🩵🩷

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.”

( mira'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.

spring season is the busiest time for the kent ranch.

🦋 clark's an early riser—awake before sunrise and everyone else in the house. he gets his day moving with simple breakfast of his favourite cereal and cup of coffee, then steps out to the ranch. he's checking on the eggs in the hen den and the rest of the animals. the sun is up when he's walking his way to the house, eggs in the basket, and finds you already by the porch. stumbling outside in borrowed boots that looks like his spare and half-asleep. you're wearing one of his flannels over your pj's, greeting him with a "why do you gotta wake up so early, clark?"

🦋 you volunteer to help clark with the animals. he starts with teaching you how to feed the horses and checking in on the hens and any eggs that needs collecting. he's gotta milk the cows too and you volunteer to help, even when it starts off wrongly at first.

"clark," you sigh in frustration and look at him. "i can't get the milk out."

clark turns his attention to you and abandon his task, striding towards you. he grabs the nearest stool and set it next to you as he takes a seat. "give me your hands," clark ushers. "i'll show you a trick pa taught me."

clark guides your hands under the cow to hold onto the teat. when he pinches the top, you follow his movements, pinching and squeezing it gently. milk comes out of the cow and the both of you repeat the motions together. "see?" clark murmurs close to you. "that ain't hard."

🦋 half of the animals in the ranch have given birth to youngling that needs looking after. clark teaches you how to bottle-feed one of the lambs. they're fragile, slippery little ones. he shows you how to wrapped them in a blanket like a burrito. demonstrates first how to bottle feed the first youngling; daisy, who is calm and gentle throughout the whole feeding. you bottle-feed the sibling; susie, who you sort of had to struggle holding her for ten minutes straight. she finally gave in only when clark adjusts your hold from behind, his muscular arms circling around you to fix the way you cradle the lamb.

"she's only behaving cause you're here, clark," you pout as you bottle-feed the lamb. "susie's got her favourites."

"that ain't true, sugar." clark replies. his hands move to hold your arms and keeps it steady in case you need help again. but it's also an excuse to be close to you. "she just needs getting used to, that's all."

🦋 his superstrength comes in handy and helps speed up the manual labour process. he's trying the stack of hays and bales, loading them into the back of the truck. you're waiting for him by the fences, leaning against the gated barrier. you would take sneak glances at clark as he works, watching how he's glowing under the sun. the way he would toss the tussock and swing his body and then wipe off the sweat off his hairline with the back of his hand. he looks up at the blue skies and bask in its glory. and whenever clark comes out of the barn with something on his shoulders, you swear the sleeves of his arm rolls up higher and higher, exposing the muscles underneath. this time, when you look up from your book, clark exits and suddenly, he's shirtless. body of a celestial being with perfect muscle proportions.

"hey clark," you called out when he leaves the barn again. you've got your phone in your hand. the back camera faces him and he right into the lenses mid-caught, then lets out a sheepish smile.

"what are you doing?" clark asks, rubbing the back of his neck. "are you recording me?"

"yes," you giggle behind the camera. "i'm building you a fanbase online." "a fanbase?" he repeats, putting his hands on his hips. oh god, he has no idea what he's done.

🦋 you're bringing lunch for clark as he works on shaving off wools from the sheep. you've got his lunch box and thermal bottle with hot coffee, on your way to the sheep barn. the animals wander outside and within the gated fence. you walk in when clark holds one sheep with one arm and the other with an electric razor. this particular sheep keeps making noises of "baa" and "meh" with a hint of annoyance. clark's shushing and hugging the animal as he turns off the razor and puts it down.

"it's okay, hun. you're okay. you need your wool off. i'm not going to let anything hurt you." you walk into clark whispering to the sheep. his muscular arms cradles the animal and clark's got his face right in front of the sheep, "i'm not going to let anything hurt you."

you pause to observe him and then you hear the words coming out of clark's mouth. one that makes your legs tremble. "that's a good girl, staying still for me. i'll give you a treat in a bit for good behaviour, kay?"

🦋 you beg clark to teach you how to use lasso. he finally gives him and takes you out of an empty field, carrying two looped roles on his shoulders. he loops the rope big enough to rope it around a fence post. clark starts first with swinging overhead, then cast the lasso and cinched the loop tight around the post. you did exactly how he taught you; swing, throw far and ahead for the loop to circle around the post. you attempt it once, twice, thrice and more…. but you can never get it to loop tight around your target.

"why do they make it look like lasso is easier in the movies?" you grumble under your breath with a huff. "i think i would rather ride a cowboy instead."

clark lets out a nervous cough and covers his mouth with the back of his hand, then looks away. "it…. it just needs a bit more practice."

🦋 you get sunburned from staying out in the fields a little too long than necessary. you feel the stinging of the heat on some areas of your skin. ma kent rushes you to the kitchen sink and run cold water continuously on the burn areas. you're sitting by the sink for at least fifteen minutes—you need to wait another five more, as the recommended by to cool of burns. then, the back door opens, entering clark who looks somewhat alarmed and worry.

"hey, are you alright?" clark asks the moment he sees you. "ma told me your got sunburn so i… i went to every store i could fine to get you aloe vera."

he's pulling out different types of aloe vera of different brands, setting it on the counter. you stare at the number of bottles display in front of you. clark rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. "i… didn't know which one is the right one. so i could them all for you to try and see what works."

🦋 you spend a lot of time on the road with clark driving his truck around smallville. he lets you prop up your feet on the dashboard (you make sure your boots are clean because you didn't want to be a rude passenger). the side windows are down as you stick out your head to feel the spring breeze passing by your face. a drive on the road is when you and clark would listen to the radio with some karaoke. you both discuss music and there are times where the discussion turns playful and heated.

"you made a playlist called 'pov: you're living on the countryside and it's the cowgirl life'?" clark asks when he glances at your phone, the music playing in the background. "most of these songs are country pop and just… pop."

"hey, that's my playlist you're somewhat judging." you narrow your eyes at him, though it's more playful than anything. in the background, a fast-paced aggressive music plays in the background. "what about this music we're listening to? the might crabjoys—radio punk rock."

when clark goes painfully quiet, you look at him. "you know that right?" you say, fighting off the urge to laugh at how painfully cute and in disbelief he is. "please tell me you knew."

"i… didn't." clark grumble under his breath with a pout. "didn't wish you say anything about crabjoys."

🦋 clark takes you to your first annual spring fest. it's something that smallville organizes twice a month in april and may. there's a crowd by the time the two of you get there. clark comes in with a sense of familiarity when he shows you around. half the town would wave at him or pull clark for a quick chat or asking for assistance. you're a newcomer and a little out of place, taking in everything. he makes sure you welcomed and fit right in. showing you the most popular spots, underrates ones, and exploring newer areas together.

"you're weirdly good at this." you narrow your eyes suspiciously at clark, who is tossing the loops around the glass bottles with ease.

"beginner's luck." clark shrug and throws another one. all perfect score and the game ends. "guess i'm having a good day."

the gamekeeper hands clark the teddy bear he's won for you and a matching colored cowboy hat. he hands you the prize and pauses, then gently places the cowboy hat on top of your head. "you look like a real pretty cowgirl."

mira's notes : i'm experimenting a new layout for my headcanons. let me know if you prefer this or want to keep it simple like my previous headcanon post.

don’t make a face.

you lift your eyes and gaze across the table at your work colleagues. they talk and laugh—conversations you’re not entirely sure what they’re about—while you look from one person to another. their words partly register in your head, but you don’t join the storytelling or add your two cents. the restaurant blurs, and the noise from every direction fades into faint background static.

the booze hasn’t kicked in yet—probably because you’ve been taking small sips and the glass is still full. a couple of things sit heavy in your mind, and tonight isn’t the best time to socialize. a few hours ago, though, you did want to come here. to spend time with your work friends. the whole point was to celebrate accomplishments and be together. but right now… that's not how you feel.

after quietly debating with yourself, you excuse yourself and bid everyone farewell, wishing one colleague good luck on their new job. the chair slides back; your heels click once against the marble floor, then twice, then more, until you’re walking away and the conversation melts into a blur.

heading toward the entrance, you notice a sign by the revolving doors: access to the observation deck, open to the public tonight.

you’ve never been up there, but someone once mentioned the view of the metropolis is incredible.

you slow down, staring at the sign, thinking. it feels like a waste to go home early after dressing up—your a-line silhouette and all. the top deck calls to you the longer you linger.

you step into the lift and wait inside, pressing the button for the highest floor. the lift ascends so smoothly it almost feels like you’re floating in the air, the restaurant shrinking somewhere below. the world grows smaller the higher you go until it feels like you’ve been transported somewhere else—the top floor of the building.

the doors open to reveal a dark room and an illuminated view of the metropolis.

when you step inside, you realize it’s a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city. it’s quiet and peaceful, as if you’re floating in the sky and overlooking the metropolis alone. you walk toward the large windows, eyes glued to the landscape as you take a seat on the curved lounge.

it’s mesmerizing to see the city like this—the whole view of the metropolis all to yourself. from up here, you see the bigger picture, the way your world is only a small part of it. all the thoughts and problems that have been sitting heavy in your chest suddenly feel a little smaller.

almost forgettable. even if only for a moment.

a soft ding from the lift pulls your attention away. you turn to see someone coming up to the deck. your gaze stays on the metallic doors, waiting for them to open as your heartbeat echoes faintly in your ears.

the doors slide open. a figure stands in the lift.

a man.

he’s wearing a red tie and a pressed white shirt beneath a dark blue coat. six foot five, maybe taller, with black hair and curls that almost tempt you to reach out and touch them. the man is tall enough that you have to tilt your head slightly just to look at him. he looks a little out of place.

“oh,” the man says. he stands close to the lift, surprised and still, until his mouth curves into a sheepish, polite smile. “i… i thought i was alone up here. sorry for interrupting your time.”

“it’s okay,” you say, standing up from the couch.

he looks like he’s ready to bolt, so you move around the seating area to stand a little closer. not too close. you stop a few steps away. “i was only sitting and admiring the view for a bit,” you say. “i’ll leave soon so you can have the place to yourself.”

“no, take your time,” the man says quickly.

he steps forward, almost blocking the lift doors without meaning to. he rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “if it’s okay, i’ll stay in the corner of the room and you can… ignore me. pretend i’m not even here.”

you pause to think. being alone with a man in the dark doesn’t seem like the best idea. but… he seems harmless. he doesn’t look like someone who would hurt anyone—not even a fly. the man is polite, almost awkward. and when your eyes flick back to him for another look, you realize he’s kind of cute. that’s a bonus.

“fine by me.” you nod and return to your seat. the cushioned couch dips slightly when the man sits on the other end, leaving a noticeable distance between you. you both sit in silence.

you stare at the window in front of you. then, in the quiet darkness, you speak up. “what made you decide to come up here?”

the man with glasses—clark—turns to look at you. you can make out the way he presses his lips together as he thinks. “i feel a little better when i see the world from a different perspective. somewhere isolating,” he replies, then glances at you from the corner of his eye. “what about you?”

“i didn’t feel like going home just yet,” you say, staring at the city. “it doesn’t seem like the best place to be right now.”

“i’m sorry.” clark gives you a sympathetic look. “you should be able to go home.”

you shrug. “i broke up with my partner,” you murmur, then glance at him. “or my partner broke up with me first—I’m not sure. but we’re not together anymore. it’s done.”

he nods, his expression soft with understanding. “that still must have hurt.”

the room fills with quiet again, the view of metropolis at night stretching beyond the windows. you both sit in silence—peaceful—five feet apart on the couch.

“i’m not entirely sure if i truly loved my ex,” you say into the stillness. “i mean, i felt comfortable and somewhat like myself with them. or else, why would i have been exclusive in the first place? it was great—for a while…”

you think about the relationship, trying to grasp any memory that means something to you. there has to be at least one, but nothing comes to mind. you don’t feel anything—no positives or negatives. just… nothing. numbness, confusion, tiredness, loneliness… what are you doing?

“i don’t know,” you mumble, shaking your head. something in your chest starts to loosen, piece by piece, like you’re letting it drift into the air. “but i think it’s truly over.”

the couch falls quiet again as clark considers what to say. he exhales softly, his gaze lowered. “sometimes, i make myself small to fit in,” he murmurs. when you turn to him, the corners of his mouth lift into a rueful smile. “okay, maybe all the time.”

“why?” your brows knit together slightly. “because you’re 6’5”?”

he chuckles and shrugs. “that’s a small part of it, but not really,” clark says. his chest rises and falls with a quiet breath. “i just have to, so i don’t attract attention that shouldn’t exist in the first place.”

you nod quietly, exhaling. “yeah.” you glance at him, holding his gaze. “i think i get it.”

clark looks back at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. the two of you sit side by side, still about five feet apart on the burgundy couch. you brush your fingers against the seat, feeling the softness of velvet beneath your fingertips. when you lift your gaze, looking through your lashes, you notice his hand resting on the same cushion from the other side.

clark looks up, meeting your eyes. the two of you just stare—and there’s a quiet, steady calm in the air.

you’re the first to look away, turning back to the window. then you shift an inch to the left. “what a night for my first heartbreak,” you murmur. “perhaps i should hold off on relationships.”

clark follows your gaze and moves slightly to his right. now, the distance between you is four feet. “don’t let one man ruin your opportunity for love,” he says.

“or connection,” you add, then look at him through your lashes. “chemistry.”

clark lets out a small smile and nods slowly. “connection and chemistry.”

a faint smile appears on your face as you continue to trace the couch. you feel another flicker of bravery, intrigued enough to move an inch closer. “do you want to play a little game?”

“a game?” clark repeats, then moves the same inch closer.

“like twenty questions, but… make it confessional,” you say. “lay out all of the secrets.”

“are you going to use my secrets for some sort of blackmail?” clark raises a brow, the corner of his mouth curving into a grin.

you chuckle and shake your head. “i won’t do that, promise.”

seeing that he’s still somewhat skeptical, you scoot closer—taking up more space—propping your arm on the backrest. “i can tell my confession first.”

clark raises a brow, and you take this as a sign to begin. “i had this neighbor when i was a kid that my parents didn’t get along with—noise complaints, an unkempt front yard,” you say. “i’m pretty sure the final straw for my mother was when they left their shoes outside their doorstep, trailing all the way to our side of the house.”

you pause. “my mother told me to pick up their shoes and throw them away to teach them a lesson.”

“no,” clark’s eyes widen, and his glasses nearly slip down his face. he pushes them up and blinks at you. “you’re joking. please tell me she didn’t tell you to do that.”

“yup.” you nod slowly. “she did.”

“i’m pretty sure that counts as theft,” clark says with a light chortle.

you smile and shrug. “your turn.”

clark mulls it over, his lips crooked. “i tried to impress a girl in school with my science experiment,” he begins. “i thought it would be cool—and maybe romantic—to shoot glitter into the air. but… it ended up exploding on her. she was covered head to toe and sparkling.”

“oh my god,” you murmur, pressing your lips together to contain your reaction. “must’ve been a special girl, huh?”

“lana lang, your girl-next-door sweetheart.” clark sighs. “that was a long time ago. i thought she was the loveliest girl in smallville,” he adds, a hint of an accent slipping through.

the couch settles into a comfortable silence. “i… have thought about moving out of metropolis,” you say quietly. “unhappy might be too strong, but i don’t feel content. i’ve been here for ten years.”

“what would make you consider staying?” clark asks. “or what has made you stay so far?”

you sigh. “the nature of my job. friends i’ve made and kept in touch with. my ex—well, kind of.”

clark nods and stays quiet. then you hear him. “we’ve only just met,” he says, looking at you, “but… i would be sad if you left metropolis.”

you almost laugh at first, a feeling a little giddy, thinking he's joking. but you don't see him smiling. "i mean it," he adds, softer now.

the air between you changes, subtle but undeniable, like something just stepped out from hiding. his eyes finally meet yours, steady but uncertain. for a second, neither of you looks away. you've only just started to know him. it shouldn't matter this much. but the way clark says it—like your leaving would leave something behind in him—makes your heart trip over itself.

"i just—i mean," he fumbles. rubbing the back of his neck. "metropolis wouldn't be the same."

you part your lips open to respond, but nothing comes out. for a second, you get the strange feeling that he’s holding more back than he’s saying—that this matters to him in a way that reaches beyond the ordinary. his eyes linger on yours, steady, searching… like he’s memorizing you. that sends a quiet shiver through you, the kind you can’t explain. all you want is for the moment to stay the way they are.

clark doesn't look away from you. neither do you. then, it hits you all at once. you're close—closer than you both should be, and you’re not sure how or when it happened. his eyes are clearer in front of you and his face his warm against your skin. you forget the distance, the view of metropolis, and how the night first begin.   

clark leans in and something silky brushes across your mouth. his lips are on yours, soft and hesitant, that takes your breath away as soon as you closed your eyes. when you put your hands on his shoulders, the hesitation earlier is gone. clark goes forward, his hands reach to hold you by the waist, as he angles his head sideway to deepened the kiss. you feel you're wrapped in a heat of comfort.

he holds and lifts you up to straddle his lap. there's a touch of gentleness in his hands, but you also feel their calloused, hard-labor quality, which makes you wonder what he does. you're pressed chest to chest, breathing in sync. it takes willpower for you to slowly pull away, but not far. your breath is still caught between his and yours—uneven and shared. clark doesn't move right away, and his hands relax on your back. you use the moment to get a good look at his face: dark blue eyes, a beautiful face structure, and dark curls that are a bit unkempt. "you're gorgeous," you murmur quietly.

clark's face heats up under your fingers when you trace one of his cheekbones. his eyes close momentarily—fluttering—as he nudges his face to follow your touch. when you cup his face, clark turns sideways and nips the lower part of your palm with his lips.

"you are," he murmurs, staring at you a moment longer. he caresses your cheek with the back of his hand. "i think… i'm drawn to you," he whispers.

"this isn't a normal occurrence for you, right?" you joke. "revealing confessions and stuff."

clark chuckles, shaking his head. "it's not, i promise," he responds. his eyes flicker toward you, his hands still on your sides—warm and steady. "are you sure?" he asks, quieter this time.

you lean in with certainty. "what about you?" you ask, gazing at his face.

“yeah,” clark says, a little breathless, nodding. then, he closes the gap and kisses you again, deeper this time. his fingers tangle in your hair as you cup his face. heat rises in your body as your hands explore the rest of his muscles. canvassing out his back, arms, and down to his waist. you’re pulled towards him, chest to chest, like you’re both trying to fuse into one whole being. softly, his lips bit yours, and your tongues explored each other’s mouths, leading to a slow dance of teasing and hunger. your heart pounds in your chest, and your head spins from his taste, smell, and heat.

clark gradually lays you down on the couch, his whole body hovering over you. you reach down to the waist of your trousers, lifting up your hips to ease the process of stripping them off. he breaks the kiss to look down and sits up, reaching for your hands to stop you from taking them off completely. he doesn't ask, but you don't need to hear it; you understand and nod. clark then pulls down your trousers and discards them, leaving your legs fully exposed.

without breaking eye contact, clark lifts your legs and places them on his broad shoulders with ease. your calves cage his face, and when he presses kisses along your legs—taking turns—your body relaxes as you watch him. "careful," you huff. "i don't want to knock off your glasses."

"don't worry, it'll stay on," clark replies, adjusting his hold on your thighs.

he gazes down at your mid-rise briefs, the only material standing between you and what you're hoping will happen. his fingers brush along the waistband, and clark's blue eyes flicker toward you with wonder and a hint of infatuation. "may i?"

when you nod, clark carefully pulls your briefs down your legs until you're exposed. your cheeks and ears grow warm when he doesn't look away. "beautiful."

you open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. then clark drags you closer to him, pushes your thighs up to your chest, and lies down onto his stomach. you shiver and squirm slightly when he kisses your mound; it starts with one peck, then another, and more. "tell me if you want to stop."

"keep going," you whisper with a stare of captivation.

a soft, strangled noise escapes out of clark as he dives in. his entire mouth latches onto your vulva with a suck that makes you arch your back from the intensity. he slurps and groans softly, the rumble from his mouth tingles your folds. your breathing is deep and shallow as you gently grip his hair, tugging him from time to time, which encourages clark even more.

"oh gosh," you murmur, eyes fluttering as you try to shift your legs.

clark's glasses steamed up, but that didn't distract him. one of his hands sneaks between your legs as he continues to eat you like he's starved. his tongue delves deeper into your slit; greedier and urgent, like your arousal is the oasis he's thirsty for. his fingers gather your wetness and coat your clit. the moment the pad of his fingers comes into contact with your clit, he circles and rubs it. your body trembles thoroughly moments after, forcing out a cry from you as you're flooded with a newfound sense of pleasure and awe.

you pant as your body relaxes on the couch. clark stops and pulls away, gently setting down your legs. he swipes over his lips to wipe off the glistening arousal and uses the back of his hand to clean the remaining. he’s heaving, chest rising up and down as the nightlights outside hits his side profile, emitting a towering and prominent figure. clark reaches down to his waist and unbuckles the belt, stripping off his trousers. the boxers are left on—you swear it’s on purpose, because when you huff, he smirks—and he begins to unbutton his white coloured shirt.

underneath reveals a body you believe sculptured by god. you have a feeling that clark is huge by his physique, but his six-pack is defined and evenly proportioned. you must be robbed in life, having to go without seeing a man like clark… and looking like that.

you take off your blouse and discard it alongside the rest of the other clothes. the coolness of the couch hits your skin, but you are hot from earlier. your breathing is deep and shallow, and so is clark’s. your eyes meet his, and you both lock eyes. it’s certain that what comes next will change the course of both your lives. you’re certainly drawn to him—it could be when he devours you, or when he kisses you like you’re the only person on the planet. or perhaps way back from the beginning of all of this.

clark’s hands reach down to the waistband of his boxers. he flickers his eyes back at you, waiting, needing your permission. when you nod, he proceeds and pulls the material down to his thighs and hooks them off his legs. your eyes trail from the prominent v-line and down to the long member with the thick girth and neatly trimmed hair.

when clark kneels, he gently pulls you towards him by the legs, letting it settle on his hips. he lowers himself, arms that cage you supporting his weight, as he looks down at you. “you don’t take off your glasses?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “i want to see you properly,” he replies.

you let out a shaky breath and put your hands on his shoulders. when you look into his eyes, they’re bright and a deep shade of blue. his nose caresses yours lightly, electrifying your spine. “are you sure about this?” clark whispers.

“i’ve never been more sure,” you mutter.

clark cradles the back of your head with one hand and the other under your lower back. he uses his thighs to widen your legs open, slots between them, as his member brushes on your folds. then, he whispers, “tell me if you’re uncomfortable, and i’ll stop.”

clark uses his hand to guide his cock and pushes the head into your vagina. there’s a stretch as he eases himself in, making you gasp, feeling a shiver down your back. he continues to push—making both of you groan and whimper—until clark fully sheaths himself inside you. “damn,” he murmurs.

"that's one way to put it." you reply and looks at him. your thighs tremble at the sight of clark. "please, move."

"i'll be gentle." clark mutters. he begins to roll his hips, slow at first, then gradually picks up the pace. he thrusts his member in and out, dragging your sweet spot that makes you sigh and moan. clark kisses you again, unhurried yet passionate.

"so good," you murmur against his mouth, gasping when his cock pushes in deeper.

"tell me what you like." clark whispers, pulling away to look at you, the thrusting remains in pace.

your heart thuds at his question because you don't think anyone wants to be attentive to your needs. flickering your eyes up to clark, you feel your breath taken away just looking at him. "i trust you."

clark nods, and one of his hands intertwines with yours, setting it above your head. the other hand grips your hip, and he shifts forward to press himself deeper into you, causing a breathless gasp when you look at him. clark continues to thrust into you, listening to the way your heart races and how you breathe. he dips in to kiss your neck and trailing down your collarbone, then goes back to kissing your lips, the both of you grunting and moaning.

"stop me if something's uncomfortable for you." clark whispers. one of his hands dips down between the two of you, his fingers sneaking to find your hidden clit. he rubs and cheekily flickers your sensitive pearl. the thrusting of his cock into you continues and the kisses down your neck, collarbone and chest becomes feverish with passion.

and you come undone. your orgasm courses through your body as your thighs quiver and tightly wrapped around his hips. your cries are a sinful, gasping moan. your nails gently dig his clark as you continue to come.

clark groans and stills, one hand clenching with yours and the other gripping onto the cushion. His cock quivers, and a spurt of warmth spills into your canal that lasts for a few moments. then, his upper body slumps a bit, and catches himself before collapsing on top of you. rests his forehead on yours, which weighs and connects you both.

the two of you breathe quietly in rhythm. clark leans in to brush his mouth on yours and kisses you, lips soft and warm, intoxicating taste of him. you lean forward and wrap your arms around him, forgetting everything else that transpires tonight.

it's been a week since the one-night stand.

you don't know what happened to clark that night. he did bring you home after—memories blurred—and you did leave his apartment the next morning without waking him up. there's no note or text that you left for him, nothing to indicate that he (and even you) should reach out after what happened. only memories of that night and possibilities of what-ifs.

you move on with your life after that—sleep, eat, work, and repeat. you try to forget that night but that is easier said than done. you remember him, because how could you not? he's not like the last guy you dated. you feel listened to, seen… connected.

of course, when you left without saying a word, you knew that you should move on with your life. what you did after that night says a million things—you left with a mystery, whether you want to be reached out to or not. you doubt the two of you will cross paths again. what you experienced only happens in books you read and movies you've seen. you lived in reality. so, you choose to live your life as normal as you can.

"got our drinks," you say to your work colleagues as you carry a cup holder tray. they thank you for buying it and the three of you sit together at a round table, basking in the calm before the storm of clocking into work.

"how are you feeling since the breakup?" one of them turns to look at you.

"meh," you shrug, taking a sip of your drink. you told your two work friends about your last relationship but not your recent encounter with the mystery man who bared his secrets. it's better to keep it to yourself until you figure out your next move—it's less drama. "i'm trying to get over it."

they give you looks of sympathy, taking the hint that you don't really want to talk about that or when you left the party. the three of you continue to enjoy breakfast. you focus on taking sips of your drink as you feel your mind begin to drift away. when your eyes flicker to look at the background, someone catches your attention.

a guy. he looks out of place, with a dark blue coat and white smooth, clean-slick shirt underneath. he's dressed like he's coming in for a meeting or an interview, and he's looking around the modern layout of the office. he looks… familiar. he is familiar.

"hey," you gently nudge your colleague. "do you know the guy over there?"

"that's the reporter from the daily planet the ceo is meeting." the work colleague next to you says. "overheard the secretary telling the personal assistant to prepare a cup of coffee and a croissant."

you continue to look at clark, wondering if you should approach him or leave him. he hasn't seen you yet and you do your best to ignore him despite the thoughts running in your head. after being frozen for a split moment, you excuse yourself to your work colleagues, get up from your seat and walk away from the table with somewhat hurried steps.

clark's back still faces you the closer you approach. you're at least three steps into his personal space when you stop, unclench your hands, and reach out to tap his shoulder from behind. he turns and glances around until he looks down to your height and pauses. his dark blue eyes—that you memorized from that night—stare into you.

"hi." you say, both hands clasped together over your stomach.

"h-hi." clark stammers, pushing the bridge of his glasses up to his face. "what are you doing here?"

"i work here," you explain, looking at him. "white lab coat, science nerd, s.t.a.r labs."

his eyes widen and lips part slightly in a tiny 'oh'. "right, yes." clark says. his blue eyes flicker to your face and a soft, tiny smile appears on his face. "i'm glad to run into you again."

"me too." you reply, smiling back. silence settles between the two of you just like that night sky lounge. your mind replays the conversation of that day—gives you flashes of memories that are tangled in the strings of your thoughts. you take a soft breath in. "i… i don't think we ever reveal our names."

"clark." he says quickly then he—clark—gently pushes up his glasses closer to his eyes. "clark kent."

you stick out your hand and clark takes it to shake your hand. his palm is warm against your skin. the same large, callous hands that held you that night when the two of you are at the peak of orgasm. that held you by the waist, mapping out the shape of your curves, and fingers that gently dent against your skin.

"clark," you repeat, feeling his name comfortable sitting on your lips. "i'm—"

someone calls for him nearby and you realize that he's due for the appointment. the ceo of s.t.a.r labs is ready to see him now. that means the conversation will have to cease.

"i've got to go," clark gives you an apologetic look. his head gestures to the office. "i… i hope to really see you again."

"i hope so too," you say, flashing him a smile. "see you later?"

nodding, clark flashes you a smile before he disappears into the office. you return back to the table where your colleagues have left to clock into work. picking up your bag, you leave the area to go to your office, briefly thinking back about your conversation with clark. butterflies flutter in your stomach.

the ground rumbles beneath your feet and sounds of shattering glass follow. you shield yourself with your arms from the impact, curling yourself up as you squat down and hide your face. a couple of screams erupt and chaos unfolds as you see people running all over the place; panic takes over.

"run to the fire exit and get out!" someone yells.

"what the hell is going on?!"

"are we going to die?!"

you don't know where the impact came from but the first thought that comes to your mind is your friends. and clark. oh god, clark—

you whip your head to the direction where the ceo's office is. you know your friends would find a way to escape from the building, but clark is a visitor. fear and adrenaline fill your veins as you run towards the same direction where you begin. your lips move in a murmur, "please, let him still be okay."

the alarms are blasting throughout the building. you push your way through the crowd, eyes frantically searching for clark. the screams continue to echo. you're trying to dodge getting hit by people as you continue your search. you stop and look around despite getting pushed and almost shoved aside. "clark?!"

a strong blast hits you out of nowhere, followed by a crash. you fall off your feet with a yelp, hitting the ground as you hear the sound of glass breaking, bracing for impact. you curl up on the floor, face hidden between your arms, waiting. but nothing happens except how loud your heart is racing.

"miss?" a voice reaches you. "are you alright?"

your ears are ringing as you breathe heavily, hesitant to look up. "miss?"

slowly, you lift your head from your hiding. trembling slightly and curious. your eyes meet a pair of bright, deep blue ones staring back at you. a figure towers above you—a dark cape shielding you—as the man looks down at you with a look of worry and assertiveness that made your heart race.

superman.

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.

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.