The Abs Are Not The Trope

**A rhyming guide to why certain fictional men live rent-free in our heads**

You think we crave the conqueror, the king who takes by force,

The muscled alpha on the cover, shirtless by his horse.

You think we want the iron fist, the storming of the gates,

The heavy-handed hero who determines all our fates.

But if I may just share the truth, what’s sought between the lines,

Where tropes are high, and written words attract our hearts and minds.

It isn't in the grand displays or power's cold command,

But in the calm and grounded weight of one supporting hand.

Take the fake relationship, it’s not the kiss for show,

Or the way he grips her close to let onlookers know.

It’s in the way he finds her eyes across a crowded space,

The secret promise of his safety written on his face.

He doesn’t make her owe him; he becomes the one she trusts,

He’s sees her as a person, not a target for his lust.

In the boss or colleague trope, it’s not the desk or stare,

Nor is it the thrill of boardroom games when no one’s there.

It’s that he never shrinks the space she earned inside the room,

Never turns her labour into something to consume.

He knows the line and guards the ground for where she fought to be,

And that respect is what becomes the point of fantasy.

The marriage to the mafia, it’s not the blood and name,

It’s not how she is traded like a piece within his game.

It’s how the tiny details prove he listened when she shared,

The little things remembered that reflect he deeply cared.

No spectacles of power for the underworld to see,

Just proof he kept her smallest words like treasured currency.

For the brother’s older friend, perhaps her car broke down,

He’s the only contact that she knows within the town.

He doesn’t grin and offer space beside himself in bed.

He nods toward the bedroom and he takes the couch instead.

And with the bodyguard, she’s never pulled or shoved behind,

No hand is pressed against her like she’s something to confine.

He maps the room in silence while she’s addressing the floor,

Because he knows she’s faced far worse while on her own before.

It’s not about the White Knight charging in to save the day,

But rather he who guards her freedom as she leads the way.

The truth, at least for some of us, the part that might be missed:

The "female gaze" is rarely found within a sudden kiss.

It’s not the muscles, nor the fangs, nor titles he claims;

It’s when a man can sense a spark and still not feed the flame.

He lets an insult pass like mist, drops ego at the door,

Bears nothing in a tightened fist, yet holding so much more.

A man composed, who carries grace, and understands control,

Who finds the heart in every face, sees dignity and soul.

It’s not about the “tall and broad” that sets our hearts above;

Perhaps those spark a glance, but it’s the words that stoke our love.

So keep your alphas and your kings who take what they desire,

We’re busy reading men who arch a brow and quell the fire.

Who stand a careful foot apart and let the tension bloom,

Who somehow remain proper in a one-bed hotel room.

A/N: Just a piece for fun that stems from personal observation and experience. It certainly doesn’t capture everyone’s feelings, nor the many nuances that accompany both biological attraction and its relevant social factors.