part of you fears he wants to end the housemates-with-benefits arrangement. another part imagines him having found someone else—someone better. maybe he’s ready to settle into something committed, and this is his way of letting you go.

your heart drums uncomfortably as dread settles in, the thought of spending less time with him tightening your chest. “what about our arrangement?”

“it’s nothing bad, i promise,” miguel says. when his eyes meet yours, he lets out a soft chuckle. “it’s a good discussion—depending on how you see it.”

your shoulders relax as relief washes over you, but his words leave you puzzled. the feeling doesn’t last long, fading the moment you hear what he says next. "what do you think of us having sex together for a whole week?"

it takes you a full minute of silence to process his words. when it finally sinks in, disbelief spreads across your face. “you want us to do it for seven days straight?” you repeat, incredulous. “are you out of your mind, miguel?”

“no,” miguel says, smirking. he repeats it slowly, deliberately. “for seven days straight.”

a sharp, disbelieving laugh slips from you as you shake your head. “in what world is that a good idea?” you ask. “do we even have time for something like that?”

the coy smirk on miguel’s face only widens, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. somehow, the two of you would find a way. you always do. “we’ll make time, chica,” he says. “come on—it’ll be a lot of fun.”

you shake your head again, still unconvinced. “not so sure about that.”

miguel steps closer, bracing one hand against the cushion behind you. his tone turns cocky, sly. “you don’t think i can pull it off?”

you scoff. “i think you’re insane.” 

his chest rumbles when he laughs. “it would only be just for a week,” miguel says, then raises a brow. “you think that you wouldn’t enjoy having sex with me for a week?” 

you looked straight into his eyes, and a glint of challenge flashed as you both stared at each other. the words came out of your mouth faster than you could process. “bet.” 

miguel smirks, and he doesn’t hesitate, pulling you by the waist with one hand and another on the back of your head. his lips crash onto yours in a passionate kiss, a little rushed and rough. miguel’s mouth moves in a slow yet deep and captivating tug whilst his hands roam your body, pulling and grabbing. it takes one kiss—a taste of his lips—and your head is spinning in a whirlwind. 

you lean back and lie down on the couch with miguel on top of you. he deepens the kiss for a brief moment, his tongue tracing your parted lips when he pulls away, and you find yourself chasing after him as miguel hovers right in front of you. “i’ll go easy on you, hermosa,” he whispers. 

“easy on me?” you chuckle. “i doubt that.” 

he only smirks in response and looks at you. “it’s monday today,” he begins. “so let’s start with something easy first.” 

when he purses his lips in a pretence of pondering, you know that it’s a lot to get a lot more interesting. “masturbation rhymes with monday, hm?” miguel brushes his nose on yours. “then, missionary and mating…” 

“you’re unbelievable,” you shake your head, but it doesn’t stop you from smiling. 

“is that a yes?” miguel asks. he drags his hands from your sides down to your hips, moving his hand across your lower belly down between your legs. it makes your breath hitch when his hand touches over your shorts. his fingers tracing your clothed cunt. “to our first challenge?” 

you couldn’t help but chuckle, pulling him into a needy kiss. miguel takes this as a yes, and his fingers curl onto the band of your shorts, while your hand does the same to his pants. you return the favour by groping him gently, rubbing your palm on his semi-hard bulge, and you hear miguel groan against your lips. both your shorts and his pants are taken off and left discarded somewhere in the room, followed by the rest of your attire: shirts, undies, and briefs. 

“dios mío, would you look at that?” miguel says with a smirk on his face. 

“shut up.” you mumble. you don’t need to look at yourself to know what he’s talking about—you know that you’re already wet. when miguel glides his fingers between your folds—all aroused and slippery—you groan softly at the feeling. one of your hands goes to his cock, thumbing with the tip of its head as you begin to jerk him off. the other begins to start stroking his girth. 

“fuck.” miguel nips on your neck at the area below your ear. with his fingers rubbing your cunt and you stroking his cock, you’re both in a mess. pleasuring each other in sync. the more miguel rubs down your clit, the more you moan and the faster you move your hand up and down his length. the neediness grows in the room, and every touch feels so good. your body responds to his touch, making your toes curl and thighs tremble. 

“mierda, that’s it, baby. shit.” miguel groans. he rubs your cunt faster as you get wetter that it squelches. you try to keep up with the pace and give as much pleasure with every stroke as he touches your clit and labia. the build-up pleasure creeps him out when you clutch one of your hands on his forearms. 

it becomes too much, both of you moaning and gasping against each other’s lips. the neediness shows when you feel close to orgasm and miguel’s cock throbbing in your hand. you feel your lips brush against his lips in a heated kiss, his hand, which was playing with your cunt, is pulled away and now holding your hips. he pulls away and stares at you before grabbing his cock and rubbing it against your slit, letting you feel the tip that sends the urge of needing him inside of you. 

“don’t move,” miguel tells you. he holds onto your legs by your calves, opening yourself up to him a bit more. miguel almost loses his composure when he feels you engulf him with your warm heat because of how wet you’re already from the masturbation. all wet and perfect for him, making him groan when he bottoms out, and gasp from you. 

the two of you are still for a moment before miguel starts thrusting. his cock fills you up so nicely and it hits your g-spot and rubs your clit with every stroke. you always clench around him with each thrust and miguel loves it, seeing you writhing and moaning because of him. you’re clutching your nails on his back as his hips move continuously. moaning and whining his name at how deep he thrusts into you. the way miguel raises your hips and settles your lower body on his thighs angles him to fuck deeper into you. making your back arch in pleasure and your body writhe. 

“fuck, fuck, nena,” miguel moans above you. gripping onto the sofa cushion, he feels himself over to the edge of orgasm. “doing this with you for a whole week is going to be the best thing in my life.” 

“miguel,” you whine. his stamina is greater than yours, so you’re not surprised that he can keep up thrusting into you. you tighten with each movement, the room grows hotter as both you and miguel move in a pleasant, constant wave. 

both your legs are propped up in the air and placed on his shoulders. miguel angles you a little higher as he holds onto your legs by your thighs. feeling your ass cheeks on his hips. your body tenses and back arches when miguel doesn’t slow down his thrusts. grunting as he speeds up and repeatedly hits your sweet spot. “you’re going to come so much like this,” miguel pants. 

and he’s right. because your body twitches the moment you feel a strong wave of orgasm coursing through you. miguel doesn’t slow down when you release, and his thrusts feel urgent. slapping himself onto you and ramming in your cunt until his cock twitches, soon spilling his come inside you with a loud moan. 

the two of you are out of breath. miguel gently puts down your legs onto the sofa, though his cock is still nestled inside you. you’re both looking at each other, still feeling the effects of the climax. “same time again for tomorrow?” he asks. 

you sigh and lean back against the armrest, feeling out of breath. even then, you still manage to make a joke about the situation. “same position tomorrow?” 

“a different one every day.” miguel chuckles. “you’ll find out soon enough.” 

he smiles and leans forward to plant a kiss on your forehead, and it sends a rush of warmth to your core. it’s not meant to be a tender display of affection, but it doesn’t help that it still makes your heart skip a beat. “now, are you hungry for dinner tonight?”

miguel remembers why he avoids driving around the city in the late afternoon.

he stares out the front window with a frown, boredom settling over his features. one hand rests on the steering wheel while the other props his elbow against the door, supporting his face. it’s typical nueva york traffic—horns blaring, drivers weaving and ignoring every regulation imaginable, pedestrians wandering into the street without a care.

miguel sighs in frustration. he still can’t believe his friend jess deals with this every weekday just to pick up the kids. he resists the urge to smack his palm against the wheel and yell at the cars ahead to move. instead, he endures. minutes crawl by like hours as the line inches forward. when he checks the time, it’s ten minutes to four. the only thing keeping him sane is reminding himself why he’s doing this in the first place.

gabriella’s school is just a few blocks ahead—beyond the mess of cars.

a smile crosses his face at the thought of her. his daughter. his light. his joy. as much as he loves her, he rarely picks her up after three in the afternoon. being a geneticist sounds flexible, but it’s really a strict nine-to-six job, monday through friday. even so, he squeezes in every moment he can with her—before work, after work, on weekends.

but today, he breaks routine. today, he’s picking her up. and gabriella has no idea he’s coming.

traffic finally loosens. cars begin to move, and miguel presses forward, weaving carefully through queens until he reaches the familiar streets surrounding her school. he parks, gets out, and locks the car behind him. it’s already four-thirty—definitely late. he glances at his reflection in the window: blue jeans, a white shirt under a black leather jacket, black sunglasses. he looks like any other dad picking his kid up, not a man who just left work.

it’s been a while since miguel last stepped foot on campus—probably the parent-teacher conference. inside, the building feels quiet and strangely vast, the halls empty of students and staff. he doesn’t remember the layout well and isn’t sure where to go, so he wanders, hoping to stumble across someone who can point him in the right direction.

the hallways grow eerily silent as he continues. everything looks unfamiliar. he considers calling gabriella, but he decides against it. he wants to surprise her after soccer practice.

maybe a teacher is still around.

he looks down the hallway and chooses the farthest door on the right, unsure why but following a hunch. he knocks twice, then turns the knob and peeks inside. empty. he frowns and starts to close the door—

“hi, can i help you with anything?”

he steps further in and finally sees her—you—behind a desk he hadn’t noticed. the locker behind you sits open, full of papers and boxes. he must’ve interrupted your organizing.

“hi,” he says.

“hello,” you reply with a small smile, setting a box on the desk. miguel removes his sunglasses out of courtesy, taking you in. you’re dressed casually—a polo shirt and white jeans. definitely a staff member. “is there something i can help you with?”

“i…” his voice trails off. you seem young, probably in your twenties—several years younger than him. likely a teacher. he clears his throat. “sorry, i think i got myself lost. i’m looking for the sports field. i’m picking up my daughter. she has soccer practice today.”

“oh, right,” you say, smiling apologetically. “you’re pretty far from it. the field’s on the other side of the building.”

he nods. of course. schools are always mazes. “thank you. i hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon, señorita.”

he turns to leave, but you stop him. “i can show you, if you want. so you don’t get lost again.”

he hesitates, studying you. you don’t know him, yet you’re willing to help without hesitation. you shut the cupboard, lock it, and turn to him with another warm smile. he nods. “i’d appreciate it.”

“sure thing,” you reply, grabbing your keys. you circle around the desk, and miguel immediately notices the height difference—you stand around his chest. “shall we?”

he opens the door for you, and you lead the way. he follows, observing your stride—confident, elegant, unhurried. he wonders if you might be one of gabriella’s teachers. something about you draws his attention, a quiet pull he doesn’t try to explain.

“so, what’s your daughter’s name?” you ask as you walk.

“gabriella o’hara,” he answers. “seventh grade, brown hair, purple backpack—about this tall?” he gestures.

your face lights up. “oh! gabi o’hara. she’s one of my students,” you say. “i’m her homeroom teacher. she talks about you a lot.”

miguel blinks, surprised. “she has?”

“she sometimes stays to help me tidy up when she doesn’t have practice,” you say. “usually while waiting for jessica to pick her up.”

before he can say more, you speak again, a bit hesitant. “sorry if this sounds assumptive, but… is jess gabriella’s mother?”

“no,” miguel says with a small laugh. “jessica’s a close friend. i usually work late, so she picks gabi up. but today’s different.” he smiles faintly. “it’s a surprise.”

“i think she’ll be thrilled,” you say gently. “she told me you haven’t seen her new kicks yet. she’s a star on the girls’ team.”

“i’m looking forward to it,” miguel replies.

you reach a large door at the end of the hall. “the girls’ soccer team is just outside.”

you push the door open, revealing the breeze, the field, the track, and clusters of students and teachers. miguel scans the field until he sees a familiar girl—brown hair, purple shirt, white shorts—darting across the grass. she kicks the ball straight into the goal. her teammates cheer. he can’t help but smile.

“oh, look, there’s gabi,” you say. “gabi!”

gabriella turns, spots you both, and her entire face lights up. “papa!”

“mija!” miguel calls back. she sprints toward him.

she greets you too, shouting across the field about her game. you laugh and tell her you saw everything. miguel smiles at the scene before she jogs back to finish practice. he gestures to a bench. “want to sit while we wait?”

“i don’t mind,” you say.

you sit together. miguel’s gaze stays on gabriella, pride softening his features. “she’s a great kid, isn’t she?”

“definitely.”

after a quiet moment, he turns to you. “so, how long have you been teaching?”

“two and a half years,” you say. “i started as a substitute after moving to the states.”

your accent and mannerisms suddenly make more sense to him. “and what do you teach?”

“mostly biology and chemistry,” you explain. “sometimes english and reading enrichment. english isn’t my first language, but i like helping kids feel confident in it.”

“you speak it very well,” miguel says. “gabi and i switch between spanish and english a lot. sometimes spanglish.”

you laugh softly. “some things just feel more natural in your mother tongue. although my family says i get a bit… expressive.”

miguel chuckles. “i always encourage gabriella to speak more spanish at home. it’s important not to lose your roots.”

“i agree,” you say. “your roots never leave you.”

“what made you move here?” miguel asks.

“i wanted adventure,” you say simply, smiling. “i moved on my own.”

“that takes courage,” he replies. “how old were you?”

“nineteen when i left home. i stayed in canada two years, then came to the states at twenty-one. i’ve been here three years now.”

he notes the age difference—just seven years. young, brave, independent. intriguing.

silence settles comfortably between you. the sky is bright, the sun warm. miguel feels oddly relaxed beside you, a rare sensation with someone he’s just met. you sense his gaze and glance over with a smile. he’s grateful for his sunglasses hiding the warmth creeping up his cheeks.

gabriella runs over, and you stand first. miguel follows.

“papa! i can’t believe you’re here!” she beams.

“i wanted to surprise you,” he says, lifting her into his arms. “you did great today. i’m proud of you.”

“gracias, papa.” she kisses his cheek, then turns to you. “did you see my moves?”

“they were impressive, gabs,” you say warmly. “you’ll be a star on sports day.”

miguel notices the sun dipping lower. “we should head home.”

“can we stop at wendy’s?” gabriella asks.

miguel considers. he forgot to prepare dinner. “we can do that, sweet girl.”

he turns to you. “thank you for your help.”

“no problem, mr. o’hara,” you reply. “i hope we meet again. it was nice getting to know you.”

he nods, ignoring the faint sting in his chest. gabriella gathers her things, then waves wildly. “bye, miss! see you tomorrow!”

“see you tomorrow, gabi! enjoy your dinner!” you call back. “see you again sometime, miguel!”

he waves and walks away with gabriella. but the farther he gets, the more he thinks about you. he glances back. you’re laughing with another teacher, sunlight catching your face. when you notice him looking, you offer the sweetest smile—one that lingers even after he turns away.

“papa, let’s go to wendy’s now!” gabriella urges.

he smiles down at her. “alright, princesa. let’s go.”

when he looks back, you’re gone. but your smile stays with him.

later, at wendy’s, gabriella happily digs into her kid’s meal, and miguel watches her with quiet joy. no matter how busy he gets, these moments matter most.

“your teacher is nice,” he says casually, though you’ve been on his mind since he met you—your kindness, your patience, the way you interacted with gabriella. refreshing. sincere. unlike the people who try to approach him at school just because he’s a single father with a reputation.

“miss [last name]?” gabriella says through a mouthful of ice cream. miguel rolls your name around in his mind—your first name with your surname. it fits. “she’s nice. and pretty too.”

miguel pretends not to react, though he agrees. “how come you never mentioned her when i asked about your day?”

gabriella gives him a look. “papa, i have. like, a lot.” she crosses her arms. “i told you she brought mr. oscar for show-and-tell, and that she likes to bake and brings treats every month. and she’s from england—remember?”

miguel presses his lips together. he vaguely remembers… something. gabriella talks about so many things that it’s hard to keep track. but still—he’s sure he’d remember someone like you.

gabriella giggles. “papa, are you getting old?”

he sighs dramatically. “it seems so, princesa. i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay! i forget things too.” then, just as quickly, she changes the subject. “i really like miss [last name]. she’s the best teacher ever.”

“tell her that tomorrow,” miguel says. “i’m sure she’d love to hear it.”

“i will!”

meeting you was unexpected. if he hadn’t picked gabriella up today, he wouldn’t have crossed paths with you at all.

a small part of him hopes he’ll see you again—maybe sooner than chance alone would allow.

sometimes you contemplate why you put yourself in this kind of situation. 

you were aware that you have exams coming up in the next few weeks. but you were focused on making sure that you got your assignments done before the deadline. so it was natural for you to priorities those. you wish you had paid more attention to the dates because just when you thought that you would have more time to revise, you didn’t. leaving you with only three weeks until your exam. and now you’re struggling to get information into your head. 

“fuck,” you mumble. the machine makes a soft drilling noise as it pours coffee into your mug. you rub your forehead with your hand as you wait for your drink to finish. thinking about what topics you need to revise for the exam. mentally planning how you would organize and plan yourself for another long session of studying. it’s going to be another long night.

when your drink is ready, you stride your way to the dining table where all your notes and books are set. with not enough desk space you have in your room, the dining table has turned into your second desk to accommodate all the reading materials and your laptop to work on. you strap yourself in your seat, ready for another torturous session of studying for the finals. 

all the caffeine from the coffee, tea and sugary energy drinks didn’t last long in your system. at first, you feel the buzz of the caffeine that helps you go through two hours of reading and answering mock questions without a proper break. you feel yourself pushing through, feeling motivated that you can do this. but then, the effects wear off, and now you’re struggling through short video clips on your laptop after two hours into your study session. 

your mind battles. reminding you about the consequences of you losing more time. but you can’t be bothered at the moment. you are convincing yourself that you deserve a break from studying for fifteen minutes which turned into a two-hour rest and procrastination. 

at this rate, you know that you won't get any studying done. you’re going to have to face the consequences of that but you can’t be bothered about it for now. staring mindlessly at your laptop with headphones on as you watch a reality television adaption to pass the time. 

“dios, you’re still here this late?” 

your eyes look up from your laptop to find your roommate in the dining area. miguel stands at the entrance in his black leather jacket, red shirt underneath and dark-coloured jeans. his black helmet rests on his left lip and it looks like he’s returned from wherever he went or did. you didn’t realise that he wasn’t in the house you both shared all this time. “when was the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror? you look shit.” 

“thanks, captain obvious.” you say.

your relationship with miguel o’hara is rather tricky, to say the least. sometimes, the two of you get along and have a decent conversation with each other about careers, and personal experiences and share similar interests. though other times, it’s not necessary. it’s mostly when he would bring people over to the house and then take one girl up to his room. having to hear moans from the girls he fucked and miguel’s growls and dirty talks. 

it annoys you to no end, especially the one incident when you walked into the bathroom with him getting a blow job in the shower. it’s still his fault for not locking the bathroom or even putting a sign on the door to say that he’s busy getting pleased.  

even after that, your subtle attraction for miguel still resonates with you. 

you realize your mug is empty, another drink that is supposed to keep you going has gone to waste in your system. you can’t be bothered but you know that you’ve wasted time not studying when you’re supposed to. so, you get up from your seat, walk into the kitchen and do the same routine that you’ve done the past few weeks when you’re cramming for finals. either make your coffee, or tea or grab an energy drink. the caffeine from the coffee is too much for you to handle at the moment and tea isn’t strong enough for you. so you settle for an energy drink where it’s in between enough caffeine to maybe help you go through for another three hours for now. 

“are you thinking of studying again?” miguel sounds a bit disbelieving, but not surprised. he’s now in the kitchen with you as you take your energy drink of choice for the night—or early morning. you don’t want to look at the time “there’s no point. you’re not going to remember anything at this rate.”

“can we just… not do this?” you warn, holding your hand up as a sign for him to stop talking. stop creating conversations that would lead to an argument because you know it would happen. especially with your emotions all over the place.  

miguel stares at you, his eyes roaming up and down. Not long after, his lips curl into a smirk. leaning his side against the frame of the long, rectangular entrance arch. “you’re stressed out. miss Perfect finally breaks down for finals.”  

a tired sigh escapes out of your mouth. you focus to proceed on opening up the can, hearing its fizziness before pouring it into your mug. “you could say that.” 

the kitchen falls into silence. what he says is certainly true and you feel that you brought this on yourself. you were off-tracked with your assignments and didn’t check the right exam dates. it’s an error on your part but you are trying to do your best to make it through another year of college without failing. at this point, you’re willing to accept a passing grade just to make it to another year.  

“i’ll study and keep you company,” miguel declares. “only to make sure you stay focused and get on track. No more messing around. got that?” 

you blink, unprepared for his words. you’re not sure why he’s doing this to you but what he said made a rush of warmth fill your chest. despite his words, you guess that he thinks it’s better to have someone to study with rather than doing it alone. but you don’t ask miguel if that’s his intention, in case he decides to rethink his offer.

“thank you.” 

miguel unfolds his arms and lets it drop to his sides. his hands are in his pockets as he’s about to leave, but then he looks over his shoulder to you. “and also; nadie bebe su bebida energética de una taza.” he says before disappearing elsewhere. 

you blink and look down at the mug in your hand, guessing that miguel is talking about how energy drinks are meant to drink from their can, and not from a mug. 

you did manage to push yourself for another two hours before you came crashing again. 

“i can’t focus on anything else right now. my mind has gone blank.” you sigh, slumping on your seat. that’s another study session that failed.

“hm,” miguel responds. focusing on his study materials. “i think you’ve studied too much. that’s why you’re burned out.” 

there is some truth to his words. you have been pushing yourself to the bone for this exam and now your mind is haywire. Everything feels numbing in your head. the feelings of exhaustion, guilt and unbothered-ness are jumbled in you. 

“i’m just really stressed out. i want to do well on this exam but my brain just… can’t grasp anything that i’ve studied.” you say, sounding a little disheartened. “i can’t focus, i can’t concentrate.” 

miguel couldn’t help but glance at you. taking in the way you’re slumped in your seat and how hollow your eyes are, filled with fatigue and emptiness. you look stressed out. he wonders when was the last time you had rest – a proper break. not the stupid pomodoro breaks where you take five to ten minutes of break time before getting back to studying. 

he wonders when was the last time you had taken care of yourself? 

miguel turns his attention to you when he hears you close one of your heavy books. you let out a sigh, “i can’t even relax without being so much on edge. fuck.” 

he thinks you’re right as he sees the way your body tenses in stress and anxiety. miguel’s expression stays unfazed though he does feel sympathy seeing you in such a state. “hey, you should get some rest. go to bed early or something.” 

“i will after i attempt to get this lesson done. then, i’ll go to bed.” 

miguel gives you a solemn look. your determination is one of the things he admires about you. your willingness to do whatever it takes to get your points across. it made you endearing in his eyes. but at the moment, it’s making you look stubborn and somewhat prideful. the last thing you need is a bad experience of burnout before your exam, and he knows that you know this as well deep down.

“let me help you to relax,” 

“huh?” you shoot him a confused look. as if he’s said something unusual to you. “help me… relax? how do you plan on doing that?” 

miguel nods, “you are tensed up and you’re not getting anything remembered in your head. your mind can’t focus.”  

you raise a brow at him, unsure where your roommate is coming from. miguel is right, you do need to take a proper break since your productivity is rather counterproductive. but his words still puzzle you about how he can help you relax. “and how do you plan on doing that, exactly?” you ask curiously. “what do you do to relax when you’re stressed out?” 

“you know, go to the gym. take a walk, drive around.” miguel says it casually. “sometimes masturbating helps to wire your brain to relax.”

you stare at your roommate before burying your face in your hands with a groan. not only is the suggestion embarrassing but you have to imagine miguel playing with himself. how his hands would stroke his cock, hot and pulsing in the palm of his hands. envisioning the grunted breaths and deep groans he makes. it isn’t as if you haven’t done that to yourself either, pleasuring yourself. you’ve done that on the nights where you could hear the headboard of his bed from his room moving as the girl miguel brought for the night kept moaning. 

you shake your head, dismissing the thoughts immediately. or try to. “i’m not in the right mindset to do that.” 

miguel raises an eyebrow. “i’m not saying you should do it. i’m offering to do it. it’s on the table for you.” 

“what?” you stare at him in shock and confusion. you think you heard him wrong but from the unfazed look on his face, you know that he is serious about this. serious about giving you an orgasm, or maybe multiple orgasms. because you know from the women and girls he brings over to fuck, miguel has them moaning more than three times. 

when you open up your mouth, you can hear yourself stammering your words. the thought of it is disgusting but at the same time, arouses you. “miguel, i—” 

“do you trust me?” he asks, his red eyes piercing into yours. captivating you to stop talking. to stop denying the offer of pleasure. you give miguel a look of uncertainty, unsure how to respond to his offer.

“what’s it gonna be?” miguel asks. the corner of his mouth curves up to a tiny smirk. “no pressure, chica. i want you to think about it and let me know if you’re up for it or not.” 

miguel goes back to reading his study notes with a neutral expression as if the conversation didn’t happen. he doesn’t look at you and the silence in the room speaks volumes. Leaving you to think about the offer. you’re not sure why he is even offering himself to give you pleasure. miguel is your friend, for goodness sake. the guy is out of your league and he has been with other people, you know this. is he doing this out of pity or could there be more to it? 

the two of you have lived together for three years of schooling, and have known each other for that long. he doesn’t give you attention in a lustful way or lustful like he does with other girls; the kind of interest in starting a sexual relationship with you. it’s a blessing in disguise yet at the same time, you want a connection more than just being his friend. 

you have a crush on miguel but he doesn’t seem the type of guy who isn’t ready to commit to one person just yet. especially when you’re both still young and exploring life ahead.  

“okay,” you closed your book with a thud. you catch his eyes when you fully turn to talk to him. this idea is already as insane as it is, but you’re desperate to stop feeling like a lost cause about your exam. you just want to forget about your test for a few minutes. maybe a couple of hours at most. “i’ll take up on your offer. what i’ve been doing is not working, and i need some sort of break before i go insane.” 

miguel grins and then puts his reading materials away. you always think that he looks so handsome when he smiles. “well then. move your books and laptop aside and sit on the table for me.” miguel looks at you when you stare at him. “it will be a lot nicer like that, trust me.” he adds. 

“okay, i’ll get my stuff out of the way.” you say and begin picking up your books and laptop. miguel does the same, putting his things away, then turns his attention to look at you. 

you’re sitting on the edge of the table, waiting for his next words. the beating of your heart thumping is the only thing you can hear as you watch miguel. he stands in front of you in between your thighs. tall, built and handsome. his red eyes look down on you as they shine under the lights in the dining area. 

you feel his hands on the sides of your waistband shorts, his fingers brushing against your clothed skin and hips. “may i?” miguel asks as he looks at you. 

“sure,” you say. you’re not one to be nervous around easily but your roommate seems to have that effect on you. when you lift your hips slightly, miguel curls his fingers on the waistband and pulls down your shorts. discarding your clothed item you notice that he’s taken off your panties too. “miguel—” 

his stare made you pause, his red piercing eyes keep you quiet. you’ve always known what miguel’s eyes are like but in this moment of what you’re letting him do to you, it stirs feelings in you. the gaze in his eyes is fiery in desire; so focused and enraptured. he looks at you in silence – keeping his eyes on you – as he slowly pulls down everything and discards it somewhere in the room. 

“open your legs a little for me, pretty,” miguel tells you. “yes, that’s it.” 

the heat on your cheeks burns you as your heart thumps in your chest at how intimate and vulnerable the situation looks. never in your dreams you would be in this situation, much less doing it with miguel o’hara.

 “it’s not too late to change your mind and tell me no.” he says. standing between your legs, his calloused fingers on your inner right thigh. “i won’t hate you for it.” 

your breathing is soft and steady. “shouldn’t you have asked me that before you took my panties off?” you chuckled with a small smile. you feel a little more relaxed about what you and he are starting. 

miguel grins, “i probably should have.” his expression becomes serious. “i’ll start slow.” 

you watch as he puts two fingers in his mouth with a gentle suck. when he pulls them out, his digits are glistened wet under the lights. lubricated and wet against his tan skin. miguel catches you dazing at him, his intense expression stays on you, as he brings his fingers between your thighs. they find themselves between your flaps, tracing your inner folds with his fingertips. 

“you’re already wet before i touch you.” miguel hums in approval. “that’s good.” 

his fingers move slowly like he promised. you feel him gather your sleek arousal with a gentle swipe of his thumb and move up to the hood of your cunt. you moan softly when you feel miguel play with your clit, circling and putting just the right pressure that has you tingling in sensation. your hands grip on the edge of the table as you brace yourself. 

“gosh, that feels nice.” you sigh. your eyes are closed, indulging in the pleasure, finding your body relaxed and mind in tranquillity. focusing on feeling his fingers touch and tease your folds and clit. maybe this is what you truly need for a break from intense studying. 

“i like the look on your face,” miguel tells you. you can picture the smirk from the tone of his voice. “this is just the beginning of your stress relief.” 

you didn’t get to open your eyes and ask him what he meant when you felt something push inside your cunt. your walls are wet and warm, feeling one of miguel’s digits sliding into your pussy with ease. it has you gasping and moaning softly, your back arches and hands gripping tightly onto the table edge. miguel has his index finger in you and he slips in his middle finger, stretching your pussy open. his thumb is still circling your clit as his fingers thrust in and out of you. 

“stay still, bonita.” his voice deeps, almost growling. “and don’t think. just focus on the feeling of my fingers. relax for me.” 

you can’t help but tighten around his fingers from the command. hoping that he didn’t feel the way your clit throbs from his command. you never heard him speak like that before — maybe not to you — but it sounds hot. all you could focus on is the way his fingers rub and massage your pussy. 

you can tell that miguel is certainly experienced with the way he can tease your vulva and play with your clit, letting your breathless sighs and moans guide him. it’s completely easy to forget about anything else but being finger fuck by the guy you liked. 

“oh, oh.” you softly moan, putting the heels of your feet on the edge of the table. your hands clutch onto his forearms as miguel fingers you. it has your head spinning with the way he alternates between fingering and rubbing your slick folds. the pace is not fast or slow-- just perfect, as it eases you off and you forget about what you're stressed about in the first place. 

and when he pushes his fingers into your pussy, it has you tilting your head back in ecstasy, moaning his name, as you feel him going deeper.

"so tight around my fingers. you definitely need this." miguel smirks, his breath warms your neck. “need a good stretch, don’t you, bonita?” 

you groan as you feel him continuously plunge his digits in and out of you. miguel doesn’t stick to one way to pleasure you; he would rub your wet folds, flicker your clit up and down and sideways with his thumb, and circle your little pearl. at the corner of your eye, you see the corner of his mouth curve up in a smirk when clutching onto his forearms for dear life. 

“miguel,” you mewl. the knot in your lower belly tightens when he plunges his whole fingers into your slick pussy, thrusting them in and out. your body moves in a sudden, forward thrust when miguel continues to come hither inside your pussy, having his fingers rubbing your g-spot. he doesn’t stop to flicker and circle your throbbing clit and a sultry gasp catches in your throat as your thighs begin to quiver. “oh, fuck!” 

“that’s it, beautiful. oh, you really do need this, don’t you?” miguel asks almost mockingly. you arch your back in his embrace and let out another moan, feeling his two fingers flicking inside your pussy walls. he knows exactly what he’s doing, drawing out more noises from you as your lower body still trembles, and your cum spilling out of your folds and onto his fingers. 

it feels as if miguel is toying with you and pussy for a long time, even after being overstimulated and sensitive. he slows down his ministrant but still has his fingers gently rubbing circles on your clit and wet folds. you relax in his arm, head on his shoulder as you regain your senses from orgasm. all thoughts cleared up in your head and you couldn’t even remember what you were thinking or doing earlier before being finger-fucked. 

miguel’s voice sounds a little raspy and distinct, still toying with your cunt, as he whispers:  “wanna continue this elsewhere?” 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 you’re sent to the kent ranch by your mother who happens to be an old friend of his ma. according to martha kent, you were fed up with the routine of living in the city and decided to take a break from work. hence, you arrive by the gate in your car, stepping out in denim mid-thigh skirt, crop jacket and white top underneath with high knee black boots, clark knew that he was in deep trouble. 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 he’s tasked to be show you around the ranch on day two. show you where the cows and horses sleep in their barns, and what time to feed the chicken in their coups and to tend to the herd of sheep. the easiest task is feeding the chicken, so clark showed you how to feed them. chucking the seeds and grains of rice on the ground which has the chickens, hens and roosters running towards them. he can tell you have never fed livestock before from the way you’re throwing the food cautiously and standing still as soon as the chickens gather around your feet. 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 clark lets you name the new hatched chicks in the coup. there’s one baby chicken in the group that has grown attached to him, always standing by his foot, chirping for attention. clark cups both of his hands and scoops the chick up in his palm, letting you see them close, and gently place it in your palm. you decide to call them ‘lady’ for the little princess (but you said that you’ve claimed the nickname princess, and it would be confusing to have two princesses in clark’s life). lady the chick is basically yours and clark’s joint custody child.  

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 you’ll definitely be given horse riding lessons and going for horseback rides. the ranch is large and wide so clark is responsible to teach you (and you pretty much beg him to). you got a horse named bambi—a beautiful light chestnut and cream creature—as your training horse. safe and straddle on the horse, clark’s showing you ways to bond with bambi. the polite farm boy he is, clark does his best to be respectful, afraid to make you uncomfortable. the tip of his ears go a little red whenever there’s accidentally brushes—his fingers brush the side of your leg when he’s making sure the straps are correctly secured. or when you and clark are brushing bambi’s hair, both your fingers would graze against one another. 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 clark wants to show you what the skies in the evening of smallville looks like (he thinks it’s the best part of living in the ranch). and what better way to look at the stars than to do it in the back of his truck? so clark sets up blankets and pillows, grabs the snacks and drinks and invites you to stargaze the skies nearby the fields. you’re pointing out stars and tracing out patterns, making up shapes, stories and theories whilst he just listens to you in awe even though clark knows the constellations like the back of his hand. he’s looking at something better than the stars (you).

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 there’s a couple of activities that you and clark do together that it’s almost like a date. you want to dance on the rooftop of the barn in the evening? clark’s setting up fairy lights on the beams, cleaning up the place and putting the music in the background that sets the mood. he’s not much of a dancer but he can teach you a rodeo move or two to make it fun. 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 you mention about a pasture picnic for lunch? clark’s on it—packing iced drinks, sandwiches, blankets, and ma’s homemade bierocks to have together at an area of the ranch with a big willow tree hovering over them and giving shade.  

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 the cowboy hat is a staple accessory in smallville. clark has his own and so do you, but you always ask if you could wear his. the pleas end with declines and even when you try to snatch it off his head to put it on top of yours, he manages to get it back before it lands on your head. you joke that you would wear someone else’s cowboy hat if he keeps denying you. of course, that doesn’t sit well with clark when one of the ranchers you both come across at a bar, tries to place his cowboy hat on top of your head without permission. 

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 clark’s swift to snatch the said rancher’s cowboy hat before it touches an inch of your hair, then dragging you out of the bar. you don’t get it of course—sweet you—so you ask him why you couldn’t wear someone else’s cowboy hat. “you don’t know what you’re asking, what it means once you wear a cowboy’s hat,” clark replied. “the unspoken rule—you wear a rancher’s hat, you’re his to have and you’ll be riding that cowboy till sunrise.”

( adela's message )。my book collection has that small town, cowboy / rancher trope falling in love with a city girl so that's where i get the inspo from. and also it's sooo clark kent if he hadn't move to metropolis. plan to write more rancher clark in the future but feel free to drop your thoughts or ideas in my inbox.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ when you found out that you were pregnant with clark’s child, you wondered if clark should wear glasses around the baby or not. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ it was a discussion that you and clark had in the early trimester and decided to take the risk and let the baby see clark without glasses. after all, you want clark to be himself and comfortable at home. and it’s not like the baby would have photographic memory at such a young age, right? 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ when you gave birth to your baby boy, he’s the cutest you’ve ever seen. your son looks so much like clark – blue eyes, a small tuft of black hair, and the babyish and gummy smile he makes creates a dimple on his left cheek – your heart flutters because your boy is really like clark kent and you love it.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ speaking of clark kent in his fatherhood era… he’s the best father you’ve witness, hands down. attentive, patient and protective that makes your chest bloom in admiration. you see a whole new side of clark, another reason added to the things you love about him. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ in the early stage of parenthood, you and clark are still learning to differentiate your son’s cries. with clark’s superhearing, he can come flying home in a speed of light to check on you and the baby. if something might be wrong, clark can either listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat and the baby’s or the way either of you breathe to check.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ his superabilities has been an advantage throughout your recovering and looking after the baby. but sometimes it does make clark a little too hyperaware of everything your son makes. even if your son makes the softest and quietest coo, clark’s right next to you and your son in an instant. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “i heard him all the way on the other side of the world.” clark says the moment he reaches next to you in the living room. he looks at your baby who snuggles on your chest and he touches the back of his head. “is he hungry? need a diaper change or someone to play with? come here, my boy—” clark gently takes your son from your arms and cradles him, your son snuggling against his chest. “let mama have a few hours of rest to herself.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ when your son is old enough to go out, you enjoy taking him on walks as one of the ways to spend time with him. on the dot between ten and half eleven in the morning, you find your usual spot in the park, unstrapping your son out of the stroller and just carrying him around. pointing out at the birds and different trees he can see. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ you’re feeding your son one morning when clark decides to pay you a visit, but as superman. he lands down on the park in front of you unexpectedly. the red cape sways with the light breeze and clark is bathed in sunlight shining down on him. “superman,” you say as you stand up and hold your baby in your arms. “hi.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “i hope you are well, ma’am.” clark says with a smile. he knows that you are not much of a fan with that endearment but in the moment, it was necessarily so that people wouldn’t suspect there’s something between the two of you. “i was in the area and want to check on the civilians if they are alright. there was a bit of situationship a few miles away down the park. i hope the impact didn’t cause a fright for you,” clark then looks at your son. his dark blue eyes softens, “and your baby.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ your son turns his attention to look at clark. but you know that he doesn’t recognise the man in front of him as his father, the unfamiliar man in blue and white spandex looking back at him too. nevertheless, your baby lets out a gummy smile and stretches his arms towards superman, making a soft noise of protest that he’s not close enough to touch clark. “sorry, i think you remind him of his father.” you say with a sheepish smile as your heart races in awe.

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “quite the handsome fella.” clark says with a hint of teasing. you can see the tenderness in his eyes when he looks at his son, snuggling nicely. “may i hold him?” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ you hand your baby to him and in an instant, you son clings onto clark, tiny hands gripping on the superman symbol. he coos and smacks his lips, forming a small amount of saliva around his mouth. “we’ve got a little drooler here.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ “oh, baby,” you smile and use his little bib to wipe off excess saliva around his mouth, earning a soft coo when your son looks at you. he just smiles when you clean him up and clenches his tiny fists. “if he drools, it means he likes you.”

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ clark laughs and has to resist the urge to cuddle his son and kiss him. he really wants to but it’s such an intimate moment to do out in the public. and having superman caught kissing someone else’s baby might be a controversial headline in the news that he wouldn’t want to stir. so clark settles to only say; “i feel truly honoured.” 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ clark, in his superman suit, holds the baby as he talks to you. it’s private enough that he can be closer to you, asking about your day and your wellbeing. intertwining his fingers with your, this thumb brushes on the knuckles of your hand. you’re always his priority when the world of his circle of friends and family focuses and dotes on his son. 

꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ the baby falls asleep on clark’s chest and you’re grateful that he doesn’t cry when clark carefully hands him over to you. “i gotta get back to work and be clark kent the journalist.” your husband says. he manages to sneak in a kiss on the back of your head when no one is looking. “but i’ll see you back home in time for dinner. i love you both.”

 ꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ at home, you’re keeping an eye of your son strapped on his baby seat whilst you finish up the last meal for dinner. when the front door unlocks and you can hear familiar footsteps, your face is attacked with kisses from clark as he holds you behind in the warmest embrace. “miss you, beautiful mama.”

 ꒰ ꒰ა ໒꒱ ꒱ superman charges himself with the power of the sun, but clark kent feels recharge when he comes home to you and his baby boy. the moment he hears his son’s squeal of excitement, arms flailing in his baby swing, clark’s right next to the baby to pick up, showering his face with kisses and whispers of “i miss you buddy,” and “have you been a good boy for momma?” the evening feels right to clark because he is home; himself, with you and his son together in the same space. 

( adela's message part two )。thank you for reading until the end! wow, that was a long headcanon that i wrote. feel free to comment anything in the comments or my inbox.

you don’t remember falling asleep.

at first everything is a blur—light and shadow bleeding together, your eyelids heavy and reluctant, as if they’re waking after centuries rather than hours. a faint pulse of pain throbs at your temples, a dull pressure that lingers for a few seconds while you force your eyes fully open. the world settles only gradually. shapes sharpen. colors resolve. and then you realize you’re staring at a ceiling you have never seen before.

white. perfectly clean. unnervingly smooth. no faint discoloration in the corners, no water-stain blooming like a shape you used to joke looked like a lopsided bear. no geometric or floral motifs swirled across plaster like the ceiling of your flat back in edinburgh. none of the imperfections you’d grown so familiar with that you could trace them in your sleep.

this ceiling is blank. silent. sterile.

you blink and push your gaze around the room, your sluggish mind trying to keep up with what your eyes are taking in. the space is too open, too orderly, too empty. there’s a wardrobe you don’t recognize—sleek, modern, cold. a standing mirror. tall bookshelves sparsely filled with items you don’t remember ever touching. the air feels wrong too: colder, thinner, unfamiliar in your lungs. the room is larger than the one you fell asleep in. quieter, in a way that feels deliberate.

and then the awareness hits you like a jolt.

this isn’t your bedroom.

you sit up slowly, warily, as though the air around you might break. the duvet beneath your fingertips is light blue, soft and cool, nothing like the textured cotton you keep on your own bed. you smooth it unconsciously, as if convincing yourself the fabric is real. after a moment you pull it aside and step out of the bed, your bare feet meeting a floor that’s too smooth and too polished to belong to your life anymore.

your heart begins to hammer. alert. unsettled. on edge. adrenaline trickles through your limbs in a thin, uneasy rush.

you move toward the door, each step small and cautious. the silence around you feels staged, as if the apartment is holding its breath. you crack the door open and peer through the gap. another room waits beyond it—larger, lonelier, stretching outward in a modern open layout that merges kitchen and living room into one expansive, echoing space.

when you step into the area, you’re met with nothing but stillness.

the kitchen lights glow softly, casting pale illumination over a minimalist living area: a couch, a coffee table, a tv that looks barely used. two dumbbells sit by the side of the couch, as though forgotten mid-routine. the cabinets in the kitchen are painted in blues and accented by shades of yellow and red—colors that instantly tug at a memory you don’t want to acknowledge but cannot avoid.

him.

a strange, aching familiarity washes through you. the room feels like an echo of something long lost. you can almost hear the ghost of laughter—yours and clark’s—mingling in the air, as if your past selves are still here somewhere, bumping elbows while trying to cook dinner, kissing absentmindedly while arguing over whether to add more garlic.

you know this place. you know it intimately.

this is clark’s apartment. the high-rise in midtown metropolis. a place that once held your toothbrush beside his, your sweaters draped across the couch, your books in the shelves that now stand mostly empty. a place you once thought of as home.

and yet now… it’s hollow. stripped of warmth. a museum of something that used to be alive.

you stand perfectly still, trying to piece together how you got here. the last thing you remember is coming home after work, a rain-soaked evening in edinburgh, fumbling for your keys and thinking about reheating leftovers. and then—nothing. sleep. or something like it. and now you're in a place where you least expect to be in.

how did you get from scotland back to metropolis? how did clark even find you? why didn’t he show his face the moment you woke up?

your skin prickles with cold. maybe it’s the draft. maybe it’s fear.

you wrap your arms around yourself and drift toward the living room windows, drawn to the natural light pouring in. metropolis skies are different from edinburgh ones—brighter, bluer, expansive like a promise whispered to the entire horizon. clouds float so white they look unreal.

you slide open the balcony door, needing air, needing something that isn’t suffocating and silent. metropolis air rushes into your lungs on your first breath—sharp, familiar, heartbreakingly nostalgic. you step out onto the balcony and the city unfolds beneath you like a map of every memory you tried so hard to leave behind.

the sight tightens your throat. you hadn’t expected to miss it. but god, you do.

you grip the balcony railing to steady yourself. and then, just as you’re looking down over the dizzying height, a sudden shadow sweeps across your peripheral vision.

your breath catches. every muscle locks.

you lift your gaze.

he hovers there, suspended in the open air like gravity has never applied to him. his red cape ripples and coils in the wind, sunlight blazing behind him to create a soft halo around the shape of his body. he’s silhouetted for a heartbeat—tall, impossibly steady, unmistakable.

“clark,” you whisper, the name tasting unfamiliar and familiar all at once. your heartbeat pounds loudly, as though it wants to leap out of your chest and into his hands.

your voice trembles as you find a steadier question. “how did you find me?”

he looks at you with darkened blue eyes, deeper than you remember, holding an intensity that chills you. “like i said in the text,” he replies with eerily calm certainty, “distance doesn’t stop me from looking for you.” then, as if the next part should’ve been obvious, he adds, “and i listen to your heartbeat. it led me straight to you.”

you swallow hard. of course—his senses. his hearing. you’d hoped once that he’d forget your heartbeat after enough time apart, but apparently he never did.

“right,” you murmur. you don’t ask why he didn’t come sooner, when you left months ago. maybe you don’t want the answer.

clark crosses his arms over his chest—an imposing, silent shape against the sky. his brows pull together, expression firm, unsettled.

“you left without saying a word,” he says. “one night you were here, and the next morning you were gone.”

“can you blame me?” you answer quietly. “metropolis isn’t what it used to be.”

his expression sharpens. “you mean i’m not what i used to be.”

you look away. because yes—yes, that’s exactly what you mean.

“why did you bring me back here?” you ask, voice growing smaller and sharper all at once. “we broke up.”

he says your name, low and warning. “this is your home,” he tells you. “you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” a beat passes. “and i refuse.”

“refuse?” the word tastes heavy on your tongue.

“that we’re over,” he says. he doesn’t blink. “i refuse to accept that.”

you inhale shakily. “you can’t force me to live in metropolis. i have a life in scotland now.”

he begins to descend toward you, still hovering but coming closer—too close. instinctively you step back until your heels brush the sliding door, your pulse racing with each inch he closes between you.

“a life you created to escape me,” clark says, eyes fixed on yours. “metropolis is your home.”

you turn away, fists clenching at your sides as emotion surges—fear, frustration, heartbreak tangled tight together. when you face him again, your voice is steadier.

“take me back.”

his reaction is instant. sharp. visceral. “no,” he snaps. “i’m not taking you back.”

“i barely recognize you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can temper them. but they’re true. painfully true. you remember the man who used to bring you flowers just because, who used to walk you home with his glasses fogged from the cold. you remember the softness. the gentleness.

that softness is gone now—or buried under something darker.

he frowns again, stubborn and unyielding. “i’m still the same.”

“are you?” you ask, breath trembling.

his silence stretches. the wind moves past you both, filling the balcony with a fragile hush. then he finally speaks, voice final and unbending:

“you’re staying here. that’s final.”

before you can react—before you can even breathe—clark turns. his cape whips behind him as he rises, higher and higher, and then he shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves only a faint rush of air in his wake.

he’s gone.

you stand frozen on the balcony, staring at the empty sky he left behind, your name still echoing faintly in the space where he had hovered.

“clark!” you call after him, desperate, furious, frightened. the sound spirals upward into the open air.

but there is no answer.

only silence. and the knowledge that you are alone in his home with the dread that you might not ever be free.

clark carries the weight of the world on him.

his eyes are hollow from lack of sleep as he stares mindlessly into the air. his cheek rests against his fist, his arm propped on the control panel. the screen in front of him plays in the background. a hologram of his kryptonian parents speaking to him. and the other a live feed sweeping over metropolis, cameras tilting and panning, white dots of activity popping like anxious thoughts. the images flicker and blur together when he lets his glance drift; the words from a thousand intercepted conversations run like static behind his eyes.

he closes his eyes and takes a quiet, deep breath. he focuses on the way his chest fills with air, his ribcage lifting with it. when he does, the chorus of voices — reporters, sirens, politicians, the innumerable tongues of a city that expects miracles and hates the price of them — fades into the background until one particular sound emerges, a single steady drum beneath everything else. his shoulders sink in relief. your heartbeat.

clark knows it is yours by its pattern, by the tiny irregularities he has learned to map like constellations. it goes thump, thump, thump. he has listened to it for years; the spaces between beats tell him how you sleep, when you are frightened, when you feel overwhelmed. ever since clark embraces his true calling—to show earth what he is capable of—your heartbeat has been different. a faster tempo, an urgent rhythm. he knows it only happens when you feel anxious or sense danger. there are moments where it calms and on other times it thumps so fast that it concerns him. your heartbeat has been like this since you left metropolis.

clark’s eyes snap open, pupils pinpricks. determination hardens the set of his jaw; curiosity flares at the edges. he leaves a rush of wind as he exits the fortress, flying out of his hideout. the skies and wind propel him higher as he flies, the cold searing his cheeks as he goes higher and farther. the arctic shrinks into a white, wide land and all the while, one single sound threads through his focus, a map, a magnet: your heartbeat.

blend in. camouflage. stay calm.

you repeat it like a prayer when the city hums too loudly and your own name feels like an accusation. the mantra was practical at first — rules to keep you anonymous in a place that remembers everything — and then, slowly, it became an identity. it’s been ten months since you left metropolis. you moved to edinburgh convinced distance would make a better version of you possible: quieter, smaller, invisible. nine months of walking different streets, of swapping out the cadence of your days for the polite indifference of this older city. you work. you go home. you order food. you sleep in a bed that no longer holds someone else’s scent.

“say, where did you say you’re from again?”

a colleague stares at you, eyes searching your face. you must have drifted too far into your thoughts. “atlantic city,” you say quickly. it’s a string of syllables you’ve practiced. it’s safe. it sits like a costume.

they glance at another staff member. “see? told you it’s not metropolis.”

your chest tightens. you can feel your pulse climbing, as if even the thought of the city sends a message to whatever part of you belongs to clark. the conversation around you becomes background wallpaper; you keep one ear tuned to the present, the other listening for the sound that used to be a comfortable metronome beside you.

“but it’s close enough. right next to it,” the other says. “any plans to travel back for a holiday?” another one asked.

you force a smile. “ah, well, it’s a little early to be going back.” a lie. you’re never going back. “maybe sometime next year.”

they nod, distracted by something else, leaving you a moment to breathe but the relief is shallow. ever since you left metropolis, you’ve braced yourself for questions because yes, people are curious about where you come from. still, the curiosity churns your stomach, guilt echoing in the back of your mind.

i needed to leave, you remind yourself. it was the only way.

you exhale, eyes on your computer. your colleagues chatter on, but the small earplugs you invested in help. you slide one in and let their voices dull, turning into white noise. the last words you catch before the noise fades are about metropolis. about the flying man gone rogue. and your chest is heavy with emotions.

when your shift ends, you change outfits and walk on the streets that are a path to your apartment.

edinburgh at night is all angles and warm stone; it’s a different kind of anonymity from metropolis — less neon, more shadow. you walk down the cobbled lane, adapted to this new lifestyle of leaving work and going straight home. you avoid overtime because it invites curiosity; you avoid invitations to after-work drinks with your work colleagues because the pressure to socialise and open up is a risk. today you let yourself make one small exception: a quick stop at a convenience store for some household supplies.

inside the shop, fluorescent lights buzz. there’s an elderly couple on the vegetable aisle, a security guard by the entrance, one staff stocking up goods and the other waiting by the cashier. you pick up what you need and queue at the check-out. one thing about living in scotland is that strangers aren’t openly friendly unless it’s out of necessity. and the interaction is brief. you’re grateful for that.

“do you need a bag?” the cashier asks. he’s young, bored, barely paying attention.

“no,” you say, “thank you.” you’re certain that the cashier doesn’t respond back when you leave the store. your pace quickens, walking down the familiar street that heads towards your apartment. it gets dark quickly after five — too quickly despite being evening.

you walk home a little faster than most people on the street. there’s a feeling that you can’t shake from being watched closely. you look left and right, eyeing around, but it’s only people walking just like you. nothing suspicious and everything seems normal. except you know that it is not entirely true.

you used to never walk alone in the evening in metropolis. because clark always made sure you got home safely. he walked beside you all the way to your doorstep, making sure you locked the door behind you. even once you’d settled in your old place, clark would always text you for extra reassurance and wish you a goodnight. you were sociable and happy, and he was part of it. he’s always been a part of your life so deeply you’re not sure where you both begin and end. clark had integrated into your world.

he won’t do that anymore, not when you left that life behind.

you continue walking until you can see your apartment up ahead. five minutes later, you unlock the door and step inside, slamming it shut behind you. the hallway lights up when you flick the switch, and silence greets you. you’re used to this by now — meeting quietly, alone in your own place that feels hollow. there’s only a living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. the kitchen doesn’t smell of baked dinners or have sizzling noises of cooking, taking you back to the very first anniversary dinner you had with him.

shaking your head, you drop your things on the ground. you decide for a quick shower before dinner. once you’re freshened up and dressed in pajamas, you pad barefoot into the kitchen. the fridge reveals you half a dozen eggs, a day-old leftover rice, and some side dishes of spinach and potatoes. it seems doable — except you’ve already had this for two days straight. thinking between making the effort to cook or ordering takeaway, you feel a cool draft brush your ankle and turn to look at the living room.

you frown and go to the next room to check, pulling at curtains slightly open. the window is ajar by a noticeable margin — seven inches, enough for the night air to sift inside and make the room feel larger and colder. you are certain you closed it. you push it shut and seal it with a practiced press of the latch, then rub your hands together to warm the skin you can feel has gone cold. “there goes the heating bill this month,” you sigh.

your phone lights up on the counter; the screen glows with a text from a number you don’t recognise. a text. an unknown number, not local. a moment of irrational uncertainty makes your stomach flip as your thumb hovers. your heart races as you read:

did you really think nine thousand miles apart could stop me from getting to you?

your eyes widen. your hand trembles and pulse jumps, flinching in dread. you know it’s from him — clark. you never blocked his number when you moved to edinburgh. a part of you couldn’t do it, couldn’t erase him that easily. but some foolish part of you hoped he wouldn’t try to reach you. he hasn’t done that since you left until now.

and when you turn — your blood runs cold.

a towering figure hovers outside the window, suspended in the night air. like an eclipse in the night. looking right at you. the man who used to brighten your day, make you laugh and dance around and listen to your rambles for hours. for a second you are entirely simple, like the space between breaths, and you understand how quickly everything can condense into one unbearable fact.

clark.

he’s found you.