ʚ synopsis: you meet an unfamiliar face at the school's pta meeting and you have been on the hunt hyperfixated since. you like shiny things and caleb xia was nothing if not shiny in all the ways that mattered to you.
this is chapter 1!
chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | still ongoing
ʚ pairing: singledad!caleb x nonmc!reader (husband!zayne is in this story)
caleb is a hot single dad and non mc reader is a hot trophy wife milf
ʚ content: fem reader, divorced army man caleb (exwife!mc fucked with the other li's probably, i don't blame her), people having kids, implied cheating, dutiful husband zayne, non mc reader is spoiled, phone sex if you squint hard enough, teasing, eventual smut.
ʚ word count: 3.2K
Your mimosa glass has started to condense in the heat. You click your tongue because you forgot to get a coaster and the droplets would definitely stain your Italian side table.
It’s another late summer day and school is starting again tomorrow.
Not for you, no. You didn’t work your ass off to become a trophy wife just to go back to school, or worse: join the workforce.
Your baby boy is already entering elementary school next term and you wonder where the time has gone. The thought reminded you to schedule another botox appointment next week.
Just as you reach for your phone, your husband calls.
“Hi honey, are you busy?” Zayne’s voice is cold as ever. It almost makes you forget that it’s practically a hundred degrees outside.
“Mmm… Not really. I’m just tanning by the pool to get the last bit of sun,” you tuck your phone into the crook of your neck as you inspect the acrylics on your now overgrown manicure job, also reminding you to book your nail tech soon.
“Ah,” the pause lingers before Zayne continues, “Look, unfortunately I have another conference to attend to for the next couple of weeks. I just got the notice so… I’m gonna miss our baby’s first day of school.”
You subconsciously roll your eyes.
You’re used to it by now. Not that you’re complaining in particular. Dr. Zayne is a dutiful husband to you–young, handsome, successful, doesn’t ask too many questions, and most importantly: loaded with cash.
Both of your parents knew each other and although your family business was doing well enough as to not needing an arranged marriage, it was Zayne’s mother’s dying wish for him to marry you specifically since you were the daughter of her childhood best friend.
And you? Well, let’s just say when other kids dreamed of being a pilot, an astronaut, or a doctor, you always knew you wanted to be a trophy wife. Pretty, rich, and never having to work a day again in your life.
So you never opposed the idea.
Although you loved him enough to give him a son, your feelings are neutral at best. He is never around the house much as he travels often. But as long as he pays for your Platinum Amex bills every month, you had no reason to question it.
“‘Mkay. I’ll tell him Papa needs to work,” you sip on your mimosa before you continue, “I’ll drive him tomorrow since I also have a PTA meeting in the morning.”
“Alright then, take care of yourself.”
The PTA meeting starts at nine sharp.
You arrive at 8:59. Not because you care—God, no—but because being fashionably late here means lingering in the hallway making small talk, and you would rather eat glass.
Sending your kid to a prestigious private school comes with its own caste system, and you’ve learned quickly that these gatherings are where the pecking order gets reinforced. On one end: the hyper-competitive soccer moms with their color-coded planners. On the other: a few absentee fathers in custom suits, checking their watches because their empires apparently can’t run themselves for one hour.
You take the seat farthest from the action, in the back corner where the lighting is soft and the exit is in view. Your legs cross, designer pencil skirt riding a fraction higher, arms folded in that universal sign for let’s get this over with so I can get to brunch.
Mrs. Adams, your son’s new homeroom teacher, barely makes it past her chirpy good morning when there’s a knock—sharp, confident—cutting through the room. The sound ricochets off the walls, halting even the rustle of note-taking.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair just a little too unruly to be accidental. Eyes the color of a storm you’d let ruin your weekend plans.
“I’m sorry, is this the PTA meeting?” His voice is deep, with that faint rasp that makes you want to lean forward without realizing it.
Mrs. Adams, suddenly flustered, bobs her head. “Ah, yes! You must be Mr. Xia. I’m Dorothy Adams—your son’s homeroom teacher this term.” Her handshake is quick and jittery, like she’s just been called on in class herself.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, chuckling. “Got turned around trying to find the classroom.” The sound is low and warm, crisp the way the first bite of a perfect apple is crisp—unexpectedly intimate for a room full of polite strangers.
His gaze sweeps the room, searching for a seat, and you feel it when it lands on you. The only empty chair is beside yours. What are the odds? You briefly consider buying a lottery ticket after this.
He walks toward you, long strides eating up the space between. You try not to imagine what else on him could be proportionally long. Your thoughts are less than appropriate for this hour of the morning—or this setting for that matter—and yet they’re here.
“Hi,” he says, stopping at your side. “Is this seat taken?”
It takes you two blinks to find your voice. “N-no. Not at all. Please.”
“Thanks.” He sits, his smile easy, devastating. You feel it in your ribcage.
And for the first time all morning, you are very, very interested in what happens next.
You don’t quite remember what Mrs. Adams even talked about during the gruesome sixty minutes or so. You really tried your best (that’s a lie you tell yourself) to focus on her bullet points about uniform guidelines, but your eyes kept drifting sideways.
To the way Caleb’s forearms flex when he leans forward, the slow tap of his thumb against the pen in his hand, the easy curve of his mouth when he jots something down.
By the time the meeting breaks and parents spill into the hallway, you’re already twirling your hair and biting your lip when you catch him for small talk.
You find out his full name is Caleb Xia—a young, single dad whose son just transferred. He must have knocked someone up in high school or something, because he can’t be a day over twenty-five.
An army man, of all things. The kind of guy whose handshake is firm, whose posture is straight, whose sleeves somehow cling in all the right places. You find yourself chatting about the places you’ve both been—him rattling off deployments and training bases, you casually name-dropping beach resorts and cities with Michelin-starred restaurants.
The difference? He was out there serving the country, probably sleeping in sand and eating from tin trays. You were sipping martinis in infinity pools, vacations paid for by your husband’s hard earned money.
Still, there’s something in the way he listens when you speak—really listens—that makes you forget you’re practically flirting with another man at your kid’s school. His eyes hold yours longer than polite, and you catch yourself wondering what they’d look like in the half-light of somewhere private.
“I figured joining the PTA would help me get to know people… being new to the city and all. And since my wife, er–” he chokes for a moment before he corrects himself, “My ex-wife and I separated, I wanted to be really involved with the kid, y’know?”
Wow. Handsome and a present father.
Your thighs subconsciously press together when he so easily overshares a glimpse of his personal life. You’re not sure if he’s still hung up on the topic or he’s just reckless and the type to talk too much for his own good.
“Oh I’m so sorry about that,” you tried your best to feign your sympathy, but it ended up coming out too celebratory.
“Nahh. Don’t be. It was honestly the best thing that could’ve happened,” he says with a shrug, like he’s talking about returning a shirt that didn’t fit. “She cheated. More than once, actually. So… yeah. Glad my boy’s out of that mess.”
He says it lightly, almost conversational, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells you it wasn’t as easy as he makes it sound.
You tilt your head, studying him. Most people would dodge that kind of detail with a stranger—he drops it like he’s telling you the weather.
“That’s… very open of you to share,” you say, lips curling.
Caleb smirks faintly. “Why waste time? People are either gonna like me or they’re not.”
Damn. Handsome, present, and bold.
You’re suddenly aware of the steady hum of the vending machine across the hall, the faint echo of footsteps far down the corridor—small sounds against the charged quiet between you.
“Well,” you say, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before meeting his eyes again, “I think you’ll do just fine here.”
You exchange phone numbers, framing it as a neighborly gesture—if you ever need anything, just ask. It sounds harmless, generous even, the way you package it. But the truth? You just wanted insurance. A way to make sure this wasn’t the last time you saw him.
You don’t dwell on the way his handshake literally brushed against your wedding ring. You like shiny things and Caleb Xia was nothing if not shiny in all the ways that mattered to you.
By the time you slide into the leather seat of your sports car, he’s all you’re thinking about.
At the first red light, you catch yourself smiling—sinful, indulgent—as if he’s still standing in front of you. You picture that half-smirk, the way his eyes seemed to hold on just a beat too long, and your fingers tighten around the wheel. Traffic moves, but your thoughts don’t.
You tell yourself you’re not the type to chase, confident that men are too simple to overlook your stellar physique. That if he calls, he calls. But the truth curls warm and dangerous in your chest: you’re already wondering what excuse you’ll use to see him again.
You have cleaners for your home and assistants for your day-to-day scheduling. But for your beloved only child? Off limits. The one thing Zayne insisted you to look after personally was your baby boy.
So after you read him a bed time story and tuck him in for the night–sealed with a kiss and assurance that his Mama loves him, you throw yourself onto your cool king-sized bed to tuck yourself in.
The week stretched longer than usual. The first week of school always felt that way. Having one kid is already a handful, you can’t imagine having more.
You’re lathering yourself with expensive lotions after a steamy shower as if your delicate skin was your most prized asset–in many ways it is, when your phone screen lights up with a message.
At first, you thought it might be Zayne–checking in with you for household logistics or perhaps asking for a photo of your kid.
But your eyes might as well jump out of their sockets when you see that it’s none other than Caleb texting you first.
Hi it’s Caleb from the PTA meeting last Monday. It was really nice meeting you. I hope I don’t trouble you too much with questions, but no promises for now. Heh.
Your heart pounds and your stomach flutters like you’re a school girl getting a message from her crush. You purse your lips as you think of a response, not wanting the conversation to fall short.
Hey! No worries. It can get pretty crazy out here so I don’t blame you if it feels a bit overwhelming. Text me anytime.
Moments pass and you realize that you completely dropped the ball with this lame, basic answer. That’s it. He has nothing more to talk about and neither do you. You let out a heavy sigh, defeated and disappointed at yourself.
You suppose that it’s been years since you’ve ever spoken to a guy that wasn’t Zayne. And Zayne? He’s a worse texter so you always seemed plenty chatty, enough for the both of you.
You plug your phone to charge and lay it flat on your night table, thinking maybe the next chance you get will be better. But just as you sink back into your cushions…
The screen lights up again.
Since the boys are in the same class together, I was wondering if maybe we could arrange playdates or something? Not sure if that sounds super lame, I don’t know what kids are into these days but it would be nice if my kid could properly make new friends at the new school.
Oh he wants it. He wants it bad.
Or so you convince yourself.
The flutter in your stomach transforms into heat. Coiling. Twisting. Aching.
You’re thinking about his eyes now. How dark and deep they looked, but shimmering when the classroom lights shone on them.
His forearms. Big and veiny as the rolled up sleeves he wore screamed to contain them.
You bite your lip as your mouth starts to physically water.
You try to remember when was the last time you had sex for you to be ogling at a man like this. Trying your best to bring sense back into your brain if it ever existed in the first place.
Your back arches against your bed just to shift the way you’re sitting in bed, chasing any kind of friction to ease this ache you’re starting to feel.
That’s when your phone rings.
You swear you should’ve bought a lottery ticket sooner.
You lick your lips before you reach for your phone, remembering the golden rule of thumb you learned in high school–let it ring twice before you answer a call from any boy.
“Hello?” your voice is small, hesitant. Nervous.
“Uh-hi. Sorry to call you at night,” you wonder how his voice can get even sexier when he’s apologetic.
“N-no no, that’s fine. Is everything alright?”
“I’m trying to figure out the student portal online… Heh,” his chuckle will be the end of you, you thought to yourself. “I might be doing this totally wrong ‘cause I tried looking for the guide that was handed out at the PTA but I think I misplaced them.”
Cute. Your smile is sincere before it turns into something more… devilish.
“Oh, do you want me to help you? I could… I could talk you through it if you’d like,”
“I was hoping you’d say that, haha. Thanks a lot, I owe you one.”
His voice alone could send you to orbit. You feel it in your lace panties that have seen too many phases of the moon since the last time they were this soaked.
You nuzzle your phone tighter as your free hand roams. The feeling of your own fingertips electrifying your skin, wondering how rough an army man’s hands would feel instead.
“Tell me what you’ve done so far,” you desperately want him to talk more.
“I opened the school website,”
“Mmhm,” your fingers find the edge of your panties under your silk night gown. Nipples hardening as the fabric brushes against them when it shifts.
“On the upper right, there’s a login link,” he speaks slowly–sweet, indulgent, and thick like honey dripping down your tongue.
“Uh huh,” you caress your slick folds, your breath suddenly growing hot and short.
“I’m pretty sure the username is just my name and the student ID number,” he almost mumbles to himself. “Caleb… Xia,” he says his name even slower and you can hear muffled typing.
You stifle a moan when he somehow times it perfectly–him saying his name and your finger brushing against your entrance. It doesn’t go unnoticed, but Caleb brushes it off.
“Caleb Xia…X zero two… four, nine, nine,” he repeats himself even slower this time.
Your eyes flutter shut when you finally slide a finger inside, the mere touch sending you close to climax. It’s been too long. And the thought of rubbing one out on the phone like this? It’s driving you feral.
“Ah!” you gasp when you find the gummy spot in your hot cunt.
“Umm… are you okay?” Shit. He caught on.
“Uh–yeah yeah, I just figured it out. You forgot the dash. You’re meant to type in a dash after your name,” you’re suddenly sober from the trance. Your finger still nestled in your warmth.
“Oh haha… Let me try that again,”
Fuck. If he spells out his name again, you’re done for. You’re overly sensitive and this whole exchange is too erotic.
“Caleb. Xia. Dash. X. Zero. Two…”
You swear he’s doing this on purpose. Your finger now pistoning in and out of you in slow, deliberate motions. You savor every feeling like a virgin being touched for the first time.
It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to hit you.
“Fuck. Yeah!” Caleb suddenly blurts out.
“Ahh–Ahh–a.. Ha. Ha,” Nice try. It was a respectable attempt but your panting sounded too pornographic for it to pass as a genuine laughter.
You swear you hear him smirk.
“Heh, guess I made a fuss over nothing. A freakin’ dash!” he chuckles. That crisp tone in his voice, boyish but deep like a real man. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you. I really do owe you one.”
You’re still trying to catch a breath. You can’t remember the last time you came. But your body tingles and your thighs are drenched.
“N-no, don’t mention it!”
What is this? His tone has shifted—low, teasing, laced with something darker that winds straight down your spine. You can hear the faint scrape of his breath against the receiver, the tiny pause before he speaks again.
“Just tell me what you want and I’ll try to make it happen for you.”
You keep the phone against your ear, but lift your other hand for a better look. The sight of what coats your fingers catches you off guard, stealing your breath for a beat.
Your mind races. What you want? Is he seriously asking a bitch in heat what she wants?
“So?” His voice is attentive, eager now.
“Uh–The playdate!” Your back straightens back up as the idea dawns on you. “Yes! The playdate… Bring your boy over tomorrow. W-We have a pool in the backyard. It’s still late summer after all. I’m sure the boys will love it.”
There it is again. That audible smirk.
“Yeah. The playdate. I’ll see what I can do with my boy in the morning,” a brief pause as if contemplating, or perhaps suspicious. “Text me your address and we’ll be there.”
“It’s a date then,” you tease. “A playdate.”
Head still light from your sexual release, you’re on cloud nine. You find yourself twirling around your bedroom now in different bikinis, each one a little smaller, a little bolder than the last. Straps slip over your shoulders, fabric clings in all the right places, and you check your reflection with the scrutiny of someone rehearsing for a performance.
You pause after each change, tilting your head, imagining his dark eyes tracking every inch of you. The mirror becomes his gaze, and the way you shift your hips, adjust the cups, even run your fingers along your own skin is all for him—practice for the real thing.
The pile of discarded swimsuits grows on the bed, but you can’t stop. Every new one feels like a promise, every color a possible reaction you want to pull from him.
By the time you settle on the one you’ll wear, your pulse is racing again—not from what just happened, but from what’s about to.
You know all of it is wrong, but boy does it feel so good.
notes: this one has been sitting in my drafts for while since the summer banner just got announced. saw caleb in them trunks and i thought damn i need a pool smut episode. although i'm still figuring out how i want the next few scenes to unfold, i really liked the tension building in this (or maybe i'm in heat). i felt really encouraged when my last xavi fic got a bunch of hits, so it pushed me to post this one. please comment, like, or reblog if yall think i should continue with this one. otherwise i might just leave it as is hehe.
as always, my dividers are from @cafekitsune ~
