#pasc4lfuzz

The air between you thickened, charged with energy — something like static, but softer, more intoxicating. He could hear your heartbeat, too steady to be afraid, too calm for someone standing in front of him.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” you said, voice low.

 “I’m not,” he answered — and it was true. That’s what scared him.

“Yes, you are,” you whispered, the corners of your mouth curving slightly, you stepped closer, the space between you humming with energy. “I can smell it,” you said softly, leaning just enough for the faintest breath to reach his neck — not a touch, just awareness.

There was something ancient in the way you observed him, studying the rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth beneath his skin, the way his light fought to steady itself against your presence.

Superman didn’t move.

 He only watched you, eyes unreadable behind the faint reflection of city lights on his Blue eyes. Whatever you were, he could feel it — a pull, a test, a mirror of everything he tried to suppress.

Superman cleared his throat, adjusting his stance as if reminding himself who he was supposed to be. “Ma’am, it’s not safe for you to be here,” he said gently, voice calm but edged with concern.

You tilted your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Safe?” you repeated softly. “You sound like you’re about to escort me out.”

“I should,” he replied, though there was no real conviction in his tone. You smiled at that — small, knowing. “And yet… you haven’t.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, filled only by the low hum of the city below. You watched him, curious, as if you were trying to see the man beneath the symbol. “I don’t meet many who try to protect me,” you said quietly. “Most only try to run.”

You took a slow step closer, your tone light but edged with something unreadable. “When was the last time poor Superman has been taken care of?” you asked, the words almost playful — almost.

He blinked, surprised by the question more than the way you said it. “I don’t—” he started, but your soft laugh cut through the night air. “Exactly,” you said. “You save everyone, don’t you? But who saves you?”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t have an answer. The mask of calm composure stayed in place, but something in his eyes shifted — a flicker of truth he couldn’t hide fast enough.

You saw it — that momentary vulnerability. You knew exactly what he wanted. What every hero like him wanted. Someone who could handle them. Someone who wasn’t afraid of their power, their strength, their… everything.

You snap your fingers, using your powers to lift him effortlessly off the ground and throw him down on his back. You straddle his hips before he can react, sitting on top of his abs. He stares up at you, shock written all over his handsome face. "Jesus..." He mutters.

You shift your hips slightly, settling more comfortably on top of him. Your hands land on his chest, right over the huge 'S' logo. You lean down, bringing your mouth close to his ear. "Oh save me, Superman," You purr.

Your eyes flash red, a clear sign of your supernatural abilities. You can feel the power coursing through you, and Superman can see it too. His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't move to stop you as your fingers find the zipper of his suit.

You slowly pull down the zipper, revealing more and more of his sculpted chest. As the fabric parts, you can feel something else pressing against your core. You shift your weight, lifting your hips and adjusting your position until you're face to face with the bulging evidence of his arousal.

It's big.

“Does he need me?” You ask, not to him, but to his cock.

Superman's breath hitches slightly as you ask the question. His eyes darken with desire and need. He doesn't answer with words but instead lets out a low groan as he shifts his hips upwards, pressing his erection more firmly against you.

You waste no time wrapping your lips around the head of his dick, swirling your tongue around it before taking him deeper into your mouth. Superman lets out a loud groan, his hands flying to your head as if to pull you off but instead they tangle in your hair, holding you in place. "Fuck... Oh god…”

Superman's eyes snap open at the feeling of smooth, hard horns under his fingertips. He watches as your wings unfurl behind you, stretching out wide and strong. He can't help but let out a low whistle, his dick twitching in your mouth. "Holy shit…”

You whimper slightly as his fingers trace the length of your horns. "They're sensitive..." you whisper, your breath warm against his dick. Superman's eyes darken with understanding and he slowly starts to touch and squeeze your horns, eliciting soft moans from you.

You pull back from his dick, your lips wet and swollen. The prettiest view he's ever seen.

You look up at him with hooded eyes and a dirty smile. "Dirty boy..." You whisper, before taking him back into your mouth and sucking hard."Mmmph..."  

Superman groans loudly, "Fuck…”

Superman's entire body tenses as he feels his orgasm building. His hips start to thrust lightly into your mouth but suddenly you pull back, releasing him with a pop. He looks down at you, confusion and frustration clear on his face."Don't stop…”

You quickly stand up and pull your skirt off, revealing your bare pussy. You straddle his hips and line up his hard dick with your entrance. Superman grabs your thighs tightly, you just start to lower yourself onto him slowly, "Shit…”

You're so wet that he slid all the way in easily, but he's thick and long - exactly the kind of cock that makes your eyes roll back and your toes curl. You feel completely full, like he's reaching places no other human man ever has. Your walls squeeze him tightly.

You tremble as he fills you completely, his size stretching you perfectly. You moan loudly, "So big... Ahhn!" Your wings shiver behind you. He hits a spot inside you that makes your eyes water. He freezes, "You good?" He asks softly.

You start to move your hips, lifting up and then sliding back down his massive length. The sound of your wet pussy taking his cock fills the rooftop. Your wings flutter behind you with each thrust. He grabs your ass, helping you bounce on him. 

You start riding him faster, using his hands on your ass to lift and slam back down. Your tits bounce with each movement. The wind picks up from your wings, making your hair fly. He's completely trapped under you, unable to do anything but hold your ass and watch you ride him.

You notice that with each powerful lift off him he is getting more tired. Superman starts to breathe heavily as if something is taking his strength away. Suddenly, you see a glowing aura envelop you and realize your powers are increasing.

"Mmm, look at you Superman... So tired already? Can't handle me on top of you?" You grind down hard on him, using your newfound strength. "Is big hero weak now? Can't last long without his suit?" You ride him faster, dirtier. "Cum for me…”

Your dirty words combined with your rough riding make him lose control completely. With a loud roar that echoes through the city, Superman comes hard inside you. His hot seed fills your pussy as his body shakes underneath you. His arms go limp, falling off your ass.

You slide off his cock, a grin on your face as you watch his cum leak out of you. You squeeze your thighs together, making more of it drip down your leg. Superman looks up at you, panting heavily, completely spent. "Fuck…”

"You know what, Superman?" You say with a wicked smile, wiping some of his cum from your thighs. "I actually really liked that. Your big cock, your strength... Even seeing you get tired and come inside me was hot." You start dressing slowly.  "Maybe I'll visit again sometime…”

As you press your lips to his, Superman lets out a soft groan, his eyes fluttering closed. The effort of coming so hard, combined with the exhaustion from your rough riding, causes him to suddenly pass out. His body goes limp beneath you, his hand falling limply to the side.

“You're cute” you murmur tracing his facial features with your fingers and disappearing in the shadows.

Clark wakes up with a start, his body drenched in sweat. He looks around his apartment in Metropolis, trying to remember what happened. 

It can't be… it was only a dream? but if it was only a dream how he's still a little bit weak and why does his cock throbs painfully inside his boxers?

You packed your bags, left your penthouse, and flew halfway across the world. You went to Jarhanpur yourself. Not as a billionaire’s daughter — but as someone who wanted to fix what had been broken.

You built clinics, funded reconstruction projects, stood under the burning sun alongside the people your father’s company had failed. The media called you “the Redeemed Luthor,” the “Good Heiress,” the “Saint with a Trust Fund.” You hated all of it, but you kept going. Because for the first time, the world wasn’t just seeing your last name — it was seeing you.

Your voice echoed through the walls of the Daily Planet.

Clark, Lois, and Jimmy stood frozen in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen — to you.

The interview was supposed to be simple. A quick segment, a few soft questions, something the media could twist into a neat headline later. But you had a way of turning even the simplest prompt into something that sounded alive.

The reporter would ask, “What inspired you to go to Jarhanpur personally?” — and you’d answer with warmth and conviction, your tone steady but full of emotion.

“Because hope means nothing if it’s only spoken from behind a glass wall,” you said, smiling softly. “Sometimes you have to stand where the world is breaking — to remember why it’s worth saving.”

Every word was carefully chosen, every gesture deliberate yet natural. The cameras loved you. The people watching at home loved you. Even Lois, arms crossed and skeptical as always, seemed impressed.

Jimmy was the first to break the silence.

“Wow. She’s… good.”

Lois scoffed, though her eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“She’s a Luthor. Of course she’s good. They’re born knowing how to charm a crowd.”

Clark didn’t say anything. He just stood there, glasses catching the flickering light of the broadcast, watching the way you smiled when you spoke about rebuilding hope, rebuilding trust. Something about you didn’t feel rehearsed. Something about you felt real.

And that was exactly what made you dangerous — not in the way your father had been, but in a way Clark couldn’t quite put into words yet.

Perry’s voice cut through the newsroom like thunder. Clark barely had time to blink before the TV was turned off and the room snapped back into motion.

“Kent!” White’s tone was sharp, but his grin said he’d already decided something. “Since you’re already standing there looking like you’ve seen a ghost, how about you turn that into a story?”

Clark frowned. “A story, sir?”

“That Luthor girl.” He pointed toward the blank screen. “The good one. The world’s been eating her up lately — all smiles, charity, and shiny headlines. I want to know if it’s the real deal or just another Luthor publicity stunt.”

Lois chuckled. “You’re sending Boy Scout to interview a Luthor? That’s either brave or stupid, chief.”

Perry smirked. “Maybe both. But Kent’s got that honest face people open up to. Go find out who she really is.”

Clark opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. The idea lingered — her name, her words, the conviction in her voice. He adjusted his glasses, pretending not to care as much as he did.

“Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

As Perry walked away barking new orders, Lois leaned closer, her voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Don’t get too starry-eyed, Smallville. She’s still a Luthor.”

Clark smiled faintly, though his thoughts were already elsewhere. He wasn’t sure what he’d find once he met you — another product of Lex’s empire, or something entirely different.

Clark spent the next few nights doing what he did best — researching.

The name Luthor opened thousands of files, headlines, and opinion pieces, most of them more gossip than truth. But beneath all the noise, he found you — articles about rebuilding projects, clinics, scholarships, and sustainable housing programs across continents. Every initiative carried your signature — quiet, intentional, human.

He leaned back in his chair, watching a video clip where you were surrounded by children in Jarhanpur, the air thick with dust and sunlight. You were laughing, hair tied loosely, sleeves rolled up. There was nothing staged about it.

“Not like him,” Clark murmured under his breath, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

Your schedule was public — at least, the parts your PR team allowed the world to see. One more week in Jarhanpur. Then a return to Metropolis for a press conference about your new partnership with the UN.

A week. That would be enough time to prepare, to build the right questions, and to contact LuthorCorp for a formal interview request. He told himself it was just work — just another story — but there was something about this one that made him care a little too much.

Lois noticed, of course. She always did.

“Careful, Smallville,” she teased from behind her desk when she caught him reading another article about you. “You’re starting to look like one of her fans.”

Clark chuckled softly, closing the tab. “Just doing my homework.”

But deep down, he already knew this story wouldn’t be like the others. Because for the first time, he wasn’t chasing a headline.

He was chasing you.

Getting through to LuthorCorp was easier than Clark had imagined — too easy, almost. The polished walls of the company that once carried a shadow now gleamed with new purpose, new leadership. And at the center of it all, your name.

He had sent the request half expecting silence, or at best a polite refusal from a faceless assistant. Instead, the confirmation came within hours. The interview was set. You had personally approved it.

That detail lingered in his thoughts longer than it should have.

The next few days moved in a blur of research and restless anticipation. Clark found himself reading more about you than he ever had about any other subject — scrolling through reports, interviews, photos of you in places where hope barely survived. You weren’t like Lex. There was no coldness in your expression, no hunger for control behind your eyes. There was something gentler, but no less powerful — the quiet kind of conviction that couldn’t be faked.

By the time the official email arrived confirming the date and location, he’d memorized the address of the LuthorCorp Tower without meaning to. The thought of walking through those glass doors stirred something complicated inside him. It wasn’t fear, exactly — more like curiosity laced with something softer.

The morning of the meeting, Metropolis was bathed in a gray light that made the city feel suspended in time. From the street, the LuthorCorp building stood tall, clean, reborn from the ashes of its own reputation. People still whispered when they passed it — the name Luthor would never stop carrying weight — but for the first time, it didn’t sound like a warning.

And as Clark stepped through the revolving doors, notebook in hand, he couldn’t help but think that maybe this story wasn’t about redemption at all. Maybe it was about someone who had never needed to be redeemed — only seen.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, spilling a faint reflection of light across the floor. The higher he went, the quieter everything became — as if the noise of the city couldn’t quite reach this far up.

LuthorCorp’s top floor wasn’t what Clark expected. He had imagined the sharp, sterile aesthetic of a corporate empire — glass walls, marble, the echo of ambition. But instead, it felt alive. Plants lined the corners, sunlight poured through wide windows, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and something floral, like jasmine.

Different from the last time he’d been here — the day he’d blown through Lex’s office door as Superman looking for Krypto. Back then, the place had felt hollow, built on secrets and ego. Now, it carried something else entirely. Life. Warmth. Humanity.

Standing by the window, you looked nothing like the photos that had flooded every headline for the past month. The camera never caught the stillness in your movements, the calm way you seemed to take in the world before you spoke. The city stretched endlessly behind you, a thousand lives moving below — and yet, in that moment, you seemed completely at peace.

Your presence filled the room, quiet but magnetic. It wasn’t about power — it was about certainty. The kind that came from surviving your own name, your own bloodline, and still managing to believe in something good.

Clark hesitated for a moment at the threshold, his reflection ghosted faintly against the glass. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting — someone colder, maybe, or carefully constructed for the public eye. But there was something disarming about the way you turned to face him, the way your gaze met his without hesitation.

There was recognition there — not familiarity, but understanding. Two people who had seen the same world fall apart, and were still trying, stubbornly, to build it back up.

“Mr. Kent.”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts — soft, confident, familiar in a way that made him straighten without meaning to. You smiled as you walked toward him, every movement calm and deliberate, the kind of grace that came from being watched by the world and never letting it see you flinch.

“May I say first,” you continued, stopping just close enough for him to catch the faint scent of jasmine and paper — “I love your articles. The way you put your ideas into words is… magnificent.”

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Compliments weren’t unusual for Clark, but coming from you — a Luthor — they carried a strange weight. There was no irony in your tone, no attempt to charm. You simply meant it.

He managed a small smile, adjusting his glasses to buy himself a second. 

Clark smiled, the kind of small, genuine smile that never quite reached his eyes but carried warmth all the same.

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice a little steadier than he felt. “That means a lot — especially coming from you.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, as if trying to decide whether he was always this sincere or if it was just part of the journalist charm.

“I’ve read your pieces on the reconstruction efforts in Coast City,” you said, folding your arms lightly. “You see people the way most reporters don’t. You don’t write about them — you write for them.”

He looked almost embarrassed at that, gaze flicking to the notebook in his hand before finding yours again. “I try to,” he admitted. “Stories only matter if they make someone feel less alone.”

Something in that answer made you smile — a real smile, softer, unguarded. The kind that disarmed him completely.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The city buzzed quietly beyond the glass, distant and small, as if time had given you both a moment of silence before everything that would come after.

Then, you gestured toward the small seating area by the window, a notebook and two cups of coffee already waiting. “Shall we begin?”

And just like that, the air between you shifted — professional on the surface, but something unspoken lingered underneath, steady and electric.

“Well, follow me,” you said, gesturing lightly toward the hallway as you pressed the elevator button. “I don’t like to do interviews inside my office. I feel like I need to be sharp all the time. Let’s go to the patio — near the tulips. I love it there.”

Clark followed without a word, notebook tucked under his arm, curiosity flickering behind his calm expression. The elevator doors closed with a soft hum, and for a moment, it was just the two of you — the quiet buzz of the city far below, and the soft sound of your heels against the floor.

You leaned slightly against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, looking out at the skyline as it began to open up through the glass. There was something almost fragile about the silence, the kind that invited thoughts instead of pushing them away.

When the doors opened again, sunlight poured in like water. The patio was a contrast to everything he’d imagined a new Luthor space to be — wide and green, alive with color and movement. Tulips stretched across the edges of the terrace, their petals shifting gently in the wind.

You stepped out first, inhaling the air like someone who hadn’t had a real breath in weeks. “Much better,” you said, almost to yourself, before turning back to him with a small, knowing smile.

Clark couldn’t help but think that he’d just stepped into your world — one built not of steel and glass, but of intention and light.

You sat on the edge of the stone bench, the tulips swaying behind you like a painted backdrop. The wind carried fragments of the city’s sounds — car horns, distant chatter, the low hum of traffic — yet here, it all felt muted, softened. Clark took the seat opposite you, his notebook open but forgotten for a moment.

He started with the usual questions. The ones meant to warm the air.

“What made you choose Jarhanpur?” he asked finally, pen poised above the page.

You smiled, eyes flicking toward the skyline before finding his again. “Because no one else wanted to,” you said simply. “It was easier to pretend the damage didn’t exist — but I couldn’t do that anymore.”

Your tone wasn’t rehearsed, not carefully shaped for headlines. It was honest, in the quiet kind of way that disarmed him. Clark wrote the words down, but they didn’t feel like notes — they felt like something he’d remember long after this day.

He asked about your projects next, about rebuilding, education, the future. Each question came out calm and measured, but underneath, he was trying to see you — the person behind the last name, behind the legacy.

And you answered each one thoughtfully, your words painting pictures instead of just facts. You spoke about small victories: children going back to school, families having clean water again, laughter returning to places that had forgotten the sound of it.

When he finally looked up, he found you already watching him, eyes full of something unreadable.

“You really believe in what you write,” you said quietly. “I can tell.”

He smiled, just a hint of it, and the city seemed to fade around you both. For a fleeting moment, the interview didn’t feel like an exchange between journalist and subject. It felt like a conversation between two people who still believed the world was worth saving — even when it wasn’t easy to.

The questions kept coming — smart, complex, layered — the kind that most people would need a full PR team to navigate. But you didn’t. Every word you spoke came with intention, calm and precise, like you’d rehearsed them your whole life — only you hadn’t. You simply knew.

There was a rhythm between the two of you now — his questions and your answers falling into place like steps in a dance neither of you had planned.

Then came the pause.

The kind that wasn’t awkward, but almost cinematic — soft wind brushing against the tulips beside you, sunlight cutting through the air in golden threads. You tilted your head, gaze lingering on the flowers for a moment before breathing in deeply. The scent of earth and spring lingered on your skin.

When your eyes found his again, they lingered — longer than before. His pen hovered over the page, but he didn’t write.

“Your eyes are really blue,” you said, voice quiet but steady, a grin tugging at your lips. “I didn’t notice it when you got that front page with the Superman piece — your photo was in the corner.”

He blinked, startled, the faintest flush of pink rising to his cheeks. The sunlight caught in his glasses, reflecting a flicker of warmth back at you.

“Well,” he murmured, his smile slow and a little shy, “I try not to compete with my own headlines.”

You laughed softly, the sound catching the air like something lighter than gravity. “You’re doing a terrible job at it,” you teased.

And for a moment — just a moment — the interview wasn’t an interview anymore. It was two people sitting under the sun, the hum of the city far below, the world holding its breath while something new and unspoken started to form.

The recorder on the table kept its little red light blinking, but neither of you noticed.

“Well… I like your eyes too,” Clark said, almost too quietly — the words slipping out before he could think twice.

You looked at him for a heartbeat, the kind of silence that feels heavier than sound hanging between you. Then you smiled — not the polite, practiced kind you used in board meetings or on live television, but a real one. The kind that reached your eyes and made something in his chest go soft.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” you said, your voice low, playful. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”

He huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to shake off the sudden warmth creeping up his skin. “Right. Strictly professional.”

But your gaze lingered, and he knew you’d both heard the way his voice wavered — just slightly. The moment stretched, sunlight spilling across the patio floor, catching on the tulips and painting the scene in gold.

You turned back to the flowers, resting your hands on the table, trying to steady your thoughts. For the first time in a long while, someone had looked at you and not seen a Luthor. They’d seen you.

And for him — it was strange how easy it felt, how natural it was to be there with you, talking about everything and nothing at once. The city below carried on, but up here, time had slowed.

He glanced at his notebook — pages filled, the recorder still blinking red — and exhaled. “I think that’s all I needed for the piece,” he said, though his tone betrayed him. He didn’t want it to be.

“Already?” you asked, leaning back, pretending not to sound disappointed.

“Yeah,” he replied, smiling faintly. “Though I might need a follow-up interview.”

You grinned, meeting his eyes once more. “I’m sure we can arrange that, Mr. Kent.”

And somehow, you both knew — you weren’t talking about the article anymore.

You watched as Clark stood, carefully slipping his notebook and recorder back into his bag — every motion deliberate, like he was trying not to look as hesitant as he felt. The chair scraped softly against the stone floor, and the breeze caught the edge of his jacket.

“Oh, and… Kent?” you called just as he was about to turn toward the elevator.

He looked back, brows raised, that polite curiosity in his eyes again.

“Maybe this next interview doesn’t need to go into The Planet,” you said, your tone light but laced with something else — a quiet daring, a hint of mischief. You smiled, tilting your head slightly. “Just you and your head.”

You winked.

For a moment, he forgot how to move. His mouth opened like he might say something — a question, a joke, anything — but nothing came out. Instead, he just smiled, that small, shy curve of his lips that made you wonder what exactly was going through his mind.

He nodded once, slow. “I’ll… keep that in mind,” he said, voice a touch rougher than before.

You didn’t look away until the elevator doors closed, and even then, the faint reflection of his blue eyes lingered in the glass.

Buried between press releases, Planet deadlines, and Perry’s reminders written in all caps.

Clark almost missed it. The email with the day of the next interview — but when Clark checked his inbox, the address wasn’t the same as before.

No official LuthorCorp header, no assistant’s signature, no polished corporate format.

Just an email.

From you.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: about that “next interview” Hey Mr. Kent, I’ve been thinking about our next interview (I’d like to call it a date, if possible). I don’t know about you, but I really like shrimp — and I know a place that’s specialized in it. It’s called Azure Tide, a quiet little restaurant by the riverfront. The view is beautiful this time of year, and they have this lemon-butter shrimp pasta that could probably solve world peace. How about Friday, 7:30 p.m.? Hope you say yes!

He read it twice. Then a third time.

The corners of his mouth pulled into a slow, uncontrollable smile as he leaned back in his chair. Lois was talking to Perry about something across the room — a new lead, another headline — but her voice sounded distant, like it belonged to another world entirely.

His cursor hovered over the reply button longer than it should have.

He could already hear Lois teasing him. “A Luthor, Clark? Seriously?” Jimmy would probably try to play matchmaker. Perry would call it a conflict of interest.

And yet, none of that mattered right now. Because all he could think about was you — sunlight and tulips, that grin, the way your voice had softened when you said just you and your head.

So he started typing.

from: [email protected] to: [email protected] subject: Re: about that “next interview” Hey, I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting this email to come from your personal account — but I’m not complaining. Shrimp sounds great, and I think I’ve heard of Azure Tide. Someone at the office mentioned it once — said the view alone was worth the trip. (Though I’m guessing the company will make it even better.) So, Friday at 7:30 works for me. I’ll be there — notebook closed this time, promise. — Clark

He hovered over the Send button for a moment, his pulse steady but fast, thumb hesitating just before the click. Then he hit send.

And as the message whooshed away, he caught his reflection in the dark screen — glasses slightly crooked, smile he couldn’t quite hide.

Friday suddenly felt very far away.

“Oh, you are so whipped,” Lois’s voice came from right behind him, teasing and sharp as ever.

Clark nearly jumped, the screen of his computer flashing back to the homepage as he closed the email way too fast. “Lois,” he said, his tone a mix of warning and embarrassment.

“I already got a glimpse of it,” she sing-songed, grinning like she’d just uncovered the world’s biggest secret. “Azure Tide, huh? How romantic.”

Clark sighed, shoulders tensing as a faint blush crept up his neck. He looked down, then sideways at her through the corner of his glasses. “It’s strictly professional, Lois.”

“Right…” she dragged out the word, crossing her arms. “A date interview type, with no interview at all?”

“Lois,” he said again, quieter this time, as if the repetition might make her stop. It didn’t.

She leaned against his desk, smirking. “You realize what Perry’s gonna say if he finds out you’re fraternizing with a Luthor, right? The man still has nightmares about Lex buying ad space in The Planet.”

Clark exhaled through his nose, tapping his pen against the desk. “She’s not like Lex,” he said simply — and the way he said it made Lois blink. There wasn’t hesitation in his voice. Just certainty.

“Yeah,” she murmured, straightening up, a rare softness slipping into her tone. “I can tell.”

Jimmy appeared from the next cubicle, holding his camera and a half-eaten donut. “Wait, are we talking about that Luthor? The pretty one on TV?”

Clark groaned. Lois grinned wider.

“Clark’s got a date,” Lois announced loud enough for half the bullpen to hear.

Jimmy’s head snapped up instantly, donut forgotten midair. “No way!” he grinned, stepping closer and giving Clark a playful slap on the arm. “You actually pulled her? It must be the nerdy vibes, man.”

Clark blinked, trying — and failing — to hide the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t ‘pull’ anyone, Jimmy. It’s not like that.”

“Oh, sure,” Lois chimed in, leaning on his desk with a smirk. “A Luthor invites you, of all people, to a restaurant by the river — says it’s a ‘date interview’ — and you think it’s not like that?”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “It’s… complicated.”

Jimmy laughed. “Bro, you’re blushing. The last time you blushed was when that intern called you cute for holding the elevator.”

Lois snorted, leaning closer. “And this time it’s over a woman who could probably buy The Planet three times over.”

“Can we not?” Clark muttered, though his tone was soft — no real bite in it.

Lois smirked. “Hey, relax, Smallville. I’m rooting for you. Just… maybe don’t let Perry catch wind of it until after the story runs, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy added, grinning wide. “And if you guys end up together, I better get to shoot the wedding.”

Clark shook his head, chuckling quietly, cheeks still faintly pink. “You two are impossible.”

As Lois walked off still laughing and Jimmy returned to his camera, Clark leaned back in his chair. His gaze flicked to the corner of his screen where her email still sat — unread no more, but definitely unshakable.

Friday, 7:30 p.m.

He could already feel the clock ticking slower.

Clark had been excited all day — too excited, if Lois’s teasing was anything to go by. He’d gone through three different ties that morning, checked his watch more times than the newsroom clock ticked, and even managed to rewrite the same article twice because he couldn’t focus.

By 7:10 p.m., he was already dressed — crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled once, hair perfectly in place. He glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusted his glasses, and allowed the smallest, nervous smile to slip through.

Then the call came.

A portal ripping open above downtown Metropolis. A dimensional imp, laughing, tossing cars around like toys. The Justice Gang was already assembling.

Clark’s heart sank. He didn’t think twice.

By 7:15, the shirt was gone, and Superman was in the sky.

Meanwhile, you were already at Azure Tide. The restaurant was bathed in warm amber light, jazz humming softly in the background, the river outside shimmering under the city glow. You’d chosen a seat by the window, the view almost enough to make you forget the time. Almost.

At first, you told yourself he’d be five minutes late. Maybe ten. Traffic, maybe. But when your phone hit 8:00 p.m., your smile faded.

You sighed, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. “Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. Clark Kent — the polite, punctual journalist who looked like he’d apologize for breathing too loud — had just stood you up.

You gathered your purse, pushing your chair back with a quiet scrape. The waiter glanced at you sympathetically. You forced a smile and turned toward the door.

“Wait!”

The voice made you freeze.

You turned, and there he was — slightly breathless, shirt wrinkled, a single curl falling rebelliously over his forehead. His white dress shirt was half untucked, one button open, and his tie was stuffed hastily into his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said, still catching his breath. “I’m really sorry. I know I’m late, I… had a bit of an emergency on the way.”

He looked so genuinely disheveled — and so sincere — that the irritation in your chest faltered.

You crossed your arms anyway, tilting your head with a faint smirk. “An emergency?”

Clark nodded, hand still on the door, his glasses slightly crooked and his hair glinting faintly under the restaurant lights. “Yeah,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “You could say that.”

He sat down across from you, still a little out of breath, running a hand through his already-messy hair in a hopeless attempt to tame it. You hesitated for a second before sitting back down too — not because you’d forgiven him yet, but because, somehow, he looked too endearing to stay mad at.

“I was going to bring flowers,” he said after a moment, his voice carrying that sheepish warmth that was so him. Then, with a crooked smile that reached all the way to his eyes, he added, “But… emergency.”

You couldn’t help it — the corner of your lips twitched upward despite yourself. “Right. The kind of emergency that wrinkles shirts and ruins perfectly good first impressions?”

He laughed quietly, a low sound that made you look up again. “Something like that,” he admitted. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Try me.”

Clark met your gaze then, and for a brief second, the world outside — the music, the clinking glasses, the city lights — blurred out of focus. He looked at you like someone who wasn’t used to being seen this closely, and it made his next words softer.

“Let’s just say I had to… help someone.”

And though it was vague, there was something in his tone — gentle, honest — that made you decide not to push it. Not tonight.

“Well,” you said, leaning forward, your voice light again, “I’m glad whoever it was got their hero.”

His smile faltered for just a moment — not in sadness, but in surprise — before coming back, even warmer this time. “Me too.”

You studied him quietly as he settled back into his chair, finally starting to look a little less chaotic. His breathing had evened out, his hair still a little wild but charmingly

He was talking about something — the menu, maybe — when something caught your eye. Just for a second, as he moved, the collar of his shirt shifted, and a glimpse of blue peeked through beneath the white fabric.

Your brows furrowed, curiosity winning over caution.

“Why do you have a blue shirt underneath?” you asked, pointing lightly toward his chest.

Clark froze — just a heartbeat, just long enough for you to notice. Then he looked down quickly, adjusting his collar as if he could hide the evidence.

“Oh,” he said, that nervous smile finding its way back onto his lips. “It’s, uh— old habit. I tend to layer up. Never know when the weather’ll change, right?”

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “A bright blue shirt under a white one? You planning on becoming a fashion icon or something?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting briefly to the window — anywhere but your gaze. “Something like that,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, smiling now. “You’re a strange one, Mr. Kent.”

Clark looked back at you then, his grin turning softer, almost fond. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I’ve heard that before.”

The waiter appeared just in time to break the tension, asking about drinks — but as Clark placed his order, you couldn’t help glancing again at that hint of blue under his shirt.

Something about it — about him — didn’t quite fit into the neat, polite image of a reporter who always showed up on time.

And you weren’t sure if that thought excited you or scared you just a little.

Your heart skipped a beat.

It was subtle — almost too subtle. Just the faintest shadow beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt, like an imprint that didn’t belong there. You squinted, leaning forward slightly, trying to make sense of it. A curve. A line. The hint of a symbol.

Clark noticed. He straightened instantly, hands fidgeting on the table, voice breaking the silence. “Is… is something wrong?”

Your eyes widened, your pulse hammering. You mouthed the word before you could even think about it. “Superman?”

He froze — a deer caught in headlights. Then, just as fast, he tried to laugh it off, shaking his head, his voice an octave higher than usual. “You’re… you sure you don’t need glasses? You’re seeing things, darling.”

You blinked, leaning in closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, I can see it clear as the day, Clark… You… no…”

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at him again — the messy curl falling onto his forehead, the nervous hand rubbing at the back of his neck, the impossibly calm eyes that now looked anything but calm.

“Yes you are,” you whispered, half in disbelief, half in awe.

And then it happened. The faint shimmer that had always clouded your vision when you looked at him — the hypnoglasses — flickered, then went completely still. Their effect was gone. As soon as you recognized the truth, the illusion shattered, and the disguise no longer held.

You could see him now. Not just Clark Kent — but Superman. The world’s hero sitting across from you at a seafood restaurant, looking guilty, human, and more nervous than you’d ever seen anyone look in your life.

For a long, fragile second, neither of you said anything. The chatter around you faded, the soft hum of the restaurant disappearing under the weight of your realization.

Clark finally broke the silence, voice low, resigned. “…You weren’t supposed to figure that out.”

“Oh really?” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you cross your arms and lean back on the chair, eyes never leaving him.

Clark lets out a soft, almost helpless laugh — the kind of laugh people make when they know they’ve been caught red-handed. His shoulders sink a little, and that damn curl falls again over his forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs, looking at you with that half-smile that could probably convince anyone of anything. “Really.”

You shake your head slowly, still half-stunned, half-amused. “So let me get this straight,” you start, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “You, Clark Kent, the guy who can’t take a compliment without getting shy, who apologizes to printers and thanks elevators for their service—”

“—they do a lot of work,” he tries to interrupt, voice sheepish.

“—you’re Superman,” you finish, eyebrows raised, staring at him like you were looking at some kind of cosmic joke.

Clark runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “I, uh… yeah. I guess when you put it like that it sounds… weird.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, covering your mouth with your hand. “Weird? Clark, that’s insane! You save the world on Tuesdays and then turn in coffee orders on Wednesdays! Do you realize how— how ridiculous that sounds?”

He looks up at you, eyes soft, voice quieter. “You were never supposed to find out like this.”

You tilt your head, still staring him down, but there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips now. “And how was I supposed to find out? You were gonna write a Pulitzer piece about yourself?”

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “No, I was… I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Before or after you flew off mid-date again?”

That earns you a genuine laugh, the kind that reaches his eyes. For a moment, the tension melts — replaced by that strange warmth he always carried around him.

You sigh, leaning back again, trying not to smile too much. “You’re lucky I like heroes, Kent.”

“Yeah?” he asks, finally relaxing, that smile turning crooked again.

“Yeah,” you say, a playful glint in your eyes. “But don’t ever stand me up again, or I’ll call Batman instead.”

Clark laughs, shaking his head, the relief visible on his face. “Noted.”

The rest of the night unfolded more gently than either of you expected.

Once the initial shock had faded — the revelation, the teasing, the nervous laughter — things settled into a strange, effortless calm. The kind that only happens when two people stop pretending.

The waiter came by, finally breaking the tension, and you both ordered — shrimp, of course — with a few lingering smiles exchanged across the table. Clark’s posture slowly relaxed, shoulders no longer tight with guilt or nerves. He even laughed — really laughed — when you joked about how the world’s greatest hero still managed to get sauce on his sleeve.

Conversation flowed easily after that. You talked about Jaharnpur, your projects, the changes you wanted to see in Metropolis. Clark listened the way only he could — with full attention, like every word mattered. And when he spoke, it wasn’t the reporter or the superhero talking. It was just him.

There was a warmth in his voice when he told you about Kansas, about Ma’s pies and the endless skies that always made him feel small in the best way. You could see the softness behind the symbol now — the humanity that made him him.

The restaurant lights dimmed as the night deepened, casting golden shadows across the table. You caught yourself smiling more than once.

The rest of dinner passed like that — laughter, easy silences, and the quiet rhythm of something new beginning.

By the time you both stood to leave, the city outside was wrapped in soft moonlight. He held the door for you, and as you stepped out, you turned to him with that same teasing smile.

“So… do I get a second date, or do I need to send a signal into the sky for that too?”

Clark chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “No signals needed. I’ll be there — on time, this time.”

You smirked, stepping a little closer. “You’d better be, Superman.”

After weeks of calm — the kind of odd, perfect peace Metropolis rarely got — the city finally remembered who it was.

The headlines had grown quiet. Superman sightings turned into lighthearted posts, the Daily Planet had been publishing stories about charity galas and infrastructure recovery, and you — for once — had been able to breathe. Your projects were stable, your name in the press came with admiration instead of controversy, and even Clark had been able to visit without some crisis tearing through the skyline.

But calm never lasts long in Metropolis.

News broke in whispers before it hit the screens — rumors spreading through encrypted channels, a faint pulse of tension that made even the air feel heavier. Vasil Ghurkos, the ex-president of Boravia, still managed to move pieces from behind prison bars. Despite being locked away for his crimes, his loyalists hadn’t forgotten him.

From the shadows of the crumbling regime, something new was taking shape. Not another “Hammer of Boravia,” not a weapon of mass destruction — this time, it was smaller, crueler. A message, not a war.

And the message had a name.

Yours.

The reports came in pieces. A smuggled prototype. A mercenary engineer. A convoy entering the city’s industrial zone under a false license. Perry White’s office went silent the moment the first classified file hit his desk. Lois’s tone turned sharp again, the same way it did before chaos. And Clark — Clark’s jaw tightened the instant he saw the footage.

It wasn’t random. It wasn’t political. It was personal.

You were the target.

Every screen in Metropolis flickered at once — a sudden hijack, replacing commercials and sitcoms with chaos.

Smoke curled against the sunset sky. The camera shook violently, the feed catching glimpses of terrified bystanders pointing upward. And there you were.

High above the city, suspended in the cold grip of a metallic arm, the hum of jet thrusters echoing through the air. The machine looked eerily familiar — sleek lines, reinforced plating, the same cruel design language as the “Hammer of Boravia,” only smaller, more agile. But this wasn’t just tech. It was theater.

And then came the voice.

“Metropolis,” it drawled through distorted speakers, mocking, childish, and cold all at once. “You build idols, you build hope — but you forget the monsters under the bed still play with toys.”

There was no mistaking it. Toyman.

Clark froze in the middle of the newsroom. His coffee mug slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor — no one even noticed. Lois was already grabbing her phone, shouting something about police frequencies, while Jimmy fumbled with his camera, trying to catch the live feed.

On the screen, the camera zoomed just enough to catch your face — hair tangled from the wind, your expression a mix of fury and disbelief. The armor holding you turned slowly in the air, as if showing you off like a prize.

Clark’s pulse quickened. He could hear it — the mechanical whine of the suit’s jets, the faint strain in the metal. Toyman’s voice still echoed:

“Tell your precious Superman to come out and play. Or I drop the pretty little Luthor right where she belongs — with the rest of the broken toys.”

“Clark—” Lois’s voice cut through the tension, but he was already moving.

“I— I have to go,” he stammered, already loosening his tie, his tone rushed. “I need to get closer. I can get better footage for the article, I’ll— I’ll send it back through the Planet’s feed.”

“Clark, wait—!” she started, but the elevator doors were already closing behind him.

By the time they reopened on the roof, the mild-mannered reporter was gone — and Metropolis’s sky cracked with a sonic boom.

Superman was already in flight.

The clang of metal echoed across rooftops as Superman collided mid-air with Toyman’s machine. Sparks rained down like gold dust, lighting up the skyline. The armor holding you jerked violently as Toyman tried to steady his control, his laughter now cracking through the comms, distorted and frantic.

“Oh, come on, Boy Scout!” he jeered through the speaker, the shrill sound of his voice grating. “Don’t you ever get tired of saving everyone?”

Clark didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on the suit’s power core. He moved faster than the human eye could follow — a red and blue blur tearing through smoke and heat.

“Hang on!” he shouted — the sound barely reaching you through the roaring wind.

You were still trapped in the machine’s grip, the metal claw wrapped around your waist, the cold biting through your clothes. The city lights spun below in dizzying blurs as the suit twisted and swerved, trying to shake Superman off.

Toyman’s creation unleashed a barrage of drones, mechanical things that buzzed like angry hornets. Superman shot upward through them, his heat vision slicing through the swarm in a blaze of red. Explosions bloomed in the air — flashes of orange against the dark — and for a brief second, you could see him clearly again, framed by fire and moonlight, unstoppable.

“Enough games, Toyman,” his voice boomed through the night, calm but thunderous.

“Games?!” Toyman’s voice crackled, growing more erratic. “Oh, this isn’t a game, Superman — it’s a reminder! You can’t save everyone!”

The suit’s claw suddenly tightened around you, stealing your breath. Then — with a sharp, stuttering laugh — the grip released.

You were falling.

The scream never left your throat. The city rushed up in a blur of lights and glass — wind tearing at your hair, your heartbeat roaring louder than the engines fading above.

And then, a flash of red and blue.

He caught you mid-air, arms steady, the world slowing to a stillness that didn’t feel real. His chest rose and fell against yours, the faint scent of smoke and ozone clinging to him. For a moment, the two of you were suspended in silence — the chaos above fading into distant echoes.

Toyman’s voice came one last time, faint and crackling through static:

“Tell her… that was just a warning…”

The feed cut.

Above, the damaged armor burst into flame before disappearing into the clouds — Toyman gone, retreating before Superman could reach him again.

Clark landed gently on a nearby rooftop, still holding you close, eyes scanning the skyline for any trace of the fleeing machine. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of the city trying to recover from another night of madness.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough from the fight.

You shook your head slowly, still catching your breath. “No… but… he really dropped me, didn’t he?”

Clark gave a small, almost incredulous laugh, looking at you with a mix of relief and lingering fear. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I wasn’t about to let him finish the game.”

When Superman finally touched down, it wasn’t quiet. It was chaos — sirens screaming, smoke rising in thin curls from shattered concrete, pieces of Toyman’s machine sparking and hissing where they’d crashed into the street.

He landed right in the middle of it, boots hitting the cracked asphalt with a heavy thud, you still in his arms. The rush of air from his descent rippled through the crowd, sending loose papers and dust swirling.

People gasped, cheered, some just stood frozen — a mix of awe and panic in their faces.

He set you down gently on your feet, his hands steadying your arms as if the world could still fall apart if he let go too soon. “It’s alright,” he said quietly, the noise of everything else fading for just a second. “You’re safe now.”

You exhaled, your pulse still racing, eyes darting between the burning wreckage, the flashing police lights, the cameras everywhere. The metallic smell of ozone and fuel filled the air, heavy and sharp.

“Safe?” you said, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping. “That’s a word that’s starting to lose meaning around you.”

Superman’s lips twitched, just slightly, the ghost of a smile. “I’ll work on that.”

But there was no time for calm — the press had already arrived. Reporters spilled into the blocked-off street, some standing on car hoods to get a better view, microphones raised high. Photographers were snapping like mad, the sound of shutters clicking blending with the sirens.

“Superman! Over here!” “Miss Luthor, were you targeted because of your name?” “Is this connected to the Boravian conflict?” “Was this another attack from Toyman’s network?”

You turned your head, dazed, as a dozen voices shouted over each other. The crowd kept pressing closer until a wall of police officers pushed them back, shouting, “Clear the area!”

Superman shifted slightly, his body angling between you and the chaos, protective without being obvious about it. His cape whipped in the wind, half-burned debris glowing behind him like embers.

He looked down at you again, voice calm but firm. “You’re hurt?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… shaken. And angry.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Angry means you’re still fighting.”

Before you could respond, the reporters broke through again — one yelling, “Superman! Is this another warning from Ghurkos’s loyalists?”

Superman turned his head toward them, eyes narrowing slightly, voice strong and steady. “Yes. And it ends tonight.”

The declaration hit the crowd like thunder. Cameras flashed brighter. Microphones thrust closer. But he didn’t elaborate — he turned back to you, softer now.

“You should let the medics check you,” he murmured, the wind carrying his words only to you.

You gave him a half-smile, voice low. “And what about you? Planning to vanish again before I can thank you properly?”

His expression softened — the faintest trace of humor crossing his features. “I’m not great at goodbyes.”

“Then don’t make this one,” you said quietly.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You reached up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the faint warmth of his skin against your palms — not alien, not untouchable, just him.

 Your fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, the line where the mask of heroism met the man underneath.

You rose on your tiptoes, the chaos fading like static behind glass.

 “My hero,” you whispered, voice trembling somewhere between gratitude and something you didn’t dare name.

And then you kissed him.

Not Clark — the man who’d walked you home after long nights working in your office, who laughed at your sarcasm and had lunch with you almost every day.

 But Superman.

The man of steel. The symbol the world worshipped — and right now, he was kissing you back.

For a second, the city forgot to breathe.

You arrive at the wedding with your mom and dad, wearing a dress that was a vision of elegance and allure, crafted from a soft, satin-like fabric in a muted sage green that caught the light with every movement. Its off-the-shoulder neckline framed the collarbones gracefully, with delicate draped folds cascading over the arms, adding a touch of romantic softness. You had bought this dress for a party at Wayne Mansion that your coworker dragged you to, and you haven't worn it since.

The ceremony and party were taking place outdoors, the weather was perfect, which was quite ironic considering what was happening around us. You look at the wedding decorations, all in shades of white and wooden furniture, everyone happy, smiling, and getting along. You let out a scoff with an ironic smile, everything perfect for a perfect relationship.

It's not that you're jealous of your cousin or think it's all ridiculous; you love Ashley and are very happy for her, but it seems like life is playing a trick on you. Looking around and letting your mind wander to past moments, it seems like only your love life is a complete disaster.

Following your mother and father to their seats up front, you say hello to people you know, many of whom say “long time no see!” or “how is Gotham treating you?”, and you nod and smile politely and answer all their questions. Many people seem surprised to see that your life has worked out there, after all, you left Smallville at 17 to go live with your aunt, your mom and dad supported you from start to finish, noticing that you were looking for more than a life in the countryside.

Almost at your destination, you bump into someone head-on, putting your hand out to soften the impact. You feel the firmest chest you've ever touched in your entire life and feel the stranger's large hands going straight to your waist, holding you back, warming the place with his touch.

“Golly! Are you alright?” asks the man who bumped into you. Blinking a few times, trying to process the warm voice you just heard, you look up.

Oh my god.

This was the most handsome man you had ever seen, and mind you, you had already had the pleasure of seeing Bruce Wayne in person, from afar, but it still counts.

Those were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, like a cloudless sky on a summer afternoon, and his smile showing dimples. You could faint right now, not to mention his jawline, which you swear could cut something because it was so sharp.

“Im... fine, yeah,” you say, still mesmerized by his blue eyes, lightly touching his clothed chest, realizing what you just did, you quickly remove your hands from there, letting them fall to your sides. “Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.”

His smile widens even more, and you continue to stare at his face. “No, it's my fault, I think I came in the wrong way.” His hands release your waist and go behind your body.

You raise a hand and wave it lightly in the air as if to say, Don't worry.

“Honey, come on.” Your mother calls you, and you quickly shift your attention from the handsome stranger in front of you to your mother.

“Well...” You begin, not even knowing what to say.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at you as if trying to figure you out. “Looks like it's about to start... I hope to see you later,” he gives you one last smile, as if to keep the thought of him inside your head for the rest of the night.

You can only nod and give him your sweetest smile, watching him walk to the seats on the right.

The party begins after the ceremony, with smiles, tears of joy, vows, exchanged rings, and a movie-like kiss at the end. You leave the table where you are sitting when you see your childhood best friend near the barstool, Pauline. She did well for herself in Smallville, working in a bakery and building the family she always dreamed of.

As you walk towards her, you look around, trying to find the handsome man who bumped into you.

“Hey girl, you look like you owe someone and want to know where they are so you don't bump into them,” Pauline says, drawing attention as she takes a sip of her dry martini.

“On the other hand, Liny, I want to bump into him again,” You reply, ordering a cosmopolitan for yourself. Now she has all her attention turned to you. “Oh, really? And who is this mysterious guy who has got you so worked up?” She teases you, and you roll your eyes.

“I want to know too,” you say, frustrated. “He has the bluest eyes I've ever seen. I don't think he's even real.”

You look around the room. Lively music is playing, some people are preparing a cold cut platter, and others are chatting and having a drink, until your eyes stop on him, talking to the groom and hugging him.

“There,” you say and point in the direction of the owner of the dreamy blue eyes, and Pauline gasps.

“You won't believe me if I tell you who it is,” she builds suspense, “it's Kent, Clark Kent,” she says, and you turn to her, shocked by the new information.

“But how? When? My God,” you ramble, and Pauline chuckles. “Well, I did find it a little strange that he said ‘Golly,’ but I let it go, after all, it's Smallville,” you comment, still looking incredulous.

“After we graduated, he got into a college in Metropolis. After studying there for a while, I saw him again during Christmas and New Year's, and I was scared. The big city did him good... maybe too good,” Pauline checks Clark out a bit. “But I'm happily married,” she shrugs.

“That doesn't mean you're blind,” you comment and laugh with Pauline.

“Well... he's single, you know. I heard his mom talking to my mom at the little birthday party my mom threw. She said he had a girlfriend, but it seems she wasn't really ready for a relationship.” Pauline looks at you as if she knows something, and you look back at her, trying to get that idea out of her head just by looking. “It's no use looking at me like that, I know you're in a dry spell, when you call me you only complain about it.”

“Well... it's not like I want to date him,” you murmur and your best friend laughs.

“Just enjoy the night, besides, he lives in Metropolis and you live in Gotham,” she observes you as if she can see the gears in your head turning.

“Actually... they're sending me to Metropolis. It seems there's a new hospital there, and my boss knows I'm not that fond of Gotham, I swear. It seems like the sun hardly ever shines there, not to mention the crime...” You sigh, finishing your cosmopolitan and ordering another. "Well, enough complaining. today I'm going to drink as much as I can, I don't have work tomorrow or anything else to worry about."

“That's the spirit!” Pauline raises her glass and you raise yours as you hear someone calling your friend. She takes one last sip and says she'll meet you later.

The music changes the mood, something slower and more romantic comes on, you watch the couples going onto the dance floor and looking at each other, it's a feeling you almost didn't believe you would have, but something inside you gave you a glimmer of hope every day.

Someone clears their throat next to you and you turn around, there he was, Clark Kent, not the Knet you remembered from school, he didn't even look like the old one, it's as if God had made him again.

“Kent.” you say with a little smile, and he returns the gesture.

“I see you figured it out,” he teases you, since you acted like you'd never seen him before.

“It wasn't on purpose, it's just that...” You look him up and down. That blue suit fit him like a glove. He hadn't taken off his suit jacket like most men.

“Yeah, I've changed a lot, haven't I?” He chuckled. “You've changed too, not as much, I mean, you're very pretty, not that you weren't before, you were! But—”

You interrupt him.

“I get it, thanks, Clark,” you end up blushing slightly.

There is a minute of silence between you, but it is a comfortable silence, as if you were about to reveal all your secrets without making either of you feel afraid.

“Would you do me the honor of dancing with the most beautiful girl here?” Clark says, looking at you and taking the hand that is holding your glass. It's as if his touch has given you a little shock, keeping you awake for the moment.

“I'm not sure that's me, but I'll pretend it is,” you tilt your head slightly to the right, letting him take your glass and leave it on the counter, then holding your hand.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” He looks at you with a smirk, pulling you onto the dance floor and heading to the middle of the dance floor.

You step onto the dance floor, and suddenly the world softens. Above you, strings of glowing lights stretch like low constellations, casting a warm shimmer over every slow step you take. Around you, other couples move gently in rhythm, their silhouettes swaying to the same melody, yet each lost in their own quiet universe.

The night air brushes against your skin, cool and sweet, carrying the scent of earth and greenery. From the nearby tables, candles flicker in tall glasses, their golden flames painting the scene in a hushed glow.

The music slows, and when you lift your gaze, you find Clark’s eyes fixed on you. There’s a softness there — that gentle intensity that makes you feel as though you’re the only person in the world. His hand rests carefully at your waist, steady but tender, guiding you as though every step matters. The other hand finds yours, fingers brushing lightly before intertwining, warm and sure.

He leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. The world around you fades — the glow of the lights, the murmurs of the crowd, even the candlelit tables — everything becomes background to the quiet, unspoken pull between you and him.

His thumb traces a delicate pattern against your hand, the touch featherlight but enough to send shivers through you. His voice doesn’t break the moment — he doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, as though memorizing every detail, speaks more than words ever could.

The song stretches on, and with every slow turn, his presence feels like a promise — strong, protective, yet impossibly tender. With Clark, it isn’t just a dance. It’s the sense that in his arms, you are both held and free, seen and cherished.

The last notes of the song linger in the night air, melting into the hush of murmurs and applause. You don’t let go of his hand — instead, you squeeze it, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you look up at him. His brow lifts just slightly, curious, but he doesn’t ask.

“Come on,” you whisper, tugging gently at his hand. “I know a spot.”

A soft chuckle rumbles from him, low and warm, as though the secret itself amuses him. He follows without hesitation, his long stride effortlessly matching yours. The crowd begins to blur as you weave past candlelit tables and glowing strings of lights, your heart thrumming faster with every step.

When you steal a glance back, Clark’s gaze is on you — steady, patient, but with that unmistakable spark that makes your chest tighten. He doesn’t need to know where you’re leading him. He trusts you, and there’s something about that trust, that quiet surrender from someone so unshakable, that makes your pulse race.

The night air grows cooler as you step away from the gathering, the music fading into a distant hum. The stars above are sharper here, framed by shadows of trees and the outline of the mountains. The world feels quieter, more yours.

And still, he hasn’t let go of your hand.

Your steps crunch softly against the gravel path as you guide him through the hedges, the glow of the reception fading behind you until all that’s left is the quiet hum of crickets and the faint brush of wind in the leaves. Clark’s hand never slips from yours, steady and warm, his presence wrapping around you like a second heartbeat.

Then the garden opens before you — a secret sanctuary draped in roses. The air is sweet with their fragrance, heavy and intoxicating. At the center, the stone gazebo rises, its arches wrapped in blossoms, like something out of a storybook. The hedges form gentle walls, closing you both into a world that feels untouched, meant only for the two of you.

You glance back at him, and his eyes sweep over the scene before returning to you, a flicker of wonder softening his features. “You weren’t exaggerating,” he says, voice low, almost reverent, as if raising it might disturb the magic of the place.

You lead him beneath the arch, into the heart of the gazebo. The light filters in patches through the roses above, dappling his broad shoulders, catching in his hair. He looks at you as though the garden doesn’t matter, as though you were the secret he was meant to find.

His hand slides down, brushing along your arm until his fingers find yours again, softer this time, more deliberate. The distance between you shrinks, the quiet pressing in close, and for a moment, it feels as though the whole world is holding its breath, waiting to see what will happen next.

You stand beneath the roses, the scent wrapping around you, and the words slip out before you can second-guess them.

“I heard you made your life in Metropolis,” you say, looking deep into his eyes.

Clark’s lips curve, just a little — not the full boyish grin you remember, but something softer, more knowing. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice lower than you recall, steadier. “Metropolis has a way of keeping you busy.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. It feels strange, standing here, talking like this. He’s taller than you remember, broader, his jawline sharper. Everything about him is familiar and yet impossibly different, like the same boy wrapped in a version of himself you can’t quite believe belongs to the same timeline as your high school memories.

“You’ve changed,” you murmur, and it’s more confession than observation.

His eyes flicker, amusement and curiosity dancing in them. “Changed how?”

You bite your lip, heat blooming in your cheeks. “You know how,” you say, your voice softer now, almost swallowed by the rustling leaves. “When did you…” Your gaze trails over him — the fit of his suit, the way his hair catches the evening light, the confidence he carries without even trying. “…when did you get hot?”

For a moment, silence hangs between you, and then he laughs — not mocking, but warm, that same sound you remember from years ago, only deeper now. He shakes his head slightly, as if he can’t believe you just said that.

“Guess I grew up,” he says, his thumb brushing along your hand again, almost absentmindedly, but enough to make your pulse race. “But for the record…” He leans in a fraction, his gaze holding yours, unflinching. “…you’re the one who looks incredible tonight.”

The words settle between you, charged and undeniable, and suddenly the roses, the lights, the whole world feels like it’s leaning in, waiting for your next move.

“Thank God,” you mutter with a crooked smile, shaking your head. “I usually look like a corpse thanks to my shifts at the hospital.”

Clark chuckles, that low, warm sound that seems to sink into your chest. “A corpse?” he repeats, amused. His brows lift as his eyes sweep over you again, slower this time, deliberate. “I don’t buy it. Not for a second.”

You roll your eyes, but his gaze doesn’t waver, and suddenly you feel too seen. He’s not just looking at your dress or the way you did your hair for tonight — he’s looking at you, the you he remembers and the you standing here now, all at once.

“Seriously,” you insist, laughing a little nervously. “Long nights, no sleep, bad coffee… it’s not exactly a glamorous look.”

Clark leans slightly closer, his voice dropping just enough that it feels like he’s letting you in on something. “Then I guess it’s lucky for me I never cared about glamorous.”

Your breath catches before you can help it, your heart tripping over itself. It’s unfair, the way he says it — earnest, almost effortless, like he doesn’t even realize how much weight his words carry.

The garden is quiet except for the soft rustle of the roses, and for a moment, you’re back in high school again — except he’s not the shy farm boy you used to know.

Your laugh slips out again, softer this time, but it doesn’t quite hide the way your chest feels tight. He’s too close now, his words still hanging between you, heavy and electric.

“Clark…” you start, but the way his name leaves your lips feels different — less like an old friend and more like a secret.

He tilts his head, studying you with that quiet patience he’s always had, though there’s something new now too, something sharper. His hand tightens gently around yours, the warmth grounding you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step closer. The air between you disappears, filled instead with the faint scent of roses and his cologne — clean, steady, undeniably him. His other hand brushes your arm, featherlight, almost testing the moment before he lets it rest at your waist.

Your heart hammers, your lips part. For a second you think you should say something — anything — but then his gaze drops to your mouth, and you don’t think at all.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s slow, deliberate, as though he’s waited years for this exact second. He kisses you like he means it, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way your hand curls tighter against his chest.

And when he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, you realize the boy you once knew is gone.

But the man standing in front of you? He might just be everything you never knew you wanted.

Your breath hitches against his, the faint brush of his lips against yours sending sparks straight to your core. You can feel the press of his body, the subtle weight of him leaning in closer, and it makes your knees weaken in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Clark’s hand slides from your waist, tracing the curve of your hip, warm and insistent, as if mapping the territory he’s longed to explore. You shiver at the touch, pressing a little closer, hungry for more of the sensation, the closeness.

He leans in again, teeth grazing your bottom lip in a teasing, dangerous way. Your pulse races, your fingers tangled in the back of his shirt as the air between you grows thick with tension and desire.

When he finally breaks away, it’s just enough for you to gasp, foreheads resting together again, breaths mingling. The look in his eyes is no longer just recognition or nostalgia—it’s raw, claiming, and utterly consuming.

“You’re driving me insane,” he admits, voice thick, and the way he says it makes it impossible for you to deny you feel the same.

Your hands tighten around him, pulling him closer. “Then don’t stop,” you whisper, barely audible, but enough to send a shiver through him that you can feel even with your lips still almost touching.

And neither of you does.

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—his bright blue eyes searching, almost silently asking permission. You don’t answer with words; a single, knowing nod is enough. He exhales, a mix of relief and desire, and leans in again.

This time, there’s no hesitation. His lips crash onto yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak, and his hands slide down, cupping your ass and lifting you just slightly, pressing you flush against him. You gasp into the kiss, your body arching into his as if answering some unspoken demand.

The press of him, the warmth, the sheer weight of his want, sends electricity through every nerve. His lips leave a trail along your jaw, down your neck, teasing, claiming, and you tilt your head, giving him better access, letting him explore.

Your hands don’t leave him, gripping his shoulders, his back, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse together and never let go. Every brush of his lips, every deliberate press of his hands, makes your chest tighten, your breath catch, until it feels like nothing else exists but the two of you and the heat spiraling between you.

He pauses just enough to look at you, forehead pressed to yours, his clear blue eyes shining with intensity. “You feel that too, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, fingers still tangled in his hair, body melting into his. “Everything.”

And then he’s kissing you again, harder, deeper, hands exploring with a mix of urgency and reverence, as if this is what he’s waited for his whole life.

You finally break the kiss, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling quickly. Clark’s forehead rests against yours, his own breath coming in deep, steady pulls, as if the moment has left him just as breathless as you. His bright blue eyes are locked on yours, wide, alive, full of something raw and unspoken.

“You… wow,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, and it makes your stomach twist in the best way.

Your hands slide down his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath his shirt, and you can’t help the small, shuddering laugh that escapes you. “Yeah… wow,” you echo, words barely there, but heavy with everything you’re feeling.

Clark leans in again, lips brushing against yours, slow, deliberate, teasing. You feel the heat, the pull of his hands at your waist, the undeniable press of his body against yours—but this time, you tilt your head just slightly, letting his lips graze past yours instead of fully meeting them.

He freezes for a moment, blue eyes catching yours, surprised but intrigued, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh? Trying to tease me?” he murmurs, voice low and amused, but there’s an unmistakable edge of desire beneath it.

You bite your lip, letting your chest rise and fall against him, feeling the friction of his body without giving in completely. “Maybe,” you whisper, letting the word hang between you, teasingly uncertain.

Clark’s hands tighten just a fraction on your hips, tilting you closer despite your subtle resistance. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” His gaze flicks down to your lips, then back to your eyes, searching, daring, his whole body practically vibrating with the tension you’ve created.

You shrug, a small, sly smile playing on your lips, leaning just enough to keep him wanting more. “Maybe I am,” you admit softly, letting the air between you thrum with anticipation.

His smirk widens, and then he’s back, capturing your lips in a searing, insistent kiss, hands roaming like he’s determined to memorize every inch of you, and suddenly the teasing gives way to full, unrestrained desire.

You and Clark spend the time at the party together, talking about everything you both missed about each other—old memories from high school, small moments you thought the other wouldn’t remember, the ridiculous things that made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. Each story, each shared laugh, pulls you closer, a quiet gravity drawing you together.

And all the while, you feel it—the way his hand lingers on yours a little too long, the way his gaze keeps catching yours, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. You sense he wants to tell you something, something that matters.

Finally, you take a deep breath, meeting his bright blue eyes. “What are you so afraid of saying?” you ask gently.

Clark shifts slightly, his hands fidgeting, voice low and uncertain. “Just… uh, we’re having a great… an amazing time together. I just didn’t want it to end.” His eyes search yours, honest and open. “Maybe it was just a kiss, but—”

You reach up, lightly touching his arm, cutting him off with a soft smile. “I get it. I feel that way too.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, a small tension in his shoulders. “But… after, you’re going back to Gotham and I’m going to Metropolis,” he says, the reality of distance creeping into the warmth of the moment.

You feel your chest tighten at the truth of it, the bittersweet edge slicing through the connection you’ve spent the night rebuilding.

“Hmm… actually, I’m kinda moving from there,” you say, a small, teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Got a job offer in Metropolis.”

For a moment, Clark just stares at you, eyes widening—and then they sparkle. That unmistakable bright blue shining with something like hope, disbelief, and something entirely new all at once.

“You… really?” His voice catches, a mix of surprise and something softer, more vulnerable. You can see it in the way his mouth curves into a grin, slow but full of warmth, and the way he leans in just a fraction closer.

“Yeah,” you reply, heart hammering in your chest, both from the news and from the way he’s looking at you. “I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but… well, now you know.”

Clark laughs softly, a low, relieved sound that sends shivers down your spine. His hands find yours again, fingers intertwining like a silent promise. “So… maybe this isn’t the end,” he says, voice rough with emotion, bright blue eyes locked on yours. “Maybe… maybe it’s just the beginning.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, the warmth in your chest. “Maybe it is,” you whisper, leaning just slightly into him, letting the tension of the night—the uncertainty, the longing—melt into something else entirely.

And in that moment, with the noise of the party fading around you, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you, possibilities stretching endlessly ahead.

Before either of you can think twice, Clark leans in, and your lips meet in a kiss that’s slow at first, testing, savoring the fact that nothing is holding you back anymore. The weight of everything—the missed years, the uncertainty, the longing—melts into that single press of lips.

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, while yours thread through his hair, holding him closer as if you could fuse together in that moment. The kiss deepens, hungry now, urgent, and your breath catches as his lips move over yours with a mix of reverence and desire.

You tilt your head, letting him explore, letting yourself melt into the sensation of him—his warmth, his touch, the steady press of his body against yours. Every second stretches, the world around you disappearing, leaving just the two of you in the quiet, intense bubble of this long-awaited closeness.

“I want you, Clark,” you whisper, your lips barely brushing his ear as your words tremble between need and longing.

His eyes widen for a heartbeat, then darken with something intense, something that mirrors exactly what you’re feeling. He tilts his head, pressing a slow, heated kiss to your lips, letting the words sink between you both without needing to speak them again.

“God… you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with need. His blue eyes lock onto yours, blazing with a mix of desire and tenderness, and you can feel it in every press of his body, every featherlight touch that trails over your skin.

You look at Clark one more time, heart hammering, and he catches it, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips. “My place?” he asks, voice low, slightly breathless—and a little pink spreads across his cheeks.

You just nod, letting the unspoken answer hang between you. The way he looks at you now—half relief, half disbelief, all desire—makes something coil in your stomach.

He glances toward his parents, clearly about to give some excuse, but you beat him to it. Stepping past him, you pull out your phone and quickly send a text to your mom, keeping it simple: Not sleeping home tonight, don’t worry if you look for me at the end of the party.

Clark laughs softly, a warm sound that vibrates through you, and tucks his hand in yours as you head toward the exit. The buzz of the party, the laughter and chatter around you, all fades into the background as the tension—and the anticipation—between you two grows with every step.

Once outside, the cool night air hits you both, but it doesn’t cool the heat simmering between you. Clark’s hand tightens around yours as he leans in, brushing a soft kiss against your temple, his blue eyes sparkling in the streetlight.

Before you even reach the car, Clark presses you gently but firmly against it, his body warm and insistent against yours. His lips find yours again, slow at first, teasing, then deepening with a hunger that makes your knees weak.

Your hands thread through his hair, tugging lightly, and he responds by pressing closer, his chest flush against yours, hands roaming your back, pulling you impossibly nearer. Every brush of his lips, every whispered sigh between you, makes the air around you feel electric, like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

You gasp against him as his hands slide lower, cupping your waist, pressing you firmly against the car. His blue eyes flick open for a moment, bright and full of want, searching yours like he’s asking for permission without needing words. You only nod, biting your lip, giving him the answer he doesn’t need.

He groans softly against your lips, tilting his head, pressing deeper, and the heat between you spirals. Every second feels impossibly long, charged with desire and anticipation, and you know that the moment you step into the car—or leave it—you’re not going to be able to keep this contained much longer.

Clark’s lips trail down from yours to your neck, soft at first, teasing, then more insistent, leaving heated kisses that make your breath hitch. You tilt your head, giving him better access, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as a shiver runs through you.

His hands tighten on your waist, pressing you closer, and the warmth of his body against yours sends a jolt straight through your core. Every brush of his lips, every featherlight nip, makes your pulse race, and the world around you—the party, the night, everything—fades away until there’s only him, only this, only the delicious tension between you.

“Clark…” you whisper, your voice trembling with want, and he lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, blue eyes sparkling with need and mischief. His lips return to yours, claiming you again, slow and deliberate, before dipping back down to your neck, teasing, tasting, making it impossible to think about anything except him.

You gasp, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging lightly, silently urging him on, as if this moment has been building for years—and now, finally, nothing is holding either of you back.

“Get in,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing and tongue teasing the pulse point right under your ear. The heat of his body presses you against the car, and you can feel the sharp intake of his breath with every gasp you make.

“Before I do… something out here,” he adds, voice low, playful, and dangerous all at once. The words send a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively nod, heart racing, already aching with need.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to look at you with those sparkling blue eyes, full of want and mischief, before leaning in again, kissing you fiercely as his hands slide down to grip your hips. Every brush of his lips, every teasing lick at your pulse point, leaves you trembling, your knees threatening to buckle.

He met you when the Laredo Police Department asked him to give a short talk about safety at a local school. He almost said no — he wasn’t exactly the public-speaking type — but something about being back in his hometown made him say yes.

He didn’t expect to see you there.

Standing by the classroom door, a streak of blue paint on your cheek and more on your overalls, you looked like sunshine in human form. The kind of brightness that didn’t hurt to look at. You smiled at him, shy and genuine, apologizing for the mess because “art class got a little out of hand.”

Javier remembered laughing — really laughing — for the first time in a long while.

Something shifted that day. Maybe it was the way you looked at him, not like a man who’d seen too much, but like someone who still had something good left in him. Maybe it was the way your voice softened when you said his name. Whatever it was, it stuck with him.

He left that school with paint on his sleeve and a feeling he couldn’t shake — that maybe, just maybe, he’d finally met someone who could quiet the noise in his head.

You and Javier hit it off fast — faster than either of you expected. Late-night talks turned into quiet dinners, dinners into kisses, and kisses into something deeper. There were long drives with the windows down, laughter that came too easily, and the kind of touch that felt like home. Somewhere between shared secrets and sleepy mornings tangled in sheets, he realized he couldn’t imagine a life without you.

He married you not long after. His father, growing older and slower, handed him the ranch with a proud clap on the shoulder and a quiet smile. The old man moved into a small house nearby — close enough to visit, far enough to give them space — and Javier built a life there. A family.

Two little girls, all soft curls and bright laughter, with their father’s big chocolate-brown eyes and his stubbornness too. They filled every corner of that house with joy, with noise, with love — things Javier once thought he’d never deserve.

The girls were four now — all energy and curiosity, tiny tornadoes in matching pajamas. It was October 31st, which meant one thing: Halloween.

You were in the kitchen, the smell of cocoa and cinnamon filling the air as you stirred two mugs of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows just the way they liked it. From the living room came the familiar soundtrack of Wicked — for the fourth time that week. They knew every song by heart, their little voices carrying through the house, sweet and off-key.

Javier leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched them. The sight never got old — the twins sitting side by side on the couch, wrapped in a blanket far too big for them, singing about loathing like they were in the movie with Elphaba and Glinda.

The sunlight streamed through the window and the glass door, painting your face and the counter in a warm, golden glow. Javi paused for a moment, just taking you in — the way your hair caught the light, the quiet hum of the house around you, the peace that seemed to follow wherever you stood.

He walked up behind you, his hands finding your waist with that easy familiarity that came from years of loving you. He leaned in, breathing you in — the scent of cocoa and your shampoo mixing together — and pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck.

You giggled, setting the spoons aside, the sound of it making something in his chest loosen.

“Morning, mi amor,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep.

“Morning, papa bear,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips. The nickname made him huff out a quiet groan — the same one he always gave when you or the girls used it. They’d started calling him that because of his big, warm hugs and how safe they felt wrapped up in his arms.

He stepped to the side, reaching for one of the mugs on the counter. “What, no coffee?” he muttered, smirking a little as he lifted it to his lips.

Before he could take a sip, your hand came up, stopping him.

“It’s not for you,” you warned, eyebrows raised.

Javi froze mid-motion, looking down at the mug like it had personally betrayed him.

“And it’s not coffee, it’s hot chocolate,” you added, shooting him a look over your shoulder as you picked up both mugs.

Javi raised his hands in mock surrender, watching as you crossed the room. The girls were back on the couch now, no longer singing — their eyes glued to the TV as Glinda tried to impress Fiyero, completely absorbed in the scene.

You set the mugs down carefully on the table in front of them, the steam curling up in lazy swirls. Neither of them even blinked, too lost in their musical world to notice you or the cocoa.

From behind you, Javi chuckled softly. “They get that focus from you,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

You shook your head, smiling to yourself as you walked back into the kitchen. The smell of toasted bread and melted cheese filled the air while you flipped the grilled sandwiches and started slicing fruit for the girls. Behind you, Javier’s eyes followed your every move.

“I want hot chocolate too — that’s not fair,” he teased in his deep, mock-serious tone.

You laughed, not even turning around. “Javi, you’re not four anymore. Actually, you’re fifty-three.”

He let out a low groan, stepping closer. “Not fair,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Now there’s an age limit for appreciating hot chocolate?”

“Lucky you, there’s a little left,” you said with a grin. You poured the remaining hot chocolate into his old DEA mug and, for good measure, added a splash of coffee to it — just enough to give it a little kick.

Javier raised an eyebrow, sniffing the mug suspiciously. “You’re evil,” he said, though the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

“You love me,” you said, grinning up at him.

He didn’t answer with words — just leaned down and kissed you, soft and slow, caught up in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Then a chorus of tiny voices rang out from the living room: “Ewwwwww!”

Javier pulled back, laughing, and shook his head. “The audience has spoken,” he muttered, still holding you close.

The girls giggled, grabbing their mugs of hot chocolate, their little hands spilling a bit as they clutched them to their chests.

You grabbed the plates with the grilled cheese and fruit, balancing them carefully, and made your way to the couch. Settling down beside them, you passed the plates around, the three of you huddled together under a blanket.

Javier slid in on the other side, wrapping an arm around you, watching the twins dive into their breakfast with delight. The morning sun streamed through the windows, painting the room gold, and for a moment, everything felt perfectly, impossibly right.

“Halloween, girls… and we don’t even have jack-o’-lanterns yet,” you said, glancing at Javier, knowing full well he’d been postponing the crafting for as long as possible. He knew exactly what a mess it would create.

“PAPA’S FAULT!” the two chorused in perfect sync, pointing little fingers at him.

Javier threw his hands up in mock defeat, laughing. “Hey! I never agreed to be blamed for everything!”

The girls shrieked with laughter, and you couldn’t help but grin at the chaos — your little family, noisy and messy and perfect, filling the house with life.

“How about we do it before lunch? I have pumpkins for everyone,” you said, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

“You… bought them?” Javier whispered, incredulous, and you shot him a pointed look.

“You wouldn’t, so yes, I did,” you replied, mock-serious.

He groaned, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched up into a reluctant smile. “You really are impossible,” he murmured, and you just laughed, already imagining the mess and laughter that would follow.

“I want to do a scary one!” Rosa declared, throwing her hands up for emphasis. She ruled the room with her energy, loud, extroverted, and stubborn — just like her dad.

“I want a silly one,” Bella said softly, her voice gentle and calm, quieter than her sister, and more like you in her demeanor. She peeked up at you with a shy smile, as if checking for approval.

Javier leaned against the counter, watching them with a fond shake of his head. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” he muttered, a small grin tugging at his lips.

You laughed, ruffling Bella’s hair. “Then we better get to it. Everyone pick their pumpkin!”

The girls squealed in delight, running toward the front porch, their personalities shining through every movement — Rosa bouncing and jabbering with excitement, Bella more deliberate and careful, a quiet reflection of you.

As you and Javier helped the girls carve their pumpkins in the backyard, a serious debate was brewing over Halloween costumes.

“I want to be Glinda!” Bella exclaimed, her hands planted firmly on her hips, determination in her quiet, steady voice.

“I’m Elphie!” Rosa shot back, puffing out her chest, loud and stubborn — so much like her dad.

Javier chuckled, shaking his head as he scraped pumpkin seeds into the bowl. “Looks like someone’s channeling their inner Peña,” he muttered, and you laughed, watching Bella glare at him like he’d picked sides.

You ruffled Bella’s hair gently. “Maybe we need to figure this out before someone ends up crying over a tiara,” you teased, already imagining the chaos that would follow.

“There’s no crying, Mama,” Bella said firmly, her hands resting on her head to mimic a crown. “Only Glinda has a crown.”

Rosa rolled her eyes, glaring at her sister. “I am Elphie! I don’t need a crown to be awesome!”

Javier laughed, shaking his head, while you couldn’t help but smile at the girls’ determination. Their personalities shone through so clearly — Rosa bold and stubborn, Bella quiet but just as strong in her own way.

You crouched down beside them, pretending to mediate. “Alright, princesses, maybe we can come up with something that works for both of you,” you suggested, already knowing the chaos and laughter that was about to follow.

“What are you going as, Mama?” Rosa asked, watching closely as you helped her carve the pumpkin’s eyes.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” you said with a smile. “You can choose for me.”

Rosa grinned, clearly pleased with the power she’d just been given. “And Papi?” she asked, glancing toward Javier.

Javier paused, running his fingers thoughtfully along his mustache before answering. “I’m going as…” — he gave her a mock-serious look — “the father of Rosa and Bella.”

Rosa giggled, rolling her eyes. “That’s not a costume, Papi!”

He shrugged, smirking. “Sure it is. Scariest one there is.”

You laughed, shaking your head as both girls dissolved into giggles, the sound echoing through the warm autumn air.

“Papi is the Scarecrow,” Bella announced suddenly, her little voice certain, like she’d been thinking about it all along. “And Mama is Dorothy.”

Rosa nodded in full agreement, curls bouncing. 

Javier chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “The Scarecrow, huh? Guess that means I need a brain,” he teased, earning a soft smack on the arm from you.

The girls burst out laughing, their giggles carrying through the backyard, mixing with the smell of pumpkins and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

“Noooo,” Bella said, climbing right onto his lap and grabbing his face in her tiny hands. “Scarecrow doesn’t have a brain!”

Javier laughed, the sound deep and genuine, his hands coming up to steady her so she wouldn’t slip. “Oh, he doesn’t, huh?” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Bella shook her head hard, curls bouncing, her little palms still squishing his cheeks. “Nope! That’s why you’re the Scarecrow, Papi!”

You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh as Rosa nearly fell over from giggling. Javier shot you a mock glare over Bella’s shoulder, but there was no hiding the fond smile tugging at his lips.

You all kept talking and laughing as you worked, the backyard filled with the sound of tiny voices and the scrape of spoons against pumpkin walls. Bits of orange pulp clung to everyone’s hands, and the table looked like a small disaster zone — but it was the good kind of mess, the kind that felt alive.

By the time the pumpkins were finished, each one had its own personality — a scary one for Rosa, a silly one for Bella, and one somewhere in between that you and Javier had carved together.

You wiped your hands on a towel and helped Javier carry them to the front yard. The sun was already starting to dip lower, painting everything in soft orange light as you set the jack-o’-lanterns by the porch steps, side by side — a little family of pumpkins, perfectly imperfect.

“Come on, Rosa! We need green paint to paint you!” Bella said, grabbing her sister’s hand before Rosa could protest.

Rosa laughed as they ran inside, their little footsteps echoing through the hallway. You could already hear them giggling and arguing about who would get the glitter first.

Javier shook his head beside you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You realize they’re about to turn the bathroom into a war zone, right?”

“Isn’t Bella going as the green one? El… Ephala?” Javier asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin against his chest as you looked up at him. “Elphaba, baby,” you corrected softly. “And no, this is Rosa.”

He chuckled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Too many witches in this house,” he murmured, and you could feel the smile in his voice.

By the time the girls came downstairs, you and Javier were already in your costumes. The living room smelled faintly of paint and pumpkin, the afternoon light going away as the moon showed.

You smiled, holding up the pink crown you’d made for Bella — the final touch to complete Glinda’s costume. “Come here, princess,” you said, crouching a little as she ran toward you, her sparkly dress swaying with every tiny step.

Javier watched from the couch, shaking his head with that soft, proud smile he always got when he looked at his girls.

Rosa looked at you finishing Bella’s hair, her little face scrunching up in impatience. Javier watched the whole scene from where he stood, amused.

“Come here, little witch,” he said, scooping Rosa up into his arms and fixing the crooked black hat on her head. He tilted his head, pretending to study her seriously. “Did you eat grass as a baby?”

“Papi!” Rosa giggled, smacking his shoulder lightly. “I’m green because I’m Elphaba!”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Right, right. My mistake, brujita.”

“Let’s gooo! Trick or treat! Trick or treat!” Bella shouted, running toward the door, her tiny shoes squeaking against the floor. She clutched her candy bag in one hand, trying to fix her crooked crown with the other as it nearly slipped off while she ran.

Javier laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “She gets that excitement from you,” he teased, grabbing the car keys.

You smiled, watching your girls bounce with pure joy. “She gets it from the sugar,” you said, following them out.

You both watched as Bella and Rosa twirled their little skirts, singing Defying Gravity at the top of their lungs while you stepped out of the house. The evening air was cool, carrying the faint sound of laughter and distant trick-or-treaters.

“I love you,” Javier murmured against your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

You smiled, leaning into him. “I know… te quiero también,” you replied, your Spanish still clumsy after all these years. The girls were already better at it than you — Javier spoke to them half in Spanish, half in English, and they soaked it all up.

“They’re growing fast,” he said with a soft smile.

“Oh, I know what this is,” you teased, turning in his arms. “No, we’re not having another baby. Imagine if it’s twins again! I carried two babies once, I’m not doing it twice.”

He chuckled, pressing his lips to your temple. “You know the chances of twins are only about one and a half to three percent.”

“You said that last time,” you shot back, nodding toward the girls now chasing each other down the porch steps.

“Come onnn! Candies! Trick or treat! Hurry!” they shouted, impatient and gleeful.

You giggled, giving Javier one last look before kissing him softly. “We’ll think about another baby when they’re in high school.”

He smiled, watching you walk toward the girls, the soft sound of their laughter fading into the night.

Fact is, you did get pregnant again — two years later. And the girls were still very far from high school.

"Honey," you heard your husband’s voice, and you slid your sunglasses down, looking back at him.

Behind him stood a group of men. They didn’t look like his friends — not with the sunburnt skin, worn boots, and shirts clinging to their backs from the heat. They surely didn’t dress like it either.

“This is the crew that’s doing some renovations around the house,” he explained casually.

Your gaze swept over them, polite and fleeting, until it caught on one. Brown hair, brown eyes, the kind of presence that didn’t need an introduction. His shirt stretched over broad shoulders, biceps carved against the fabric, and his large hands rested at his waist as if they belonged there.

You tilted your chin, lips quirking as you raised a lazy little wave to the group.

“Hey, boys.”

“Put something on and come inside, honey,” your husband called, pulling you out of your sun-soaked haze.

You sighed softly, standing from the lounge chair and reaching for your cover-up, slipping it over your bikini before stepping into the cool air of the house. Inside, your husband was already walking the crew through the details of the renovation, his voice echoing against the marble floors.

“But I’ll be out, traveling for work,” he said, gesturing toward you without even looking. “So my wife will be the one receiving you during these next few weeks.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, biting back the smirk that threatened to rise. But a pair of brown eyes had already caught it — caught you — and you knew, from that single glance, that he’d noticed everything you were trying not to show.

“Don’t worry, boys, I promise not to be too bossy,” you said with a sweet smile, earning a few quiet laughs from the crew.

Your husband, however, didn’t seem amused. The slight twitch in his jaw gave him away — the way he hated when you spoke out of turn, when you weren’t the quiet, agreeable wife he liked to parade around. He didn’t say anything, though. He just cleared his throat and turned back to the men, pretending you weren’t even there.

“So just follow the plans exactly as discussed,” he continued, voice clipped. “I’ll be back in a month.”

You never liked the way he treated you in front of others — always cold, distant, almost dismissive, like you were nothing more than a trophy to be displayed. It wasn’t much different when you were alone, though at least without an audience, you didn’t have to feel humiliated.

You didn’t need him for the money — your family was wealthy too. Everyone saw your marriage as a perfect match, a convenient arrangement between powerful names. Your father had set it up, and you’d gone along with it, because what else was there to do? You knew that if you ever complained, he’d just tell you to behave. To smile. To play the part.

You’d been doing it your whole life — playing the part. The perfect daughter, the perfect wife. Even after finding out about your husband’s endless affairs with his assistant — too young, too skinny, too... bratty — you stayed quiet, smiled for the cameras, and pretended not to care.

But you were tired.

And when your eyes landed on Joel Miller, something inside you shifted — like a light flicking on after years in the dark. He was everything your husband wasn’t: broad, grounded, effortlessly charming. The kind of man who didn’t have to prove anything to be noticed. And, judging by those hands... he probably knew exactly how to use them.

WEEK 1 - Monday

The maid opened the gate as Joel and his crew pulled in with the truck and materials. He silently thanked God that your husband wouldn’t be around during the renovation. He’d worked for plenty of rich folks before — the kind who hovered, gave too many opinions, and expected to be agreed with no matter what. Joel had learned to keep his mouth shut; arguing could cost him a job.

But that wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

You.

You, with your sun-kissed skin and hair that looked too soft to be real, with that addictive gaze and a body that could make any man lose focus. He shouldn’t think like that — hell, he knew he shouldn’t. You were married, probably living the picture-perfect life he’d seen in magazines left on coffee tables.

Someone like you would never look twice at a man like him.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Halfway through the renovation of the bar and wine cellar, the front door opened, and the sound echoed softly through the quiet house.

Joel barely looked up at first — he was focused on measuring a section of wall — but then he caught sight of you walking in, arms full of shopping bags. Sunlight followed you through the doorway, catching on your hair, making it look almost golden. You moved with the kind of ease that didn’t need attention to be noticed; it just happened naturally.

Your jeans fit your ass perfectly, your sunglasses were perched loosely on top of your head, and the soft fabric of your tank top top tank showing the outline of your nipples through the fabric. For a second, Joel forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

He swallowed hard, pretending to focus back on the plans, but his eyes flickered once more in your direction — just long enough to remind himself that some distractions were harder to ignore than others.

“Oh, hey guys,” you said with a smile, and a couple of them waved back, calling out, “Hey, boss lady!”

“When you’re done with that, I brought some tacos for you all,” you added, holding up a bag with a grin.

“Martha, can you bring these upstairs?” you asked the maid, smiling as you watched her take the bags. The crew glanced over, some smirking, some just curious, and Joel’s eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary, making it hard to focus on anything else.

You walked toward Joel, noticing the faint sheen of sweat darkening his shirt from the heat and effort.

“Hey Joel, how’s everything going?” you asked, your voice casual, though your gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary.

He looked up, momentarily caught off guard by your presence, then quickly masked it with a professional nod. “Everything’s good,” he replied, trying to focus on the plans spread across the table. But you could see it in the slight pause, the way his eyes flicked back to you despite himself.

“I meant with the renovation,” you clarified, tilting your head slightly as you studied the plans spread across the table.

Joel blinked, realizing what you were asking, and gave a small nod. “Ah, right. Everything’s on track so far. Just a few adjustments, but nothing major.”

Your eyes lingered on him a moment longer, noting the way he moved, the ease with which he handled everything. “Good,” you said softly, letting the word hang in the air, as if it carried a little more than just approval.

“Tell me about it, hmmm… you can use those technical words that only men seem to understand for some reason, I don’t care,” you said with a teasing smile, leaning slightly over the plans.

Joel glanced up, momentarily caught off guard by your teasing tone. He cleared his throat, trying to focus on the plans, but the slight smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

“Well… if you insist,” he said, leaning a bit closer over the table, tracing his finger along the blueprint as he spoke. “For this section, we’ll need to reinforce the beams and adjust the support structure here to—”

You watched him carefully, letting your eyes follow every motion, every subtle gesture, enjoying the way he tried to stay professional while clearly aware of your attention.

“ok that’s hot” you murmur.

Joel froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. A brief flush crept across his cheeks, but he quickly masked it with a professional cough.

“You… you mean the plans?” he asked, voice steady but a little tighter than before, trying to keep the focus on work.

You gave a slow, teasing smile, letting the comment hang in the air without clarifying. “Maybe,” you murmured, your tone light, playful… and just enough to make him swallow hard.

He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, and leaned back, trying to regain his composure. But the tension between you two was unmistakable — charged, electric, and entirely unspoken.

“So, what did my husband talk to you about? Which renovations did he request?” you asked, leaning slightly over the table, your eyes scanning the plans alongside his.

Joel looked up, meeting your gaze for a brief moment before returning to the blueprints. “Mostly the usual — reinforcing the beams, updating the bar area, and reworking the wine cellar layout a bit. He also wants some adjustments in the living room, like new built-in shelving and improved lighting, and the pool area could use a few upgrades too — resurfacing, a new deck, and some landscaping for privacy.”

You nodded, letting your eyes wander over the plans and imagining the changes. “Sounds like a lot of work,” you murmured, letting your tone carry a hint of amusement. “I hope you don’t mind me keeping an eye on things. Maybe even giving a few suggestions.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours again, just long enough for a faint smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Not at all,” he said smoothly, trying to keep his focus on the layout. But you could tell he was aware of your presence — and enjoying it, even if only just a little.

“Actually, I wanted some things for myself,” you admitted, leaning a little closer to the plans, your voice low and casual.

Joel raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Oh? Like what?” he asked, keeping his tone professional, though his eyes betrayed a hint of interest.

You smirked slightly, letting your gaze drift over the blueprints. “Just little touches… personal touches in my room and bathroom, if you don’t mind,” you added casually, watching for his reaction.

Joel nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Not at all,” he said smoothly, his voice steady, though you could tell he was paying closer attention than strictly necessary.

“I could give you a house tour… not now, of course, you seem busy,” you said, letting your hand brush lightly over his biceps as you leaned closer.

“How about next week? Most of this area should be nearly finished by then… so, I think maybe you could just come. Give your team a little break,” you added with a teasing smile, letting the suggestion hang in the air.

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he adjusted his stance, trying to keep the conversation professional while clearly aware of your proximity.

“Think about it,” you said, letting your voice drop slightly, playful but casual. “I could take you to the first… second… third floor.”

Joel’s eyes widened just a fraction, and he cleared his throat, trying to mask the small smile tugging at his lips. “Uh… I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, his voice steady, though his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary.

The air between you crackled, charged with a silent, unspoken understanding — something neither of you had to say aloud.

-THURSDAY

The Miller Construction team arrived a little earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, finishing up your breakfast.

“Miss, they’re here,” Martha said, peeking in with a polite smile.

“Thanks, Martha. Don’t worry about the dishes, I’ll take care of them later,” you replied, giving her a reassuring nod.

Just as you were putting your cup down, Joel appeared in the doorway, holding a tablet and looking slightly uncertain.

“Hey… I wanted to ask you something about the renovation,” he said, glancing from the tablet to you. “About the bar area — your husband mentioned a few adjustments, but I wanted to get your opinion on the layout before we start.”

You smiled, walking a few steps closer to the doorway, letting your gaze linger on him just a little longer than necessary. “Of course,” you said casually. “Show me what you were thinking.”

You lean on the kitchen counter and Joel's gaze lingers on the way your babydoll nightgown rides up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of your thighs and the lace trim of your underwear. Your breasts are pressed firmly against the cold marble countertop, the fabric of your nightgown stretching taut over your ample cleavage.

Joel cleared his throat, trying to focus on the plans but clearly distracted. “Right… so, if we move the shelving over here and adjust the counter slightly, it should make the space feel more open. Does that sound okay to you?”

He glanced at you again, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if your presence made the work feel a little more… interesting than usual. “I just want to make sure everything’s exactly how you want it.”

“You know what? Help me here — first floor,” you said, turning toward your small library. Joel followed, carrying the tablet and a few notes, keeping a professional tone but clearly alert to your presence. “Alright, show me what you have in mind,” he said, glancing around as you moved through the room. 

When you both stepped inside, you closed the door behind you and turned to face him.

“There’s nothing wrong with the place itself,” you said, letting your gaze meet his, “but I wanted something to make it memorable.”

Joel nodded slowly, tilting his head as he studied you. “Memorable… how do you mean?” he asked, keeping his tone professional, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

You smiled slightly, letting the words hang in the air, just enough to make him lean in a little closer, scanning the room with you while trying to focus on the possibilities.

“Something for me to remember about this room,” you said with a playful smile, lightly tugging at the hem of his shirt, just enough to catch his attention.

Joel looked at you, caught between amusement and concentration. “I… see,” he said carefully, trying to keep his focus on the plans.

You leaned slightly closer, voice teasing. “It doesn’t have to be a thing… it could be an experience,” you added, letting the words hang in the air, leaving him to wonder what you meant.

“Ma’am… you’re married,” Joel said, his tone a mix of surprise and mild amusement, trying to keep things professional.

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “I know,” you replied lightly, letting the words hang in the air. “Does that bother you?”

Joel hesitated, glancing at the plans in his hands as if they could save him, but you could see the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes — awareness, curiosity, and maybe a hint of challenge.

"You know my husband is probably fucking his secretary right know"

Joel's expression shifts from professional curiosity to something more intense and charged. Your blunt remark hangs heavy in the air between them. He swallows hard, his grip on the tablet tightening slightly. 

"That's not really any of my business," he says quietly, but his voice carries an underlying tension.

"I've seen you looking at me" You let one strap of your babydoll fall from your shoulder

His eyes immediately drop to the exposed shoulder, a flash of desire crossing his face before he quickly looks back up to meet your gaze. His breathing becomes slightly heavier as he realizes you're playing a dangerous game. "You shouldn't do that,”

"You don't want me?” you look at him deep inside his eyes.

His self-control snaps at your bold question. He steps closer, lowering his voice to a husky whisper "God, I want you. Every inch of you." His hand comes up to replace the fallen strap, but instead of fixing it, he lets his fingers trace down your arm.

“Just… let it happen, Joel,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing, daring him to resist.

Without another word, he closes the distance between you. His large hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against his muscular body. He kisses you hard, his lips pressing against yours with years of built-up tension and desire. His tongue slides into your mouth, exploring and claiming.

His hands move from your waist to tangle in your hair, deepening the kiss even further. He tastes like coffee and something uniquely him—masculine and intoxicating. You can feel his erection pressing against your stomach, hard and insistent through his jeans.

Just as the kiss becomes heated and passionate, you suddenly push him away gently but firmly. Joel stumbles back slightly, breathing heavily with his lips swollen and damp from the kiss. He looks confused and aroused, his hands still reaching out towards you.

 "Wait..." he manages to say between ragged breaths.

You stay quiet just lifting your hand. Joel's eyes follow your movement as you slowly let the other strap of your babydoll fall down your shoulder. The thin fabric slips away, revealing more of your cleavage and the soft swell of your breasts.

“ops right” you let out a teasing grin

Joel swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the exposed skin. "Right," he repeats, his voice hoarse. He reaches out as if to fix the strap, but his hand trembles and he ends up gently pushing the fabric down even further instead. "Accidents happen,”

And you shiver after that last phrase, Joel starts with gentle kisses on your neck, his hands roaming up your sides to hold your breasts gently. He kisses and sucks along your collarbone and down to your chest, his touch gentle yet urgent. 

Without hesitation, he captures one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking gently at first before increasing the pressure. His tongue circles the sensitive bud while his hand squeezes and plays with the other breast. He switches sides, giving equal attention to both peaks, alternating between sucking and biting gently. 

You let out a moan and grab his hair with both hands, pulling him closer to your chest as he sucks and bites your nipples. Your legs shake slightly as pleasure shoots straight to your core. Joel's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he feasts on your breasts like a starving man. "Ahh... Joel!”

Just as Joel is sucking your nipple particularly hard, making you arch your back with pleasure, you hear Martha's voice calling from downstairs. "Miss? I'm finishing up downstairs and was going to start on the laundry…”

You quickly push Joel away, trying to catch your breath. Your breasts are still exposed, nipples hard and wet from his mouth. You straighten your babydoll quickly and call out, "Martha! It's fine, I'll help you with the laundry in a minute!”

You give Joel a quick, passionate kiss before opening the door. He watches you with a hungry gaze, his lips swollen from kissing and sucking your breasts. You slip out of the room, leaving him there with a visible bulge in his pants.

Joel watches you go, his mind filled with mixed thoughts. "God, she's practically throwing herself at me..." He unconsciously adjusts his hard-on. "She's a married woman. What the hell am I doing?" He swipes a hand down his face.

WEEK 2

The renovation had moved to the pool and sauna area. You’d chosen the smallest bikini you could find in your closet and were stretched out under the sun, pretending to focus on the warmth against your skin — though the sounds of tools, voices, and footsteps nearby kept drawing your attention back.

You didn’t have to look to know someone’s eyes were on you. The air carried that quiet awareness — the kind that made your pulse quicken even when nothing was said.

Your sunglasses hid your eyes, but they didn’t hide where your attention was. Joel Miller stood in the sunlight, hammer in hand, his shirt clinging to his back as sweat traced slow lines down his skin. Every swing of his arm made the muscles in his biceps flex and tighten beneath the fabric, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

He felt it — that weight of your gaze on him. Joel paused for a moment, lowering the hammer and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. When he looked up, his eyes met yours across the poolside.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The noise of the work around him seemed to fade, leaving only the quiet hum of summer heat and something else — something unspoken.

You tilted your head slightly, a hint of a smile playing on your lips before you leaned back in your chair again, pretending to relax. But Joel’s jaw tightened; he tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus back on the job.

Joel couldn’t help it — you’d been teasing him for almost two weeks, and it was starting to get to him.

This time, he decided to return the favor.

Joel smirks as he lifts his shirt higher, revealing the defined V-lines that flank his Adonis belt. His abs ripple with each breath, not too bulky, but definitely masculine and strong. The happy trail above his waistband beckons like a promise of pleasure, tapering down to disappear beneath his belt.

You tried to keep your composure, but the sight made your pulse quicken. It was almost unfair how effortlessly he carried himself — the kind of presence that made it hard to look away.

Lunch break finally arrived. The crew packed up their tools and headed out toward the nearest fast-food place, laughing and calling out to each other.

Joel lingered behind, putting his gear away. You watched him from your chair, the sunlight catching the curve of his jaw, and before you could stop yourself, you called out his name.

He looked over his shoulder at you, then back at his crew. You could almost read his lips — “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

A few of them teased him as they walked off, but Joel just shook his head with a faint smile before turning fully toward you, his expression unreadable as he started to cross the yard.

“Sorry, I know it’s your break now,” you said, tilting your head slightly, a faint smile playing on your lips. “But it was the only moment I could find to tell you about a little problem I’ve been having in my bathroom — on the second floor.”

Joel paused, his brow furrowing as he adjusted the tool bag on his shoulder. “A problem?” he asked, tone still professional but laced with quiet curiosity.

You nodded. “Yeah. Something with the water pressure, maybe. I thought you could take a quick look… if you don’t mind.”

He hesitated for a second, glancing toward the gate where the rest of the crew had already disappeared, then back at you. “Sure,” he said finally. “Lead the way.”

You smile slightly and nodded, slowly walking upstairs to your bathroom. Your bathroom was quite spacious and elegant, with a large whirlpool bathtub, a separate shower cabin, a double sink and enough space to walk around comfortably.

As you go up the stairs in front of him, Joel's eyes are glued to your ass in that tiny bikini. The bottoms ride up slightly with each step, giving him brief flashes of bare skin beneath the fabric. Your hips sway naturally, completely unaware of how tempting you look.

When you reached the bathroom, you pushed the door open and stepped aside for him. “It’s the sink,” you said softly. “The water pressure’s been weird. I tried to fix it myself, but…” you gave a small shrug, a playful glint in your eyes, “…I’m better with decoration than plumbing.”

Joel crouched beside the sink, checking the pipes, his hands moving with practiced ease. You leaned against the doorframe, watching him — the way he focused, the way he worked like nothing else existed.

After a moment, he looked up at you. “You weren’t kidding,” he said, a half-smile forming. “It’s a pressure issue, yeah. Nothing major.”

You crossed your arms, still studying him. “Good,” you murmured, your tone lighter now. “I’d hate for it to be something serious.”Joel's eyes keep drifting from the pipes to your barely-covered body. He catches himself staring at your cleavage reflected in the mirror above the sink, then forces his gaze back to the plumbing."Probably just needs adjusting," he mutters, reaching for his tool again.

As he works, he can feel the heat of your gaze on his back. He glances up at the mirror again, catching a glimpse of your reflection behind him. Your arms are folded under your chest, pushing your ample assets up and together, creating an irresistible cleavage."Should only take a minute…”

He unconsciously licks his lower lip as he works. His eyes keep flicking up to the mirror, watching your reflection. He sees you shift slightly, your hips wiggling to adjust your position. His mind briefly wonders what those hips would feel like grinding on him... 

Joel finishes the job quickly, his hands moving with precision. As he stands up, he turns to face you, wiping his hands on a rag. He notices you're still leaning against the doorframe, your arms folded under your chest, pushing your assets up. "There you go,”

“You’re helping me so much, Joel,” you said, your voice soft but laced with something deeper. “Even if it’s not exactly what my husband asked you to do. You see… he barely fixes anything around here.”

Joel gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” he replied. His tone was calm, but there was something in the way he looked at you — a flicker of understanding, maybe even sympathy.

You smiled faintly, stepping a little closer. “Good thing I can count on you then.”

“I feel bad about taking your break time,” you said, glancing up at him with an apologetic smile.

Joel shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse lunch breaks,” he said, his voice low and easy.

You laughed softly. “Still… you should let me make it up to you somehow.”

He looked at you for a moment, eyes steady, searching your face as if trying to read what you really meant. “You don’t have to,” he said finally, though his tone carried something that didn’t quite match the words.

Your movements are sudden and bold. You reach out and grab his belt, pulling him closer to you as you kneel down in front of him. Your hands roam over his thighs, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric of his work pants. "What are you-”

"Mm," you hum softly, palming his growing bulge through his pants. "You're always helping me out," you murmur, looking up at him with innocent eyes. "Like unclogging my sink, being nice to me..." Your fingers slowly rub him, feeling him harden. "You deserve a reward..." 

Joel throws his head back with a low groan as your hand continues to work him through his pants. His large hand comes up to cup your cheek gently, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Fuck..." he whispers hoarsely, caressing your face tenderly despite the sudden intimate situation.

You nuzzle his hardness gently through his pants, your nose pressing against the thick outline of his cock. You look up at him with innocent eyes, seeking permission silently. "Goddamn, baby," he groans, his hips shifting slightly into your touch. "Take it out.”

As you carefully unzip his pants and drag his boxers down, Joel's hand suddenly grips your hair gently but firmly. His cock springs free, already rock hard and leaking pre-cum. "Fuck... pretty thing like you almost begging to suck a cock,”

His grip on your hair tightens slightly, and he uses it to tilt your head up so you're looking at him. "Does your husband know what a dirty little slut you are?" he growls lowly, his cock twitching in front of your face.

You whimper at his crude words, finding them surprisingly hot. Your small hands spread over his hard thighs, and you lean in to kiss his tip softly, making him jerk slightly. "Damn," he mutters, watching you. "Answer the question, baby.”

You whimper, "Only a slut for this cock," you answer honestly, making him growl deep. Your small tongue laps at his shaft slowly, base to tip, tasting his salty sweet pre-cum. He watches your hot mouth intently, his hips twitching slightly.

You take him deep into your mouth, gagging slightly but not pulling back. Your hand works the base while your mouth hollows around him perfectly. He can feel himself getting closer already. One hand remains tangled in your hair while the other grips your chin roughly.

Your mouth feels like heaven wrapped around him - warm, wet, and eager. He starts to fuck your mouth gently but firmly, his hips moving in rhythm with your bobbing head. The sound of slurping fills the room as he gently fucks your face.

You pull back briefly to lick his balls tenderly. Your small hands spread his thighs wider for better access. You hum softly, licking each one carefully, then sucking them gently into your mouth like candy. He groans loudly, his large body tensing. "Damn baby..." His voice drops softer, almost loving.

He watches you worship his balls with open admiration. His voice is husky with affection and disbelief. "Your husband is an idiot if he's not taking care of you like you deserve," he says firmly. "If I had a woman like you at home, I'd be fucking you every hour." 

You moan deeply around his balls before releasing them with a pop. Immediately, you eagerly suck his cock back into your mouth, taking him even deeper this time. Your nails dig into his thighs as you bob enthusiastically, desperate to please him. 

With one hand still tangled in your hair, he uses the other to roughly grab the top of your bikini. In one swift motion, he slides the fabric aside, exposing your bare tits to the air and his hungry gaze. Your hard nipples come into view as he starts thrusting into your mouth.

Your mouth is so wet and eager that saliva drips down your chin and neck, creating a trail that leads right between your breasts. You're drooling all over his dick as you suck him aggressively. The wet sounds of your mouth fill the room along with the sight of your tits bouncing slightly with each suck.

He looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes, watching as you sloppily suck his dick. His movements become more frantic, his balls tightening. "Where do you want my come, baby?" he asks roughly, his hand squeezing your exposed tit. "On your face? In your mouth? On those pretty tits?”

Without breaking eye contact with him, you reach up and squeeze your own tits together, pushing them upwards. You smirk around his dick, moaning, "On these," before releasing your tits and sucking him even harder. Your hands spread his legs wider. "Come on my tits, Joel.”

He groans deeply, "Fucking hell, you're filthy." His body tenses, and he starts to come all over your tits just like you asked. Hot, thick ropes of cum splatter against your soft flesh, covering your nipples and sliding down between your breasts.

You give his sensitive tip one last gentle suck before releasing him with a pop. You immediately reach down to gather some of his cum off your breasts with your fingers. You spread it around your nipples slowly while he watches, then bring those messy fingers to your mouth and suck them clean.

You stand up gracefully, fixing your top back into place covering your beautiful breasts. You wipe your wet mouth with the back of your hand innocence back on your face. "Thank you so much for fixing the sink," you say softly, like nothing dirty just happened. Your body is half-covered again in that tiny bikini.

He grabs your tiny waist possessively and pushes you back against his hard chest. His voice drops dangerously, "You're a little minx," He growls softly. "One minute you're sucking dick like a champ, next minute you're all innocent." He crushes your mouth with a quick, hard kiss.

You blush slightly and giggle softly, "Maybe next week if you help me again, I'll do more than just suck you off," you whisper against his lips before pulling back slightly with a playful smirk. "Maybe I'll let you do other things too..." You wink suggestively.

He smirks against your mouth, his hands squeezing your hips. "You're gonna kill me with that offer," he laughs softly. "I'll definitely help you again next week. Might have to bring tools over twice a week if you keep offering that sweet mouth and those tits."

You turn to him with a playful smile, "I've taken half of your break right now," you say softly. "You should go eat with your crew before they finish all the food." You wink at him, giving him a gentle push towards the door.

It’s official: if Joel Miller doesn’t handle you soon, he might just lose his mind.

WEEK 3

By then, most of the work was done. The house was starting to feel like the vision you had in mind, and you found yourself standing with Joel, going over the prices and final details.

“So, this is everything we’ve done so far,” Joel said, tapping on the tablet to highlight each section. “Materials, labor, adjustments — it all adds up, but nothing unexpected.”

You nodded, leaning slightly over the table as you studied the numbers. “Looks reasonable,” you said, letting your eyes linger on him for just a moment longer than necessary. “I appreciate how thorough you’ve been, Joel.”

He glanced up, catching your gaze, and a small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. “Well… I like to make sure everything’s done right. Especially when someone’s watching closely,” he replied, the hint of teasing in his tone unmistakable.

You let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and amused as you flick a loose strand of hair behind your ear and study his face like you’re enjoying the effect you’re having. Your smile lingers, teasing and entirely deliberate.

“Could you take a look on the third floor?” you ask, stepping closer. “I promise none of this is a metaphor — I just want you to come inside.”

Joel blinked, caught off guard by your words. His jaw tightened slightly as he processed them, and for a moment he just stared, trying to maintain his composure.

Then he let out a short, amused chuckle of his own, shaking his head. “Right… the third floor,” he said, his tone careful but with a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Lead the way, then.”

He adjusted the tablet in his hands, keeping a professional posture, but you could tell from the way his gaze lingered on you that he was fully aware of the charged air between you.

The third-floor bedroom was breathtaking — tall floor-to-ceiling windows framed a panoramic view of the rolling hills and river below. Soft light poured in, casting warm hues over the plush bed and carefully chosen decor. A thick rug softened the hardwood floors, and a single lamp on the nightstand added a golden glow, making the room feel both grand and intimate.

Joel moved closer to the window, his attention caught by the sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Behind him, you stepped away from the doorway, letting the soft fabric of your robe fall around you, revealing the delicate silhouette of your lingerie beneath — a tasteful, lacy set in muted tones that hinted at elegance and confidence. The subtle texture caught the light as you moved, drawing his gaze while leaving plenty to the imagination.

"Darling…" Joel starts, his voice soft, almost pleading, but you cut him off, your words sharp and trembling with anger. 

"I’m done with this marriage, Joel. I don’t need him. I have my own money, my own life. He can keep that twenty-something secretary he’s been sneaking around with… I don’t care. I just… I just know I don’t want him anymore."

Joel turns away from the window, his eyes softening as he takes in your silhouette. He can see the hurt and anger in your eyes, but also the determination. He steps closer, his voice gentle, "You know what you're saying?”

You meet his gaze directly, your voice steady but laced with emotion, "It's not like I'm in love with you, Joel. I just want to keep doing this—feeling you, being with you. My  husband hasn't touched me in months." Your hand reaches out hesitantly.

You sigh heavily, admitting, "I'm tired of feeling little, of being ignored. My husband barely touches me anymore. It's like I'm invisible." 

Joel's hand slowly reaches out, passing through the delicate lace of your lingerie, feeling the smooth fabric against his fingertips.

Joel's hand continues to trace the lace, his thumb brushing against your skin before lifts you into his arms. "I can help with that" he murmurs, carrying you to the bed and laying you down gently.

You reach up and start unbuttoning his shirt, while he takes his shoes off kicking them aside.

Joel kisses you deeply, his hands exploring your body slowly, like he's rediscovering every curve. His calloused palms slide over the lace of your bra, then underneath, cupping your breasts gently.

"You're still so fucking beautiful," he whispers against your mouth.

You pull his hair sharply as his mouth trails down your neck, his shoulders, nipping and sucking softly. Your legs wrap around his waist reflexively. His mouth travels lower, kissing your collarbone, your breasts, your belly. Your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him lower... "God..." You whimper softly.

His lips feel like velvet against your skin, each kiss a poem written in touch. They linger, they press, they gentle bite—a symphony of sensation that makes your heart race and your breath hitch. He kisses a path down your stomach, his hands gripping your hips possessively.

He reaches your inner thighs, his large hands spreading your legs wide. He kisses the delicate skin there, his tongue trailing along the edge of your lace panties. He presses his face against your core, inhaling deeply. Then, without warning, he licks a long, slow strip over the damp fabric.

Joel's voice is husky with desire as he presses his face deeper into your panties, sucking on the fabric gently before licking it again.

"Did you wear this for me?" He asks between kisses and licks, his hands gripping your thighs possessively.

You hum softly, your fingers threading through his hair, encouraging him. He groans against your panties, his hot breath making you wetter.

Joel catches himself, realizing what he almost did. He laughs softly, "Nevermind. I'm not going to take it off." He spreads your legs wider again, his thumbs hook into the lace sides, admiring the view. 

He carefully moves the panties aside, exposing your glistening folds. Without hesitation, he leans in and kisses your clit softly, making you gasp. His large fingers spread your lips open, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit as he slides two fingers deep inside you, pumping them in and out slowly. "So fucking tight…”

Your moan fills the room as his thick fingers fill you completely, curling in just the right way. Your hips lift off the bed, chasing his touch. He groans against your clit, sucking gently while his fingers fuck you slowly, making wet sounds that drive you both crazy.

Your moans become incoherent, "Joel... Joel... Please..." You're practically praying his name as he finger-fucks you expertly. His name on your lips is music to his ears - a desperate prayer for more. He adds a third finger, stretching you wider.

"Are you gonna come for me, baby?" Joel growls, his fingers picking up speed, curling deep inside you. He can feel you getting close. 

"Answer me," He demands softly, his thumb rubbing your clit hard. "You need to come first, sweetheart. Then I'll give you my cock.”

Your body tenses, your back arching off the bed as a powerful orgasm crashes through you. Your inner walls clamp down on his fingers, your hips bucking wildly. You scream his name, your voice hoarse with pleasure as waves of ecstasy wash over you.

Joel's lips trail kisses up your body, from your clit to your stomach, then to your breasts, finally landing on your mouth. Your hands eagerly work on his pants, unbuttoning them and pushing them down along with his boxers.

“Need you” you whimper.

Joel's patience snaps, his kisses becoming demanding and rough. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses his forehead against yours, his voice low and dominant. "You need me to fuck you? You need my big, hard dick inside you right now?”

You moan loudly, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer. Joel smirks against your mouth, his grip on your wrists tightening as he shifts his hips, rubbing his cock against your wet folds. He breaks the kiss to bite your jaw, before suddenly slamming into you in one deep thrust.

Every thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body, his thick length stretching you wide. You're filled completely, deliciously painfully, your inner walls clenching around him tightly. He's hitting your cervix with each brutal thrust, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. It's overwhelming, consuming, utterly addictive.

"Fuck, you feel so good wrapped around my cock. Your tight little pussy is milking me perfectly." He leans down, biting your neck hard enough to leave a mark as he continues his brutal pace. "I'm gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna breed this pretty pussy raw.”

Your inner muscles involuntarily contract around him like a vice, making him groan deeply. Your pussy clenches and releases rhythmically, trying to pull him deeper. It's a reflexive action, your body desperate to keep him inside you. He feels massive, invading you completely.

You can barely form words, your mouth hanging open in silent screams as Joel pounds into you relentlessly. 

Your legs tremble around his waist, your nails leaving bloody scratches down his back as another orgasm builds rapidly inside you. Joel knows - he feels your pussy fluttering around him differently

"Are you gonna cum for me, baby?" He snaps his hips forward, hitting that spot deep inside that makes your eyes roll back. He feels your pussy clench even tighter around him and growls "Yeah, you are. You're gonna cum all over my cock, aren't you?”

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your vision whites out as your body convulses uncontrollably. Your pussy squeezes him like a fist, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you scream soundlessly. Joel's movements become erratic, his breath coming in sharp pants. "Fuck... I'm about to cum too, baby…”

In between gasps and incoherent moans, you manage to choke out "In... Inside..." right before another wave of pleasure hits you. Joel growls possessively, understanding exactly what you mean. He slams deep one last time and holds himself there as he explodes inside you without pulling out.

Joel collapses onto you, his sweaty chest pressing against yours as he tries to catch his breath. His softening cock stays buried deep inside you, exactly where you both wanted it. Your legs remain wrapped around his waist, not wanting him to pull out yet.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Joel pulls out of you. A stream of white, creamy cum immediately starts to drip out of your red, puffy pussy. Joel immediately buries his face between your legs, spreading your lips open with his fingers so he can watch his cum dripping out.

You giggle softly, your body still trembling from the aftershocks as you watch Joel intently staring at his cum leaking out of you. The sound makes him snap his head up, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Something funny, sweetheart?" His fingers gently spread you wider

You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress another giggle. "No sir" you whisper softly, pushing him up to meet your lips in a gentle kiss. 

Joel's grin softens into something more tender as he kisses you back, his fingers still playing with your sensitive folds. "Good girl,”

Back then, the smoke from his cigarette didn’t bother you; you thought it made him look untouchable, dangerous, the kind of man who lived too fast but still slowed down just for you. Nights were spent tangled in sheets, mornings in half-sincere promises that maybe—just maybe—he’d quit his bad habits for you.

And you had believed him. Every word, every look, every sugar-coated promise.

You look tired at him, it was late, almost 2 a.m., the dinner that was made at 8:30 p.m. was already cold on the table, you didn't even bother to put it in the oven. This routine was getting tiresome. You were always doing something, waiting for Javier to arrive home from work on time, and he would show up three hours later, or more, always saying the same thing: “I had to look at more reports,” or he had to stake out to keep an eye on the intel he received, and you just nodded your head in silent agreement, every time.

The relationship began in Laredo, and you saw each other a few times after he returned from Colombia. Then it turned into a month of escapades, kisses, sighs, skin on skin, and hands running over your bodies. Javier wanted to break away from the image of Peña from Colombia, a womanizer, and you were perfect in his eyes, igniting a flame deep in his heart that had long been extinguished. So he decided to take a chance; he was certain that it was with you that he would start a relationship.

You had been dating for four months when he received the offer to return to Colombia—to fight the Cali cartel this time. He could have done what he’d always done before, what everyone expected from Javier Peña: disappear without a word, leave behind a trail of broken promises and half-empty bottles. He had done it once with Lorraine, vanishing without looking back, and for a moment you feared he would do the same to you.

But this time was different.

He tells you, and you listen quietly. If there’s one thing you’ve learned while dating Javier Peña, it’s to let his words settle before you answer—to process them in your head instead of rushing to speak. You know what he’s been through in Colombia. He doesn’t need another voice to judge him; what he needs is someone willing to listen, someone steady enough to stand beside him when the weight gets too heavy.

So when he tells you about the offer, you don’t argue. Instead, you choose. Together, you decide you’ll go to Colombia with him. The thought is reckless, terrifying even, but it feels inevitable. And then you remember—the college you worked for had once reached out with a proposal, offering you a position to teach English in Bogotá. You never pursued it, never even considered it seriously, but now… now it feels like the missing piece. Almost like the universe had quietly been paving the way, waiting for you to take this leap.

And now, months later, you find yourself questioning that choice. Had you really done the right thing? Maybe you should have taken a break from the relationship—just until he returned—or tried a long-distance setup, but deep down, you knew you’d never believe in it. There was no turning back now.

And then there was Javier. His once-playful sweet talk, the teasing words that made your heart flutter and brought a smile to your lips, had started to appear more often—less charming, more insistent, as if he was trying to convince you of something, or maybe convince himself. It wasn’t playful anymore; it was exhausting. And the longer it went on, the harder it became to ignore the nagging question in your chest: Is this love, or just words?

The first time he made you cry was when he forgot your anniversary. He had come home early that day, and you’d dressed casually—not wanting to try too hard, since he hadn’t mentioned anything all morning. You had been hoping, maybe foolishly, for a surprise.

“So…” you said, smiling nervously as you watched him walk through the door, your heart fluttering despite the doubt gnawing at you.

Javier stepped closer, sliding his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your neck.

“You look so pretty. What’s the occasion, hm?” His mustache brushed against the sensitive skin, but your smile faltered the moment the words left his mouth.

Your chest tightened. No… he didn’t remember. Not your day, not the promises, not the small gestures that once meant everything. Your eyes stung, your throat felt tight, and you couldn’t move—frozen by the ache of disappointment that had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with the absence behind it.

“You are…” You step back slightly, your chest tightening and a lump forming in your throat. “What do you mean? Is this some kind of joke, Javier?” Your voice is sharp, edged with irritation, and he blinks at you, confused.

“What do you mean, baby? It was just a question.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief, anger and hurt twisting together in your chest. “Really, Javier? A question? After everything—after today, after all the plans we made, after me waiting for you all day—this is just a question?” You feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, your hands trembling slightly as if your body wants to betray the calm you’re trying to hold onto. “Do you even remember what today means? Or is it just another day to you, like all the others?”

“I…” He looks around the room, as if the walls might whisper the answer to him, his eyes searching for something—anything—that could make sense of your anger.

“OUR ANNIVERSARY, JAVIER!” you snap, your voice rising, shaking with a mix of disbelief and hurt. Your hands clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms, and suddenly, the tears come unbidden, streaming down your cheeks. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you even care?”

Javier freezes for a moment, his eyes wide, and then he steps closer, trying to pull you into his arms. “Hey, hey… don’t cry, baby,” he murmurs, voice soft and coaxing, brushing a hand over your hair. “I… I didn’t forget, I swear. I just—look, it’s been a crazy day, and I wanted to surprise you…”

You pull back slightly, letting the tears fall freely now, frustration spilling out in shaky breaths. “A surprise? Javier, a surprise is remembering in the first place! You don’t even notice when it matters. You think words and kisses fix everything, but they don’t!”

He opens his mouth, ready to say something else, maybe one of his honey-coated lines, but you cut him off, voice trembling: “Stop. Just stop with the sugar talking. I don’t want promises or pretty words right now. I want you to remember, to actually care, and I… I can’t do this anymore if all you give me are words.”

Put your loving where your mouth is

Your sugar talking isn't working tonight

The next morning, Javier was already awake before you. He’d been replaying last night over and over in his head—the words you’d shouted, the tears he hadn’t meant to cause, and your final sentence echoing like a hammer: “Stop with the sugar talking.”

You wake slowly, the morning light spilling through the curtains, your eyes still heavy with last night’s tears. At first, everything feels quiet, too quiet. Then you notice the soft rustle of paper and the faint scent of roses drifting from the kitchen.

Pushing the covers aside, you rise and walk toward the living room, and there he is—Javier—standing awkwardly among a small cluster of fresh flowers, arranging them in a vase. Your chest tightens at the sight.

He looks up at you, eyes soft, almost hesitant. “Good morning,” he says, voice careful. “I… I know flowers don’t fix everything, but I wanted you to see that I’m trying. I’m… trying to actually be here for you.”

You swallow hard, the tears from yesterday still fresh on your cheeks, your hands trembling slightly. The gesture is sweet, undeniably so, but part of you wonders if it’s just another way to sugar talk your heart.

You look at him, at the flowers, at the effort, and shake your head slightly. “You’re right,” you murmur, voice low but firm, tears still threatening to spill. “They don’t fix anything.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavier than any apology, heavier than any bouquet. He swallows, his own chest tight, realizing that no gesture, no matter how beautiful, could erase the nights of disappointment, the forgotten anniversaries, the sugar-coated words that never turned into real care.

You filled my whole apartment with flowers that die

The first to open up your wallet

But the last one to flag, a heart only breaks so many times

Save your money and stop makin' me cry

All of it—every forgotten anniversary, every empty promise, every sweet word that never became action—flashed through your mind, looping endlessly until you forced yourself to focus on the present. But even now, at 2 a.m., sleep felt impossible. The night stretched on, heavy and unforgiving. A cold dinner sat untouched on the counter, and Javier stood by the bedroom window, shirtless, cigarette in hand, having arrived twenty minutes late. The haze from his smoke blurred the moonlight, and you could feel the weight of every disappointment pressing down, a constant reminder that this morning was far from the only time he had let you down.

“There's food for you… just pop it in the microwave,” you finally say, your voice cutting through the deafening silence.

The words feel heavy, almost bitter, and for a moment the apartment seems impossibly quiet after you speak. Javier turns slightly, the smoke curling around him, and you can see a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or surprise—cross his face. The weight of all the unspoken disappointments hangs between you, thicker than the cigarette haze in the room.

Javier takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke into the dim morning light. He glances at you, really looks at you, and for the first time, it feels like he’s seeing the weight in your eyes, the exhaustion that hasn’t left you for months.

“Hey…” he starts, his voice softer now, hesitant, unsure. “I… I know I’m late. And I know… I’ve messed up. I just—”

You shake your head, cutting him off before he can sweet-talk his way through it. “No, Javier. Not this time. I can’t… I can’t pretend like words fix this anymore.” Your voice trembles, a mix of frustration and the raw sting of old wounds. Tears threaten to spill again, but you blink them back, forcing yourself to stay upright, to stay present.

He lowers the cigarette, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly smaller than he ever did when he was in control. “I… I wanted to do something right,” he murmurs. “I thought maybe—”

Tears finally spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting. “Javier,” you say, voice shaking, “every time you realize what you’ve done, every time you have one of your big epiphanies… nothing changes. You say you miss me, you say you care, you say you’ll do better… and then it’s the same old mistakes, the same empty words. Aren’t you tired of saying a whole lot of nothing?”

He swallows hard, finally quiet, and for the first time you see the weight of your words sink in—not just the anger, but the truth.

“I… I need… I want to—” Your voice breaks, but you force the words out, trembling with every syllable. “I want to break up, Javier. This… this isn’t working out.”

The apartment goes silent, heavier than ever. Javier freezes, cigarette still in hand, eyes widening as the words sink in. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as if he’s trying to convince himself that you didn’t just say them.

“I… what? No—wait, please,” he stammers, his voice cracking, a mixture of panic and disbelief. “I—listen, I can fix this, I swear. I’ll do better, I’ll… I’ll—”

You shake your head, tears spilling freely now, your chest tight with the weight of months of disappointment. “I can’t, Javier. I’ve waited, I’ve forgiven, I’ve hoped… but your words don’t mean anything anymore. They’re just… sugar talking. And I’m tired of crying over nothing changing.”

He drops the cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the morning light, and for the first time you see it—the reality of his mistakes, the weight of your decision, and the finality in your eyes.

Saying that you miss me

Boy, do you win a prize?

You're havin' these epiphanies

Big word for a real small mind

And aren't you tired of saying a whole lot of nothing?

Javier takes a slow step toward you, each movement heavy with hesitation. He stops just in front of you and, almost instinctively, leans in, resting his forehead against yours. The contact is light, intimate, a gesture meant to soothe—but it does nothing to erase the ache that’s been building for months. You feel the warmth of his skin, the faint scrape of stubble against your forehead, but your heart remains guarded. Your eyes meet his, searching for a hint of sincerity, a real change beyond the sweet words he’s thrown at you so many times before. 

“I… I get it,” he murmurs, voice low, almost breaking. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. I haven’t been the best… not to you, not to anyone. Going back to this job… it consumes me. I could have said no, walked away, taken a step back… but I wanted to do it right this time, for the DEA, for us.”

He exhales slowly, and as always, you hear it—his sigh, heavy with regret and exhaustion. It’s familiar, almost comforting in its weight, yet it reminds you painfully of everything that hasn’t changed.

“There’s no space for the DEA and me, Javi,” you say, voice steady but tinged with sadness. “I think you need to focus on your job. I think… you need to feel like you did it right this time, because last time… you felt like it was a failure.”

You take a shaky breath, the weight of months pressing down on your chest. “I can’t keep being the second priority, Javier. I… I can’t keep being someone you try to fit in around everything else.”

Your lips meet his, and for a heartbeat, the world feels like it has stopped. Warmth, familiarity, and longing crash into you all at once—but beneath it, there’s an undeniable finality.

It feels like the last time, though neither of you says it out loud. The kiss is desperate, bittersweet, a mixture of what was and what could never be fully repaired. Your hands tremble slightly as they rest against him, but your heart is heavy with the knowledge that no words, no gestures, not even this—this closeness—can undo months of disappointment and broken promises.

When you pull away, even slightly, the air between you feels charged, raw. Javier’s eyes search yours, silently pleading, while you steady your own gaze, knowing deep down that love alone isn’t enough when it’s built on sugar-coated words that never became real action.