When you first arrive, it's late June, heat shimmering off the Kansas road as the sun peaks and the cicadas buzz in the trees. And boy, does Clark almost die at the sight of you. Stepping out of his Pa's truck like something out of the magazines he secretly flips through at the general store, all city confidence and little denim shorts that make his brain short-circuit.

"Morning," he manages, eyes flitting between your sunglasses, your glossed lips and your bare legs. He has to really try to keep his gaze on your face after that. He's a polite young man. His mother raised him right. But God, you make it difficult.

You're here for the summer—a favour, he'd been told. Martha's old friend's daughter, needing a change of pace, a breath of country air. And from day one, you invaded every single space he had. His house. His dinner table. Sunbathing out by the old fence under the shave of a tree while he's trying to tend to the cows.

He calls you ma'am like it'll somehow protect him. Holds open doors for you, pulls out your chair, offers shy little smiles that are permanently etched onto his dimpled face around you. He's panicked on more than one occasion when you've caught him staring. Whipped his head away so fast he's dizzy, excusing himself to go do some chore he made up on the spot.

You weren't supposed to be this… distracting. But from the moment you stepped onto the farm, Clark Kent's whole world narrowed down to you.

It was torture, in more ways than one. Sweet torture to say the least. In his short life, he's never been good with women; small-town country boy that he is. He's tried, of course, a few awkward dates with town girls but nothing ever really… came of it. Which is why spending a whole summer under the same roof as you is killing him.

Today it's hot. Ridiculously hot. Clark's stripped down to just jeans as he works under the swelter of the sun, running his fingers through sweat-damp hair. And when he slips out of the barn, wiping sweat off his brow, he comes face to face to lil' ol' city girl.

You arms are braced on the fence, eyes lighting up when you see him emerge. It's a good thing his cheeks are sunkissed so you can't see the flush that rises up.

"Your mom thinks I've been freeloading," you say. "Said I should come give you a hand."

"Oh, well, you don't have to, ma'am." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm sure Ma was just playing around. I like having—" Oops. "We like having you here. Besides, I'm just going down to feed the chickens. Isn't exactly a two-person job."

If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was trying to get rid of you.