grace

they spot you lingering. locked eyes with your cold glare. reached shaky fingers out in a gesture that you could only decipher as a cry for help.

and only then did you see the deep, dark liquid dripping down their throat. exactly where satoru buried his face into.

the street lamps glinted at just the right angle. showed just enough.

your eyes widened when you realised exactly what it was.

when you saw his fangs. heard him gulping.

without a doubt, that was blood.

satoru's jaw was latched onto their throat. his nails digging into their wrists. his adam's apple bobbing as he. . .

drank.

your mind scrambled. nerves tense. muscles frozen.

you should have ran.

you should have ran, should have screamed, should have jumped out of your very skin because what you were staring at was something that wasn't human.

instead?

you. . . pressed your thighs together.

and vanished from the scene as quick as you could. not from fear, but because of the throbbing dampness in your panties.

you weren't stupid. you knew exactly what that was. what he was.

and it. . . aroused you.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't bat an eye when your attitude problem seemed to grow by the day. he knew you by now. knew what you wanted. you pissed him off to get a reaction out of him. so that he could push you down into a desk in some abandoned classroom and fuck you until your knees jittered and your pretty panties were stained in his cum.

what he didn't realise was that you had another incentive now.

a new obsession.

after that night outside the dorm buildings, you dived head first into research. the biology of it all— vampirism.

folklore, documentaries, myths, whatever you could get your hands on. call it a hypothesis.

and what's the first thing about any hypothesis? field research. so of course you dedicated more hours to your watchful activities over your nerdy classmate.

you saw it again. saw him drain someone dry. saw him clean his fangs in the morning. saw him drink from birds in the night. your theory was correct.

and it fucking turned you on.

made you wanna be in their shoes. the bird in his clawed grasp. the bloodbag clutched in his palms. the victim under his fangs as he drained you dry of everything you had to offer.

for someone who just found out that their hatefuck buddy wasn't human, you sure had your priorities straight.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't quite sure what was going on. lately, he hasn't had to go rob a hospital, catch a bird, or pick out a new classmate to sink his fangs into.

they were delivered right to his door.

dead birds outside his dorm complex. in the gardens. convenient. with finals approaching, he never really questioned it. too buzzed on caffeine and too tired from hours hunched over a textbook to really care.

what did have him questioning, though?

the bodies.

dumped outside where the birds were. on the verge of death. puncture wounds in their throat and bleeding out.

he never could control himself.

feed first, ask questions later.

he'd drag them into his dorm. lay them out on his bed and feast to his heart's content. until his legs were shaking and he was gasping.

only then would he look at the puncture wounds. another vampire in town?

maybe trying to make an ally? he'd have to find them and personally thank them for giving him a little boost for dreadful finals.

little did he know that the "puncture wounds" were inflicted by your favourite pencil.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't question the rise in your sexual encounters. how your attitude seemed solely directed on him. how you bitched more, sneered harder, seemingly did everything in your power to drive him up the wall until he snapped and dragged you off to either finger you in an empty hallway or fuck you in the bathroom stall.

didn't question the way you'd grip his hair and bury his face into your neck. how you'd slip into his lap and smother him in yourself. how you wanted to be as close to him as possible.

he thought you needy.

what you really were was desperate.

desperate for him to lose that pesky restraint you noticed he had around you. desperate to snap his control so that he buried his fangs into whatever part of you he desired and drained you dry.

you wanted it. your blood on his fangs. your hands in his hair while he did it. your cunt clenching around his cock too.

let him shatter you, take you, ruin you— death by his hands started to sound like the sweetest fantasy.

it's what got you squirting around him every time he buried himself balls-deep. what had you sensitive to the smallest touches. with his face buried between your thighs and his glasses fogged.

you'd squeeze around his head. hope you'd allure him enough to lose his mind and bite on your thigh. gorge on your blood like he did your pussy.

if only.

if only.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ swore he tasted blood on your lipstick.

you were starting to get desperate. starting to grow tired of squeezing, and squirting, and sobbing for him— hoping he'd finally lose it. hoping he'd take you in another way that wasn't just fucking you stupid into his mattress.

so that's when you did it. you were already killing off students and dragging their bodies to that same damned garden— would this really make you any more of a sinner?

it was just a few droplets. three to be exact. not enough for you to notice. but enough that he would.

you kissed him at every opportunity you had. pushing him into the lockers in the middle of the hallway. crashing your lips into his and loving the way his whole body ticked up. how he froze.

god, a sick part of you wanted him to drain you in front of everyone.

you kissed him in the library, in the study room, the cafeteria, wherever you could get your hands on him just so you could feel his shake on your waist.

bingo.

you might just be getting this nerd obsessed with you after all.

˖ ࣪꒰ VAMPIRE NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't like that thought. the idea of needing you more than for just some desperate fuck to keep his mind off of his bloodlust.

now? he was really starting to imagine you in his bed whenever he pushes another body into his sheets and stained them scarlet.

maybe that's why he didn't stop your bolder touches. how you seemed to stop caring about being seen with him in public. how you wanted him at every hour of the day.

maybe, just maybe.

whatever he was feeling was threading a line on something dangerous.

it's why he didn't stop you when you got touchy with him. one late friday night in the lab. jerking him off under the table when you both should be dedicating the time to your looming research deadline.

instead: his head was tossed back. blunt nails digging into the smooth lab table as his glasses fogged and condensed with his heavy pants.

"fuck— fuck. 'm gonna cum if you don't stop—" he huffed, free hand gripping around your wrist as you squeezed him at the base.

your eyes were dilated. dare he say feral. he's been seeing that look from you more and more lately.

it throbbed that prominent underside vein of his.

"yeah, toru?" you cooed, sweet. sweeter than you had been to him all semester.

he wasn't sure why you were taking such a deep interest in him. maybe it was the way he filled you up. the way he fucked you. how desperate he sounded as he fucked his hips up into your hand in a lab where the professor could very well trot back into.

your wrist rotated. something sharp glinted in his peripheral. with his eyes fluttering and his breath heavy, he hadn't had the chance to catch sight of what was happening between his legs before—

he smelt it.

cutting, metallic, oh so fucking sweet.

his stare shot open. wide. pupils and irises shrinking as his eyes snapped down to your hand.

you were bleeding.

worse, you were smiling.

before he could shove you off and scamper away— you squeezed around his tip. harsh. with your fucking.

bleeding hand.

"wait—" he rasped.

your pace turned filthy. squeezing his cock and fucking him with your fist, using your blood as the lube.

your sweet, sinful, sanity-shattering blood.

the gums around his fangs swelled. his nostrils flared. eyes wide and flickering at the ceiling— and yet all he could do was needily buck into your pumping hand and whine from the back of his throat.

"shit— shit, fuck. I'm gonna cum. gotta stop, I'm. . . I'm gonna—"

"c'mon toru."

your thumb shoved to his tip. smearing blood with cum as you rubbed at the slit of his cock. squeezed with your other hand at his throbbing balls until his eyes rolled up.

until his fangs were on full display and he almost.

almost.

lost himself and shoved you to the table. buried his fangs into whatever part of you he found first and drained you dry while your hand went limp around his dick.

"oh my god," he croaked, whispy bangs sticking to his forehead and glasses strewn over the bridge of his nose as pleasure and bloodlust crashed on him in a dizzying, devastating splurge of sin.

and you?

still so sweet. still so fucking insane.

jerking him off with your own blood. even as his hips bucked and he snatched you by the wrist. held you tight. as his cock tensed, and trembled— and finally tipped over the edge.

thick, creamy ropes mixed with the smears of red. pouring down his dick and staining your hand that squeezed him still.

until all that came from his mouth was desperate little whimper.

till all he could think about was—

scarlet consumed blue. swallowing his irises into something carnal. violent.

his hand shot to your wrist. cramped it. with his sheer strength he shot to his feet and shoved you into the desk. dug his thumb into your wound and sneered above you as the scent of your blood finally pushed him over the edge—

satoru's not sure what made him snap out of it.

he was certain that he'd buried his face into whatever vein or artery he could and drank until you were nothing more but a memory on his tongue.

he didn't know when he pulled away.

when he scampered off.

all he knew was that his back was slamming into the locked door of his dark dorm once he was inside. that his pants were still unbuttoned and that he'd haphazardly shoved his cock back into them when he pried himself away from you.

his breathing heavy. ragged.

hand on his heart.

eyes fixed to the ceiling.

cock still stained in your sweet. . . sinful. blood.

a trembling hand raked down his face as he caught his breath.

did you see his eyes? see his fangs? did you understand that he was about to bring you to death rather than an orgasm?

his exhaustion and shock told him you didn't know. that you didn't know a damn thing. that you were just a crazy bitch who was into some freaky blood play.

and that he just overreacted.

yeah. overreacted. he needed a shower. needed to think of anything else but you.

you.

obsessed, crazy, fanatic little you.

still in that lab with his cum mixed with your blood in your hand.

staring at your palm as you breathed, heavy. heated. your free hand slipped under your skirt. between your thighs.

with your mind on him. him. that loser of a nerd. that demon of the night.

your dreadful, dangerous obsession.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/yinartss

he lacks even the basic decency to look up from his own groin, refusing to acknowledge your presence at the foot of your bed. his chest heaves under an oversized anime t-shirt, hips giving a needy little twitch as the rattle of the motor continues to pleasure his nerve endings. he rolls his head back into your pillows, letting out a shaky, wet moan that sounds nearly pornographic.

“shh… wait a sec,” he pants, his voice thick and raspy; a world apart from his typically fast-talking cadence that usually annoys the shit out of you. “i'm almost there. don’t be mad, it just… it feels so much better than my hands…”

you’ve had the boundary talks. you’ve threatened to lock your door (which he can bypass anyway). you’re tired, your feet hurt, and the audacity of him sitting in your room, treating your personal drawer like his own candy shop without an ounce of shame, makes your blood boil.

you stride over to the bed, and before his overstimulated brain can register the sudden movement, you reach down and wrench his hand away from his grip, sending the toy clattering onto the floorboards.

“hey!” he whines, a petulant, spoiled-brat pout instantly forming on his lips as his eyes finally dart up to yours. “i was literally right there! c’mon, that’s just cruel—”

unable to tolerate his dumb whining a second longer, you drop to your knees beside the mattress and clamp your hand around the bottom of his cock with intentional force. before he can even puff at the sudden restriction of his blood flow, you raise your other hand to land a stinging slap directly across the pink flesh of his tip with a loud smack!

satoru gasps, his spine arching off beautifully as his body spasms from the impact. his vivid blue eyes are now blown wide, blinking rapidly behind his spectacles while a miserable whimper spills from his plush lips. "do you think you can just use my things because you are too lazy to buy your own?"

​to penalize his arrogance further, ensuring the lesson sinks into his imbecile brain, you squeeze your thumb and forefinger around the tender skin beneath the swollen mushroom head and pinch, using enough force to guarantee a lasting red mark.

the reaction is instantaneous. the agony of the nip, combined with another slap across his aching dick, pushes his nervous system into overload. satoru releases a startled shriek, his hips thrashing desperately as he tries to wrench his hips away from your horrific grip, thighs jerking against the sheets in a futile attempt to escape the blinding pain.

​but your hands are unrelenting, and the torment only accelerates the climax. his cock throbs spastically as if its trying to communicate something using morse code before he erupts.

thick, pearly ropes of cum shoot straight up, splattering across his own flat stomach and the hem of his shirt, dripping down the pale skin of his abs.

“oh god—” he groans, voice cracking as his upper body collapses back into the pillows, the sudden impact knocking his glasses off his nose to land sideways on the mattress. he looks like a total wreck; his mouth hanging open, a thin strand of saliva bridging his lips as he stares up at you with dazed, dilated pupils that consume his baby blue irises.

even as the intense peak subsides, his hips give one final, weak roll against your hand, and he possesses the sheer nerve to smile—a lazy, unrepentant smirk forming on his stupidly handsome face.

From: [email protected] Subject: email? really?

Dear Gojo Satoru,  Clearly you can’t take a hint. Let me spell it out for you. I. Am. Busy. Leave. Me. Alone. Unhappily,  Your girlfriend P.S. Do not call yourself ‘big-dicked daddy.’ It upsets me greatly.

From: [email protected] Subject: keep being mean to me please im close

Dear adorable goth baby,  You’re so hot when you’re being mean. I already know you’re frowning in that cute way that makes me want to smother you in kisses and you’re rolling your eyes so hard NGH! I already said I’m sorry.  Please give me another chance. I’m so damn bored I started playing spin the bottle alone in my room. I made out with that picture of you sleeping with drool down your chin. Picture You was even getting handsy. ‘Down girl!’ I said. ‘Bad!’ Stay tight,  Toru (not Gojo Satoru, that’s like a slur coming from you, very triggering stuff) P.S. I am your big-dicked daddy tho I’m confused?

From: [email protected] Subject: shut up

Satoru,  I gave you multiple chances when I asked you to stop and give me at least 5 hours to study before we go out for dinner and I entertain you, you giant freaking child. But no, you just had to hound me with your dick, like I was supposed to be dickmatised and persuaded to drop everything at your beck and call.  Fuck, I’m getting mad all over again.  Stop emailing me. You’re gonna see me at 7pm for our date anyways. You can last 4 more hours. Yours not for long,  Girl who just wants to pass

From: [email protected] Subject: my bad bro

Sweetiepie :( I’m sorry.  I thought it was gonna motivate you to work hard. Pwease forgive me. Pwease? Towu is vewy vewy sowwy.  In fact, I’m so so so sorry, I’ll pay for dinner tonight. Scout’s honour. Asking for mercy and forgiveness,  Your boyfriend no matter what

From: [email protected] Subject: dinner? that the best you can offer?

You always pay for dinner. Last time I offered, you damn near wrestled me in the middle of the restaurant so you could get your card out first. We’re still banned from there, remember? Btw, you were never a Scout, don’t play with me.

From: [email protected] Subject: you gotta address me and sign off!

Dear love of my life who doesn’t understand how email etiquette works,  Of course I always pay for dinner — you’re broke and your family is destitute, I remind you lovingly. But even if you were as rich as me, or even richer (which isn’t possible, not to flex), I would still pay every single time. It’s the least I can do for reparations for the violence committed by my gender against yours. Plus, that restaurant sucked anyway — the owner is problematic towards immigrants and the servers don’t even know if the meat is locally and ethically sourced, like hello??? In the big 2025?!? How’s studying going? Do you need a snack or a smoothie to boost you?  I can drop by. Promise I won’t linger. I just didn’t see a purchase on my card for breakfast or lunch. Please don’t starve. If I can’t watch your ass jiggle when I hit it from the back, I’m gonna be devastated.  Yours most sincerely,  Satoru P.S. You have to be a Scout to say Scout’s Honour? Crazyyyyyy

From: [email protected] Subject: so fucking bossy omg

Dear Satoru (happy now?), Please don’t remind me of my family’s shortcomings. You know I like to pretend I came from a normal background. And stop being more woke than me. It’s hot. Studying’s fine, I guess. I think I forgot how to study. I’ve missed a lot of content too. If a certain someone hadn’t been clinging to me so tightly every morning, maybe I wouldn’t be so behind. God, you make my life so hard.  A smoothie and pastry would be lovely, actually. I can’t be bothered leaving my room to get some food. Just drop it off outside and disappear by the time I open the door — if I see even a glimmer of white hair, I’m going to freak.  Thanks. Love begrudgingly, A girl who’s gonna fail her exam

From: [email protected] Subject: you're not gonna fail

Dear cutie,  I don’t cling to you that hard. You’re dramatic. I wonder where you got that from. And last I checked, we have a safeword you can use anytime to get me away from between your legs if you really wanted to get to class. But I like our game where you pretend you’re not just as obsessed with me as I am with you (I know you get all hot and bothered when I reference Marx, dirty girl) Food’s outside babe. The line was stupid long and I ran into Fushiguro — remember the guy I told you has the highest body count on campus? He’s in a relationship now and he’s so pussywhipped lmaoooo Couldn’t be me. Hoping you’ll stuff your face and get all the brain power you need,  Satoru

From: [email protected] Subject: not impressed

I told you to disappear before I could see you.  You didn’t have to kiss me and hump my leg you animal. My neighbours were NOT happy with the pornographic noises you made, asshole.  Yeah, I remember Toji. Cool dude. Always wearing gym wear no matter the weather and for some reason hates you. Don’t make fun of him for being loyal and loving to his girlfriend. You’re probably so much worse. I envy his girlfriend. She probably doesn’t have to put up with a yapper who spams her with dick pics. Thank you for the food though. Very appreciated. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was the number and the smiley face on my drink. I already told you, if someone tries to hit on you, bark at them and tell them you have a girlfriend you worship endlessly. 

From: [email protected] Subject: EMAIL. ETIQUETTE. COME ON.

Look: Dear angry girlfriend I do in fact worship endlessly and beyond,  I’m sorry I didn’t follow your exact orders but I desperately needed a kiss from my girl. If I don’t get my daily dose, I wilt, like a rose. You know this.  And disrespectfully, f your neighbours. It wasn’t anything they hadn't heard from us before. Sensitive ears ahhh About Fushiguro — he does not hate me. Why does everyone say that?  We’re actually besties. We’re like dumb and dumber, but dumber is him obvi. Plus, once he gets some shots in him, he’s super in love with me. I get more over the clothes action from him than from you lol You never need to thank me for feeding you. I fear that’s like bare minimum. Get those standards up girl. Oh and sorry about the drink. I didn’t even notice. Leave it outside your door and I’ll get you a new one. I’ll even make a scene and call the manager over. Maybe I’ll buy the store and get everyone fired. Just give me the word babe. Yours forever,  Satoru 

From: [email protected] Subject: YOU ARE EXHAUSTING

Dear my sweetest, most frustrating boyfriend, Fine, I’ll forgive the kiss (I might have needed it too). And yeah, f my neighbours because the guy on my left loves playing Doctor Who Season 8 on repeat and on full volume every night like clockwork. It’s not even the best season! Forget about the drink. Just don’t ever go back there again. Number and smiley face aside, the drink is abysmal and tastes like bog water. Pastry is great though. 10/10 You’d really make a scene for me? Yours occasionally,  No longer starving girlfriend

From: [email protected] Subject: awww I knew you loved me really

Dear the Morticia to my Gomez,  I’d make a scene for you at the drop of a hat. I’d serenade you in malls, on campus, in a Michelin star restaurant, and in a lecture. Heck, I’d yell ‘BOMB’ in an airport if you asked me to – just maybe not an airport we frequent. There’s quite literally nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If you didn’t know that already, then I’m not as great of a boyfriend as I thought I was. I will remedy that immediately, my goddess eternal. Obsessedly yours,  Your husband in every way but legally (we can fix that)

From: [email protected] Subject: ugh

Dear Toru,  Stop being sweet. It’s disgusting. Come inside already. I’m done pretending I’m getting anything from the textbooks. I’m only giving myself a headache.

From: [email protected] Subject: woahhhh

You can tell I’m outside???

From: [email protected] Subject: you're loud as hell

I can hear you giggling at my emails, Satoru. You’re probably sitting on the floor, leaning against my door. 

From: [email protected] Subject: just got shivers

Damnnnn are you sure you’re not a witch?

From: [email protected] Subject: well?

Are you coming in or what?

From: [email protected] Subject: yippeeeee

Okay okay, yes I am. LOVE YOU BABY <3

Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.

Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—

Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.

Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.

You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—

Oh, she’s probably dead too.

You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.

In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.

He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.

“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.

“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“

Does he have something against breastfeeding?

“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“

Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.

“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“

Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.

But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.

The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.

So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.

(You’d cry later.)

He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.

Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.

Maybe you should have just let him kill you.

His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.

“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“

You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”

That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—

Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.

“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”

You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.

Oh, fuck.

“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”

He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.

“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”

And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.

How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?

*

You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?

The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.

He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.

The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.

Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.

*

You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.

Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.

Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.

It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.

*

“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”

“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.

“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.

“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?

Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.

“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.

*

You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——

Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.

“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.

You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.

“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”

“I do not recall when I was born.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment.

“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.

“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”

*

While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.

You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.

So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.

…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.

And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.

So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.

“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"

“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“

“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.

“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.

And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.

At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.

“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“

“Worried?” You tease.

“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”

“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.

*

Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.

You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.

You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.

“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”

He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?

You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.

You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.

A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.

“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.

“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”

You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”

“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.

He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”

“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.

He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”

“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”

“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.

“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”

“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”

You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.

You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”

“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.

“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”

You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.

“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.

“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”

With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.

“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.

You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.

*

You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.

Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.

“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.

You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

“Yes?” You smile.

“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.

“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.

“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”

“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.

When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”

“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”

Okay, maybe you did have it in you.

“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.

“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”

His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“

“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.

Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.

“Can you pass me my top?”

In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!

*

You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.

You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.

“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.

“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.

“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”

“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.

“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”

“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”

*

“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.

“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”

“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”

“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”

“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”

That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.

“Why?”

“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”

You’ve seen it, after all.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.

*

“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”

“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”

“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.

“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.

“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”

“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.

Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”

*

“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.

“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.

“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.

“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”

“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.

“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.

“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.

“Maybe win a fight first.”

“Ohhhh!”

“Shut up, Oliver.”

*

Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.

And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.

“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.

“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.

“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.

“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—

“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“

You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?

Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.

*

The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.

People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.

So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.

When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.

“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.

“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?

“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”

“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.

You really hated when you felt bad for him.

Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.

“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.

“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”

“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”

That’s almost sweet.

“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”

What?

“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.

Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.

“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”

You silently apologize to Mark.

“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”

“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.

“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.

He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.

You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?

Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”

“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”

*

When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.

“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.

“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”

You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”

“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.

“You wanna take me out?” You ask.

“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.

“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”

He chokes, and you bite back a smile.

He’s too easy.

“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“

You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.

“Let’s do it,” he declares.

“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.

“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.

“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?

“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."

“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.

“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.

“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.

This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.

*

“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.

Join the club, you think delirious.

Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off

*

Mc:

Thaedus: what have you done

*

Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?

*

Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy

Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.

*

Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:

Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??

*

Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔

Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else

*

Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses

Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something

Mark: no??

*

GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭

*

Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?

I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime

Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol

But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing

You wouldn’t have needed to hold back tears when you stumbled upon a random alley to throw up after having one too many vodka shots, only to see the image that would be imprinted in your mind even years later.

The stop-motion scene before you showed the unmistakable broad shoulders of your longtime crush being caressed, then pressed against the alley wall. When you caught sight of who was kissing him, your eyes nearly bulged out.

What the fuck? Wasn’t she his…weren’t they—

You shook the scene from your mind, willing it to dissipate as if an iron-clad eraser had been taken to it, rubbing furiously and tearing it apart like a flimsy sheet of paper. 

You had backed out of the alley on shaky legs, stomach still threatening to revolt despite being smacked right out of your tipsy haze. A million questions bubbled in your mind, and you weren’t sure why you were having such a strong reaction towards the situation.

Caleb Xia was not your boyfriend, you were the one with the stupid crush, so his alleyway hookups shouldn’t bother you this much.

It's said that when you’re attracted to someone, you start to notice them everywhere, and back in college, it was a rare occurrence for you to not end up in the same room as him one way or another.

Caleb sat a few tables away from you in the library, coincidentally picking the same times to study that you did. He would hover bare inches away from you when you stood in line to get lunch, so close you could’ve sworn you felt the warmth of his body against your back.

Then he started talking to you, and you were done for.

Already psychologically wired to see him everywhere; his charisma was like the final nail in the coffin that cemented your feelings for him. 

Unfortunately, someone had let your little crush slip, and you braced yourself for rejection that never came.

In hindsight, you really wish it had.

Caleb started lingering outside your lectures, waiting for you, then offering you a ride home. Admittedly, you shouldn’t have brushed it off when he drove straight to your house without needing any directions, but you were too busy floating on cloud nine to do so.

Some days, Caleb would make the occasional detour to a cafe where he, rather rigidly, only ordered apple crumble pie at. And when you would walk back to his car side by side, your mind tricked you into thinking that his knuckles brushed over the back of your hand, just shy of holding it. 

How naive you were to think that meant he reciprocated your feelings.

Thinking back on it now, you wholly believe his actions were more of a kindness to you, because Caleb was just too good a guy to embarrass you by outwardly rejecting you in front of your mutual friends.

But after seeing them together that night at the party, you did it for him.

The day after you found him outside your class, leg propped against a wall as he waited for you, you walked right past him. You made it all of two steps before a hand latched around your wrist. It wasn’t exactly rough, but it was firm enough to stop you in your tracks. 

“Where are you running off to so fast?” That adorable chuckle of his almost made you forget yourself. “It looks like it’s about to rain. I can drive you home.” 

You tugged your hand out of his and shook your head at him, “That’s not necessary, I think I’ll beat it if I head out now.”

“Come on, I really don’t mind—”

Never one to bite your tongue, the words tumbled out.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m gonna get dragged into some back alley in broad daylight.”

Caleb’s dark eyebrows knitted in confusion, lips parting to tell you that your little ‘joke’ only made him want take you home more, but then, as if something clicked into place, he froze.

Dragged into an alley?

You had seen him. Seen them. He was sure of it. A hand went to scratch the short crop of hair just above his neck, “Oh, you saw that, huh? Pips was drunk, probably mistook me for Zayne or something—”

Your hand lifted to stop him. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Caleb.” His hand dropped to his side, smile wavering at the sharpness of your voice. “But I think it’s best we stop whatever this is while we’re ahead. Just so no one gets the wrong idea.”

Namely you.

You’d like to say a strange look passed in his peculiarly purple eyes, but that wasn’t the truth. They just sort of…went blank. Scarily so. As if you were looking at a walking corpse whose soul had just been scooped clean out their body. It unsettled you enough to make you walk away without waiting for his response. And he let you. Or at least you think he did. 

If love were truly a choice, that would’ve been the end of it. Your eyes wouldn’t have looked for him in every room, heart nearly thumping out of your chest when you found him already watching you. And you wouldn’t have envisioned every partner you had thereafter as having those boundless indigo eyes everytime they looked at you. 

For some reason, none of your relationships lasted. It was like a switch would flip, and they’d want to call it quits. And you, so worried that they had seen through you, seen that you were thinking about someone else every second you were with them, didn’t pay attention to the busted lips and black eyes most of them sported. 

Moving away after graduation did you good. It gave you a fresh start with a man who didn’t randomly go hot and cold. Of course, until that fateful day, he did go cold. Dead cold.

You hated funerals.

Not that you thought anyone sane liked them, but there was something unnervingly wrong about being at your boyfriend's one. 

During the service, the room was saturated in a dark, suffocating gloom. Everyone mechanically moved towards Aaron’s coffin and just placed their hands on it, as if they wished they could touch him one last time. Some people you had never seen before were sobbing harder than his family was, harder than you were and falling over themselves while their bodies jerked like they had been dipped in acid. 

Aaron couldn’t have an open casket, and it was just as well because you don’t think you could see him that way again. 

His voice rang so clearly in your ears that it was hard to believe he was gone. Just days ago, he had hulked into your shared apartment with his cap sitting low over his face, greeting you before saying his famous catchphrase. 

“What’s for dinner, babe?”

“I thought we could order in tonight.” You told him without even looking up from your laptop, way too engrossed in finishing a presentation. Aaron closed the door behind him, footsteps loud with his heavy work boots and the sound he made had you bristling.

“You didn’t cook?” He asked with his voice gruff, and when you finally looked up at him with a raised brow, he offered you a pacifying smile. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“Mhm.” He moved in on you, and you turned back to your work as a soft kiss was pressed to your cheek.

“It’s only because I love your cooking so much.” He said, gently petting the bear (you) so it wouldn’t bite his head off.

“Yeah, yeah go shower, you oaf.” You felt him smile against your skin before pulling away.

You watched Aaron’s back as he retreated into the bathroom, and a fond smile tugged at your lips. Your longest boyfriend was a man who was rough around the edges but became as soft as a ball of cotton candy where you were concerned. He loved you and somedays, especially ones a certain dark-haired colonel didn’t plague your thoughts, you felt your heart softening towards him too. 

You loved him. And one day, college crush be damned, you knew you’d fall in love with him too. 

Feeling the strong need to take a breather after being stuck behind the screen all day long, you slid on your shoes and knocked on the bathroom door to tell Aaron you'd be going straight to the restaurant instead of having the food delivered.

It took a few tries for you to remember everything he wanted as he called out his order over the light pitter-patter of the shower, but once you finally memorised it, you were off. 

You had been gone for over an hour, so coming back to the apartment to hear the shower still running had you at a loss. 

“Just how much work were you doing at the site to need an hour-long shower?” You got no response when you walked past the bathroom and went to put the paper bags on the counter. 

You were curbing your rumbling belly with one fry at a time when you decided that you had waited long enough. Why he always insisted on eating together just for you to always beat him to the table, you’d never know.

“Aaron, come on.” Sliding out the chair and leaving your cheeseburger behind was no small feat, but you managed.

You leaned against the bathroom door, knocking a little too hard. You always got moody when you were hungry. “I’m eating without you if you don’t come out in the next two seconds!”

Silence.

“Baaabe.” You lamented over another hunger pang, but aside from that sound, you were met with silence again. 

You wished you never pushed that door open because through the thick blanket of steam billowing around the room and the pour of water from the showerhead, you saw it. 

The deathly still outline of a silhouette.

“Aaron…?”

You squinted your eyes as if that would force more light to pour into the space, and maybe it worked because you finally saw him slumped against the once pristine bathroom wall.

Because now it was anything but, as a large splatter of blood strained it, spoiled it, and formed a halo of crimson around his head. He looked like some kind of underworldly creature with his once tanned skin dimmed ashen white and his veins skirted under it in thick ropes. They were coloured a bright blue, like a bolt of lightning had shot through him.

Except it wasn’t lightning.

The unseeing curtain that fell over his eyes and refused to ever open told you that. And the gaping hole between his eyebrows told you more. At complete odds with the mess of blood and gnarled debris spurred over his ghostly face, the wound was a clean, professional shot that cut right through his skull and came out the back of his head matting his stringy hair dark red.

Your legs gave out, and you weren’t sure what sound wrenched itself from your throat, only that it was loud enough to make your own ears ring. Knees meeting the tiles in a hard blow, the jolt of pain surging through your bones was the last thing you remembered before your vision went dark. 

A week had passed since then, yet the image still gave you sleepless nights. Your red rimmed eyes stung when you rubbed at them and when you heard your name being called, you almost thought you had finally drifted off to dreamland.

Everyone had left, but you were still at the cemetery, gaze sightlessly hollow as you stared at Aaron’s tombstone, but that voice…the familiarity of it, it had your head turning.

Then your eyes landed on him, and you decided that this was undoubtedly the worst week of your life. 

First, a dead boyfriend and now Caleb.

Clad in a plain black suit, Caleb had a beautifully crafted wreath in his hand, and seeing you needed some time to gather yourself, he didn’t rush to greet you. He just walked to the tombstone, set the flowers down, then wordlessly stood at your side. 

It was just your luck that, along with your mutual friends, the man was back like a bad rash to see you in your most vulnerable state.

Caleb stood in the back of the hall during the service, and your soft cries were heart-wrenching.

It was almost enough to make him feel bad for being the cause of your distress. But he didn’t have much of a choice.

He could blame his actions on the Toring chip, say that when it dampened his mood, it also clouded his judgment and made him act out of character, but that simply wouldn’t be true.

Because even before joining the Fleet and getting the implant, Caleb still had a short fuse.

When he heard that you liked him, his excitement nearly had him sprouting goddamned wings and taking flight. He had liked you for longer than he could remember, so the prospect that you felt even half of what he did made the nature of his crush a little obsessive.

It turned into a ghastly, twisted thing that had his feet following you around before he could even stop himself. But despite this, Caleb was smart enough to know that he couldn’t come on too strong and risk scaring you away.

He needed to be careful, and he needed to be patient.

It was hard enough when you cut him off after seeing that accidental alley kiss, a kiss he immediately broke away from, but apparently, you didn’t see that part.

It was even harder when you moved to the other side of town and shacked up that foreman of yours. 

Caleb was always nearby, of course, whether that be digitally via the cameras he installed in your house or physically as a dark shadow in the deep corners of the rooms you walked into.

It was all going well until he broke his routine and decided to follow Aaron instead of you.

His heart painfully shuttered in his chest when he saw the man walk into a jewellery store. Caleb’s breath was heavy when he saw the man pick out a ring. One that you wouldn’t even like, but an engagement ring nonetheless.

No, that simply wouldn’t do. He thought.

Aaron wasn't like one of those spineless boys Caleb roughed up to make them stop seeing you. The man would sooner laugh in his face and rush to propose if Caleb even tried anything.

So, he knew he needed to take more extreme measures.

Caleb wanted to be quiet about it. He didn’t want to take care of Aaron in a way that would weigh on you too much. He wanted to make the man disappear quietly…but he had put up a fight.

Caleb reached for his gun before he could even stop himself, and even as he stared unblinkingly at the man shuddering as his last few breaths left him, he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

He really meant to clean up after the mess so you wouldn’t see the grotesque scene, but with a glance at his phone, the tracker he put in your car told him that he didn’t have enough time. As it were, leaving your apartment in that state made you the prime suspect of the murder, but the police’s power trip only lasted a couple hours before he swayed the Fleet’s influence over the department and told them, in no uncertain terms, to look elsewhere.

And a week later, in true unhinged fashion, he walked into the very funeral of the man he killed, more than ready to console his would-be fiancée.

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was odd. While clipped and sharp enough to cut through anything with unnerving ease, it had a wobbly lilt too, like it would topple over into a sob if you didn’t hold it together firmly enough.

“I wanted to offer my condolences.” His words only elicited a shaky breath from you, so he felt the need to continue. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Caleb turned to you a little, just enough to see your lower lip tremble.

“Thank you.”

Your voice came out a little too thin, and when the first tear fell, he fully turned to you, hand hovering above your shoulder but not quite touching you. A wracking sob shook them.

“Hey,” his voice was soft as he stepped closer to you, crowding in on you. And he was stunned when you threw yourself into his arms, small hands clutching at his blazer while you cried into his chest. 

It seemed you had finally reached your limit. You had come fully apart, shattered like delicate glass into a million tiny shards and turning to whoever was closest so you could try to meld yourself back together with the comfort they offered. 

As it turned out, Caleb was the closest person. And he had to catch himself when he felt the corners of his lips curling up. 

You choose him. And he would be more than happy to oblige.

“I’m sorry.” You choked out, utterly apologetic as you wet his dress shirt. 

“Shhh,” His hands wrapped around you, and he placed a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. “I’ve got you.” 

A hand pats your back, then rubs soothingly.

“I’ll always be here for you.”

And you knew he meant it, because when you were still considered a suspect for Aaron’s murder, the police had searched your apartment and unearthed a couple dozen hidden cameras.

Belatedly, you realised their craftsmanship was unmistakably similar to the robotics project Caleb had all the professors swooning over back in college.

So, if love were truly a choice, you would have sought justice for Aaron and immediately reported Caleb to the police. You surely wouldn’t be clinging onto him as if he were your sole anchoring force. All while a dark, pleasurable hum buzzed along your skin. Low and hissy it told you that if you ever doubted his feelings, the macabre display of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you at his side should silence all uncertainty.

A lump grew in your throat. Were you that easy to read? Or was he just that attuned to you?  Either way, you couldn’t admit to it. Not when every other Fleet recruit who got called into this office left with watery eyes and ruined pride. “N-no, sir,” you muttered, willing your jittery feet to stop betraying your nerves. 

You were a moment too late. Gaze flitting to your shoes, Colonel Xia gave you a half-smirk. “Good. I wouldn’t want this little meeting cut short, would you?”

“No, sir,” you repeated. You wanted nothing more. 

At just 25, the youngest Colonel in Farspace Fleet history was devastatingly handsome. With his muscled frame, full lips, and penetrating violet eyes, you often wondered if he’d be better suited as a model than a space defense official. You supposed it made sense, though—models were nowhere near as intimidating. 

“You’re full of right answers today,” he observed, pushing his chair back from the piles of paperwork on his sleek L-shaped desk. “Give me another one. The nurses told me you overexerted yourself in your mission today. Is that true?” 

Freezing in place, you balked at the question. Here it comes, you thought. A couple months in, and already demoted to desk duty? Or let go altogether? It was just your luck. 

Awaiting your answer, he spread his legs and folded his hands on his abdomen. His face looked calm enough—you’d never seen him lose his composure, only heard the horror stories of others who’d met his wrath—but you didn’t dare bet on the suspicion of favoritism. 

Your mouth went dry. Fear, anxiety, and something else that swirled inside you when you saw how his thick thighs stretched the expensive fabric of his pants. He seemed to like the truth—he seemed to already know it, most times—but he preferred when it was gifted to him on a silver platter. And if it would save your skin, you’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

“It’s true,” you croaked, cringing slightly from embarrassment. Your tongue instinctively darted out to wet your lips, and you tried not to notice the way his eyes sharpened. If you weren’t being fired for fucking up, unprofessionalism would get you there in no time. “Our unit was ambushed by Wanderers mid-exploration, and we had to make a quick escape. I thought I hurt myself pulling the other recruits into the aircraft, but the nurses said it’s just muscle strain.” You broke his piercing gaze and lowered your own to the floor. “I’m sorry for causing a fuss, Colonel.” 

You could feel him studying you. Your bowed head and clasped hands, the slight tremble—fear and fatigue—in your sore limbs. Moments ticked by, slow and shameful. If he could just get it over wi—

“Eyes up,” he ordered. Again, you obeyed. 

“Whoever gave you the impression that you need to apologize for saving half your cohort,” he started, voice laced with subtle malice, “is clearly in need of a refresher on Fleet protocol. We’ll discuss that more later.” 

Lips parting in shock, you silently prayed for the other recruits. By the look on his face…more horror stories to come.

“I have no intention of punishing you, unless you plan on giving me cause for it.” 

“No, sir!” you rushed. Forgetting yourself, you stepped toward him in desperation, your cheeks flaming in embarrassment when his eyebrows rose. 

His earlier smirk returned. “Easy. Like I said, no intention. In fact, I only called you here to see if you were okay.” He leaned back in his chair, legs spreading even further, and it took everything in you not to avert your gaze. “It’s my job to take care of you. How could I live with myself if one of the Fleet’s shining stars got injured on the assignment I ordered? If you ask me, I might even be a little to blame.” 

There was something different in his tone. Danger in simple words. 

“Please,” he continued, and your knees nearly buckled on the spot. Please, what? What could a man like him possibly want from you that he couldn’t take? His next words were your answer: “Let me help you.” 

“I’m…I”m not sure I understand,” you stammered, retreating to your original place. And another step for good measure. 

He held up a hand, and despite it all, you still stopped in your tracks. His other hand gestured to his lap, and you almost pinched yourself in disbelief. 

“I dispatched you on a mission, you got injured. It’s only fair I help you through it,” he said simply. “You can let me, or refuse. Your call. But if you accept,” he warned, voice dipping in provocation, “you’ll need to come a lot closer than that.” 

Hammering in your chest, your heart did a somersault. Minutes ago, you’d thought you were being relieved of duty, and now…he was being so vague, you weren’t sure what this was. But two things were clear: the first, you’d been right, bold as you were, about his bias toward you. Anyone else would’ve run out of here crying by now. The second? The most powerful, beautiful man you knew was offering to help you, whatever that meant. And when you combined that with the first…well, why the hell not. 

Cautiously, you stepped toward him again. And though he waited, imperial and unmoving, you swore you saw anticipation swimming in his eyes. 

It took 11 steps to stand before him. Each one was the toll of a bell in your brain. But still, you pressed on, advancing until his large frame was just an arm’s length away. 

Satisfaction shimmered on his face. 

“I won’t wear these for this,” he said, gesturing to his black gloves. “Help me take them off?” 

Warily and with no idea why he couldn’t do it himself, you reached out, and suddenly he was tangible. Real. The warm fabric of his uniform sent a shiver down your spine. 

Daintily, you inched the fitted leather off each of his extended hands, careful not to tug too hard. The gloves slipped off with relative ease, dwarfing your hands as you held them in hesitation. He pointed to the desk, and you spun to lay them down. 

“Good. Now sit down. Face forward,” he commanded, as if this order were as simple as “stand at attention.” 

You tried and failed to suppress a squeak as your hands shot out to brace yourself. Your fingerprints smudged his glass desktop. Incriminating. “Sir? What do you—”

“You still want me to help you?” His voice was strained. 

You did. You thought you did? You still weren’t clear on what that meant. “Yes,” you whispered. “But—”

He had a habit of not letting you finish. You’d figured that out early on. But an interruption wasn’t the cause, this time—it was a warm, callused hand, fully enveloping your wrist. A strong arm encircling your waist. And both, firmly pulling you down onto the Colonel’s lap. 

Rippling muscle, barely subdued under his uniform, was the first thing you felt. His broad chest pressing into your spine, his heavy thighs supporting your weight. 

The hardness flush against your ass was the second. 

But he apparently had other priorities. A relieved sigh left him as he snaked a hand up to your shoulder, nuzzling into your hair and taking a deep inhale. “That’s it,” he murmured, running his other hand down your side. “Stay like this. I’ll take care of you, just like I said.” 

On your shoulder, his fingers began to move, squeezing and loosening in gentle patterns. His other hand, once finished roving around your curves, rose to your opposite shoulder and mimicked the motions. 

You’d never been more confused in your life. 

All that, and he called you here to rub your shoulders? It felt nice, sure, but this was nothing an ice pack couldn’t fix. And surely, the man had better things to do. 

But before you could ask, he dug his thumbs into your shoulder blades, and your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. 

“Wow, you’re tense,” he remarked. “Pulling those people up is what made you so sore, right?” 

“Everywhere,” you panted. You fought relaxation and lost, your head lolling to the left side of his chest. 

He chuckled lowly. “Tell me about it.” 

“We-we were scouting the unexplored area,” you breathed. “The one you pinpointed on the map.” His hands worked a particularly coiled muscle, and you arched on instinct—your hips driving into his, your chest pushing into nothing. He grunted deeply in your ear, and your closed eyes flew open when his hands left your shoulders. Was he stopping already? Had you done something wrong? 

You didn’t wonder for long; soon, his palms settled on your chest, and your mind went blank. “Keep going,” he coaxed, breath fanning your ear. The way he cupped your tender breasts, squeezing and tugging to ease the tension out of you, almost stole your voice away. But when his head dropped to leave a long, doting kiss on your cheek, the words tumbled out in desperate whimpers. 

“There was no…no sign, no heat signature or anything. But then a crowd of Wanderers came out of nowhere.” 

He hummed softly, and something told you his focus was elsewhere. “They did, did they?” 

“Yes.” You moaned as his hands pinched your nipples, steadily rolling them under his thumb. “They outnumbered us…almost had us surrounded…”

As you spoke, something wet and hot traced the curve of your cheek. You jolted from the sensation, nearly squealing from the shock of his tongue on your skin, but one of his large hands left your chest to press hard on your belly, keeping you still and caging you in. You swore you heard him laugh under his breath, but the sound was muffled by another long, lewd kiss on your cheek. He ducked his head to nip at your throat, licking slowly at the bite, and squeezed your waist as a sign to continue. 

“There was a gap just big enough,” you obliged, gasping as heat seared your core. “We ran through, all of us…I was at the front, so I was the first back on the ship.” He hummed again, this time in approval. The remaining hand on your chest splayed out, groping as much of both breasts as it could, and let their weight fall back to your body. “Six…six of us,” you moaned, failing to writhe in his unyielding grip. “So I had to pull five on board.” His lips brushed your neck again, his warm breaths tickling the sensitive skin, and you raised an arm to bury your fingers in his hair. 

This time, his moan filled your ears, and he loosened his grip, gently nudging you forward. 

But when you rose from his lap, head too high in the clouds to panic, he only spun you around and pulled you down again—this time, facing those striking violet eyes. 

He pulled his lips tight in a teasing pout, leaning close to nose along your cheekbone. “You thought we were done already?”

“You…I…” you stammered. You weren’t done? There was more? 

He tsked, and wetness pooled between your thighs. “Nuh-uh. You said you were sore everywhere. You didn’t think I’d skip the rest, did you?”

Sheepish, you tugged your lip between your teeth and cast your eyes downward. A blur of motion hit your periphery, and his hand was suddenly lifting your chin. His thumb pulled at your lip, and he watched it bounce free with undisguised hunger. 

“The rest?” he repeated. A question. An out. 

You nodded. 

“Don’t look away,” he ordered. “Eyes on me, through all of it.” His voice, hoarse from lust, slipped back into a commanding tone. As if this order were as good as any other. As if consequences loomed underneath. 

You braced your hands on his chest and looked into half-lidded eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

Firm hands gripped the fat of your ass, branding deep circles into aching flesh. With superior strength, he heaved your front against his, cupping you completely in his grasp. 

Your mouth fell open almost immediately, jaw slack from the way he handled you. Wanton cries spilled from your lips as he ground you against him, rubbing the tender swell of your ass with devastating attentiveness. 

“Is this better, baby? Is it good?” he asked, squeezing almost affectionately. 

At the endearment, you whined into the thickening air—responding, but not with words. 

“Don’t give me that,” he urged. “You were so good, answerin’ me earlier. So pretty. You were scared, weren’t you?” 

“Don’t be scared of me. Don’t be,” he repeated, pinching your warming flesh. “That’s only for the others. But you? I’ll keep you just like this—nothin’ to worry about.” He was powerful as ever, but his words began to slur. He was unraveling, just as you were, as his bulge twitched beneath you. “Answer me, baby. Does it feel good?” 

You tried to speak—you wanted to, but his body heat and his friction and his ask of you—they were all too much. Gasping helplessly, you screwed your eyes shut, momentarily forgetting the promise you’d made. 

Until the hand that’d just held you came cracking down, the sound echoing throughout the room. 

Had he just…?

He had. Your fearsome, no-nonsense Colonel had just…

And the moment he did, arousal flooded out of your clenching cunt. 

Oh, your eyes were open now. Wide and shocked and searching. 

His gaze met yours with the same intent, waiting to see what you’d do. If he’d crossed one too many lines today. 

But where he feared you’d freeze or run, you collapsed onto his chest, mouthing wantonly at his neck through needy whimpers. 

“Look at that,” he marveled. “Such a precious girl, yeah? Lettin’ her Colonel take care of her like this. You can't hold back from me baby—I’m only tryin’ to help you,” he cooed, soothing the sting on your ass with gentle strokes. “No hiding, alright? Need to see you to make sure I’m makin’ you feel better.” 

When you’d fallen into him, you’d thrown your arms around his neck, tugging the soft strands at his nape to ground you. “I can’t,” you cried, voice wobbling as you burrowed further into his arms. 

You felt his chest deflate as he sighed. “Can’t, huh?”

Tightening your grip, you shook your head furiously and clenched your eyes shut. 

Another blow, sharper than the first, landed on your backside. 

Anyone passing by could’ve heard your cry this time. But as you wriggled in his tight grip, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

You pushed at his chest, not to get away, but to prop yourself up. Tears burned your eyes as you blinked them open, your vision blurred as you gave in to him once again. But even through the haze, you saw his wicked grin. 

“I—” you rasped. Your throat was swollen with tears. 

He filled in for you. “You’re sorry, right?” 

You nodded pitifully. 

“Why, baby? Why are you sorry?” 

Flexing your fingers, you gripped his lapel, your hand brushing the golden pin on his tie. “Hiding…for hiding from you. Said I wouldn’t,” you panted. 

His hand squeezed your hip, and he nodded thoughtfully. “It was a direct order,” he mused. “Rules are rules, you know.” 

“‘M sorry,” you mumbled. You were pawing at him now, desperate for his forgiveness. For his relent. “Felt good. Really good.” 

“Okay, okay,” he cooed, stroking your sweat-dampened hair. “I accept. Just one more thing before I let you go, alright? I’ve been so nice lettin’ you apologize to me—isn’t there anything you want to say?” 

You knew what that meant. He took the same tone with recruits he had to save from their own fuck-ups. 

You knew very well it wasn’t the “sorry” he was after.

You were a blubbering mess in his arms by now, wetness still seeping out of you by the second. At this point, there wasn’t much else you could lose. 

It was barely audible. “Thank you.” 

His eyes narrowed mockingly, and his fingers caught your chin. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you.” 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you tried again, teary eyes trying their best not to back down from his. 

“Thank you,” you sniffled, voice clear this time. 

It still wasn’t enough for him. Cupping your cheek in his hand, he pouted at you with feigned upset. “Thank you, who? Where are your manners, hm?” 

The indignation you should have felt never came—you couldn’t will it to. Your ass stung, your core was dripping, and you were so conflicted by the warped sense of safety you felt from his hands that you couldn’t resist anymore. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol. 

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard. 

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

All he has now, is a cold, lifeless apartment to go back to. With plastic still wrapped around his furniture and the fridge empty except for a few bottles of alcohol and an apple. He’d never found much purpose in making the apartment look more like his—because it wasn’t his home anyway. Not when he had nobody to welcome his return.

Just a loud, ticking clock he wants to throw away.

When Caleb returns to the base, he’s the only one that stays past dark while everyone else rejoices to return home for a fresh shower. He opts to wash his hair in the sink beside his office instead, the icy water doing little to add to the numbness of his skin, if it does anything at all. He stares at himself in the mirror, blinking slowly, and then decides he should really shave.

What a mess. His eyes bore holes into the dog tag he carries everywhere. It feels like an omen of luck, while it remains a burden in his chest—as if the only thing that still manages to make him feel worse than he already does. 

Is this it, he wonders? Is this what the rest of his life will be like? Spending out his days in his office or in the deepspace tunnel, wondering if those few hours will be his last? There are thoughts that slip in quietly---ones he should repress. Would it be so bad? To get lost in the tunnel, and never having to return to the base again? To finally melt away into nothingness to ease the pain? He grits his teeth, realizing that his nails are digging crescents into the palms of his hands.

No, his men have families. His men have people who still need them–a purpose.

After he’s finished somewhat tidying himself up (though even heavy concealer can’t cover his eyebags), he skulks out of the bathroom to head to his office. It’s usually pitch dark on the floor at this time of night. So when he notices one cubicle that remains illuminated by a lamp, he thinks he’ll have to scold whoever it belongs to for wasting the energy bill. He sighs irritably and stalks over, his brows furrowing into a halt when he sees the cubicle isn’t empty at all.

You blink up at him. “Oh.”

You’re an unfamiliar face. A new employee, perhaps. How long have you even been here? Especially this late at night? His eyes scan your desk to see the doodles you’ve been drawing onto multiple sheets of paper and his scowl deepens. And you’re here for this?

Suddenly, you shoot up to your feet, shoulders tense as you bow your head. “Colonel Xia. I’m you’re new assistant—I’ve been assigned here since last week.”

He quirks a brow at your drawings. Your face heats, and you scramble to shove them to the side, clearing your throat. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting to greet you, sir.”

“It’s 2:37 in the morning.”

“Off the clock,” you respond. 

“How long have you been here doing—that.”

“Since 7.”

“PM?”

“AM. They told me they weren’t sure when you’d be getting back,” you scratch the side of your face sheepishly. “Better safe than sorry.”

He wants to ask if there’s something wrong with you, but he stops, taken aback. No, he’s sure there’s something wrong with you. There is, but his eyes widen just the slightest anyway. 

For the first time in years, someone had been waiting for the colonel.

He quickly finds that you’re good at your job. A bit confused in the first few weeks, sure, but he knows that what he asks of you is a bit much. You somehow manage to get it to a T anyway in the first month, and he wonders if HQ finally made a good hiring decision for the first time in a while. He watches you through the glass of his office, scrambling in your cubicle as your coworkers ask you questions that instill that you’re probably holding the place together. Your first point of action every day is to make his coffee. Afterwards, you make your own. Then, you drop it off and chat with your coworkers for a bit before a crisis arises and you’re sprinting to whatever disaster you have to solve. And when you knock on his door, you keep your eyes down, as if to avoid him as you drop off his paperwork.

He knows he makes your life hard. But you deal with it anyway.

It’s amusing, really. You’re amusing to him. But anything remotely lively is amusing in this dreary building.

“Are you leaving, sir?” you ask him one night, when only the two of you are left. He fixes his coat onto himself, finally released from that suffocating hat that he’s has to wear to remain in uniform. You follow him to the door, pacing right behind him as you always do.

Caleb usually doesn’t like anyone behind him. Not when there’s so many people who would seize the opportunity to stab a knife into his back. But for some reason, when you do it, he doesn’t mind. Maybe because he knows you couldn’t damage him at all. Maybe because he knows you wouldn’t.

“I am.”

Your ears perk. “You must have plans.”

“...Do I have something else on my calendar?”

“Well no, sir, it’s just…” you pause for a moment, glancing at him apprehensively. “...Well, it’s your birthday, so I just assumed.”

Had time already gone by that quickly?

Not that he cared about his birthday. It just meant another year without anyone to return home to.

“I left you something in your office,” you nod. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

His eyes stare right into yours. A million thoughts run through his head. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s a bomb. Maybe it’s more paperwork. Maybe it’s a resignation letter. From all the regular things to the worst things imaginable, it runs through him all at once, and then it stops, as he just steps out the door. “Alright.”

Though he should’ve gone home to wait until the next morning to check what it is, he returns a few hours later, when you’ve left. It’s a bit pathetic, really, but he couldn’t sleep. Not necessarily because of what you said, but because his body is more accustomed to falling asleep in his office than his own “house”. 

Definitely not because of the small cactus succulent you left on his desk, with a post-it in your handwriting. It contrasts heavily with the monochrome of the rest of the room, bright with life. The thorns feel sharp against his fingertip as he presses against it, as if to see how much he can push before it breaks skin.

‘Happy birthday’

As you’re dropping off papers a few weeks later, you point out that it looks like it can use water. He doesn’t look up from his work, clicking his tongue. “It’s a cactus. It can survive deserts–I’m sure it’s fine.”

But you stand there, staring at him with a frown, which for some reason gives him an unsettling feeling in his stomach. He swallows, and then sighs with annoyance. “Knock yourself out.”

You beam. So you can smile at him.

After that, he’s learned to read your knocks. Three knocks means paperwork, or something regarding his work. Two knocks means there’s someone who’d like to see him. Four knocks means you’re here to water the damn cactus. It happens once every few weeks, but his ears pick up on it easily. He pretends that he’s not watching your every move as you water, observing how you smile at how well it’s doing.

“Don’t you have better things to do? It doesn’t need that much care, does it?”

You simply shrug. "Just because it doesn’t need so much, doesn’t mean it doesn’t need it at all.”

He doesn’t say much to that.

But when you leave, he strangely finds his eyes drifting to the cactus. It’s a resilient thing, he thinks. He presses his fingertip against a spike, and it draws blood this time, trickling down his finger gently in a brilliant red. An ugly, resilient thing. From the corner of his vision, he sees a bud. It’s small–barely there–but he sees it. He wonders if it’ll bloom. If his office even receives enough light for it to bloom.

Could a flower bloom from such an ugly, hurting lifeform?

He begins watering the cactus himself, and he’s sure you notice, because you begin to bring in less water each time.

“I’ll keep your cactus well fed, sir,” you say the day he leaves for a few months excursion. The longest he’s been on. The most dangerous, too. It’s almost as if the higher-ups want to kill him. While his men weep and say goodbye to their families, you gaze up at him with a stack of folders clutched in your arms. Despite how defenseless you look to him in comparison to the military-trained men he works with every day, you seem unmovable. Like a tree standing in the middle of a meadow. Full of life. You’ve always seemed strong. Perhaps that’s why he’s always found you amusing.

You’re more deserving of this uniform than he is, but he hopes you never have to wear it. Someone like you should never have their life snuffed out like that.

Caleb places his hat onto your head, and for a moment, you blink. He presses it down to fit your head, though it remains slightly large anyway, and then drops his hand. “Have it cleaned by the time I come back.”

He doesn’t think you need to know that he had it cleaned just a few days ago.

Days of the excursion blur into one another, stitched together by gunfire and the low hum of the ship’s engines against the nothingness of the deepspace tunnel. Sleep comes in fractured pieces. Food tastes like nothing. The men still talk about home, though quieter now. 

There’s a moment where he stands alone at the observation deck. The glass is scratched, the stars beyond it warped and smeared like paint dragged across a canvas. It’s ugly out here. Empty yet consuming, like the universe itself is trying to swallow him whole.

He presses his hand against the glass.

Would it really be so bad? If he just… didn’t go back.

If he drifted a little too far. Took one wrong turn in the deepspace tunnel to let the ship go silent. Let himself go with it. No empty apartments. No ticking clocks. No unfurnished rooms. No reminders of a life that he no longer has access to. It almost feels merciful—like the tunnel is offering him a way out.

There’s no one there to mourn him anyway.

No family. No home. Just nothingness, like the rest of the tunnel. As if he belongs.

But then, his thoughts are interrupted. Not by anything else, but by a face.

It’s not even intentional. It comes uninvited, like a part of himself is trying to remind himself that he’s still human, even with the damn chip in his brain. Your face, bright and out of place in the sterile emptiness of his mind. The way you look up at him, eyes too eager for a place like that base. The way you huff proudly to yourself when you make his coffee. The way you nod vigorously as if to hype yourself up before you knock on his door. The way you tell off your coworkers while also remaining welcoming. The way you care for that stupid cactus. The way you frown at him like he’s something worth worrying about.

The way you wait for him at the docks, first to greet him every time he returns without fail.

When did you come to mean so much to him?

His jaw tightens. 

He needs to see the cactus bloom.

And so, with the determination he hasn’t felt in years, he arrives back at the base in one piece, where you’re waiting for him as you always have.

Caleb never tells you what you did for him that day, even when you were lightyears away. Even once he manages to get it through your thick skull that he harbors real, raw feelings for you, he doesn’t tell you how much that cactus has done for him. 

His life is brighter now, with you in it. His apartment, which once lay bare, as if nobody occupied the space now seems warmer. Your coat is tossed onto the couch, the sheets are crumpled, and there’s more than enough food in the fridge. There’s two toothbrushes in the bathroom, and potted plants are littered throughout the entire apartment. There’s magnets on the fridge—pictures of him returning from each excursion—and the two of you growing closer and closer with each photo. The most recent one has you flush to his side, your hands intertwined in his. So much has changed that it doesn’t even look like the same apartment anymore.

It feels like home.

In the morning, before you wake up, he gazes at you through lidded eyes, the soft sunlight peeking through the curtains and hitting his back to avoid reaching your face. He grins proudly at the dark marks littering your neck down to your chest, which surely adorn his own torso. There’s a sense of relief he gets from moments like these—being able to awake early out of his own will rather than being forced by the nightmares plaguing his mind. He cups the side of your face and rubs your cheek with his thumb as you stir, yawning softly. So pretty.

“Morning, colonel,” you squint.

"Caleb," he corrects.

"Boss."

"I can take a lot of your teasing, but that's crossing a line."

You smile, the way he loves. "Then what should I call you?"

Caleb looks to the side, pretending to be in thought. "'Sir?"

"I'm going to kill you."

“You seemed to like it last night,” he grins, guiding your face to kiss him before you can complain about his joke. Despite your pleas of morning breath, you melt into him. Your lips feel soft against his, your body warm. He wants to hold you forever. Treasure you forever. Stay here forever.

The first year you worked for him, you were constantly afraid of him. Well more so getting fired, than him. He’d order you to bring him coffee and you’d fear he’d fire you for getting his order wrong, he’d order you to print meeting notes and you’d fear he’d scream at you for failing to print them double-sided. Fortunately, he did neither of those things, but he would shoot you a glare or a jerk of a brow that would send you into a spiral. He didn’t seem to enjoy conversation, so you’d just scurry away, clutching your heart in your hands.

As time went on, you learned a lot about him. It’s inevitable when you’re essentially attached to his hip like a mute accessory, where it’s hard to do anything but focus on what he does.

He likes his coffee sweet. Two sugars and milk. Surprising, since he comes off as a black coffee connoisseur, but also kind of cute? The big scary colonel drinking a latte? He showers in the morning and at night. Cold in the morning, hot at night. He does his own laundry. You eventually figured out that he’s very particular with how he wants his laundry to smell and how he likes it folded—talk about being a control freak. He hates his bosses. Whenever he receives orders from them, it’s the only time you see him genuinely losing his cool–grumbling under his breath and angrily flipping through the paperwork on his desk. You try to avoid his office during these episodes. 

Over the years, his routine becomes your own. His coffee is ready for him when he sits at his desk, his calendar organized perfectly, and even his laundry is folded the way he wants it to be. The last took some trial and error, but you’re proud of mastering the art.

Still, words between the two of you are scarce. You only tend to see him when he’s working (and so are you), and it’s made wordless communication between the two of you easier. When you stand in front of his desk, he takes it as a signal to clear it for you to place down a new stack of paperwork. When you knock on his door and remain under the doorframe, he sighs, realizing his bosses have called for him. When you place down a fresh cup of coffee at his desk, he takes it as a sign to have lunch.

It’s seamless coordination, to put it short.

There’s a particularly stressful week for him one month. You watch him slave away at his work, the bags beneath his eyes growing heavier and his hair becoming more disheveled. He hasn’t left the office in two days–you counted. He’s going to snap, you think. No matter how talented he is—and you know he is, given he’s become a colonel at his young age—he can’t overcome human biology.

“Shit!” you hear from his office. You peek inside to see that he’s spilled coffee on his lap. He pats aggressively at the stain, hissing under his breath when you place a new cup in front of him. His eyes flicker up to you.

“You have a meeting in an hour,” you say.

He frowns. “I’ll have to change.”

“And shower,” you scrunch up your nose. “And shave, preferably.”

He blinks, and then his lips purse in a weird shape. Wait. Surely not. You think you’re going crazy. Is he trying not to laugh? The colonel who's always glowering menacingly?

The lack of sleep must really be getting to him.

In the end, you somehow end up in the single-stall bathroom. You’re shaving the sides of his face as he fixes his freshly washed hair, staring at himself in the mirror. It’s to save time, you remind yourself as you wonder how many minutes he has left till his meeting.  He crinkles his brows and then glances at you through the corner of his eyes. You pretend not to notice. 

“Are you usually so comfortable in front of shirtless men?”

“No, but you’re not a man,” you snort. “You’re my boss.”

“I’m your male boss.”

Why are you so comfortable with him, you wonder? Well, you’ve known him for a few years—you know his everyday routine, his likes, his dislikes, his habits—that you might dare to even say you know him well. Not him, but your boss. You chew on the inside of your cheek, and then shrug.

His skin is soft against your fingertips, you think.

“Thanks,” he says. “For all you do. I don’t say it enough, but you’re one of the few people I trust in this place.”

“It’s my job, sir.”

He chuckles, and it catches you off guard. You can count on one hand how many times you’ve heard him laugh these past few years. And for some reason, you can’t look him in the eye, choosing to narrow in on the shaving cream you’re pushing off with his razor. He doesn’t say anything else either, and the two of you exist in the comfortable silence, 

This is where it begins. The blurring between coworkers and friends, and maybe something more.

The two of you begin to exchange more conversation. When you drop off his coffee, he makes small talk. When you drop off his laundry, he praises you. When you bring him his paperwork, he complains to you about his bosses instead of shooing you away. You gradually spend more time in his office instead of your cubicle. At some point, he even treats you to dinner. Company dinner, but still.

You quickly realize the colonel is a mess. His usually composed and serious demeanor is a facade—or maybe he just has a switch? He talks a lot. He specifically likes vanilla lattes, you find. He despises seeing others with wrinkles in his uniform. And he calls home once a week to his sister and grandmother, in which you happen to eavesdrop once or twice and find that he can be a complete sap when he wants to be.

Of course, his mask is pulled back on the instant another person is in the room. Your coworkers ask how you managed to get so close to the terrifying Colonel Xia (though you don’t even know if you’re that close), but you have to bite your tongue before you spread to the world that the colonel is actually a family-obsessed crashout who likes vanilla lattes and cooking. Maybe you’ve gotten too close to him, you wonder, but too late to do anything about it now.

Especially when he hobbles into your cubicle one day, blood seeping from his arm despite his desperate clutch onto it. It’s late. Two in the morning at the earliest. You’re not sure why you decided to stay late today despite not having the work to warrant it. But when you noticed his office door remaining closed, lights shut off too early into the night, something felt off. So incredibly off. 

You suppose you stayed for him. Just in case he needed something else.

“What happened to you?” you’re onto your feet in an instant, shoving your chair back as your hands hover over his wound. Half of his outer uniform is shredded off, leaving a trail of bloody marks and what you hope isn’t too deep of a cut. His face is pale, breathing shallow. Beads of sweat form at his temples as he looks straight at you, hunched over to your line of sight in pain. You don’t wait for his response and quickly shuffle him towards his office, letting him use you as a crutch.

You fumble around his room until you come across a first aid kit. It looks incredibly outdated, but it’ll do the job. “Take off your shirt.”

He does without complaint. It seems like you see him shirtless more often than an assistant ought to be.

As you tend to him, you begin to ask questions. And you’re not sure if it’s because of the exhaustion, but he answers them truthfully—though you suppose he’s rarely lied to you in the first place. It’d been an assassination attempt. Another one. The third one this year. You honestly don’t know how he bears to deal with the stress of his job, and you’re not sure why he does either, but you’re sure something is tying him down. Your fingers work diligently to tend to him, and you’re suddenly incredibly grateful to the first aid class you were required to take when you first took the job.

“You should transfer bases,” you mutter.

“Why would I do that?”

You raise your brows in disbelief, and he laughs—or at least, tries to. Another tally in your head. Now you need more than two hands to count the times he’s laughed in front of you. “I’m serious, sir.”

“And what would that achieve?”

“You won’t have as many knives at your back, for starters.”

“They could never kill me with those puny attacks.”

“But they can definitely hurt you...” you pause. “...sir.”

“I’m ranked highly for my age. I’m not leaving.”

“You’d climb back up in no time even if you started,” you snap, and he looks away. “Am I wrong?”

Nope.

It goes quiet for a moment. His shoulders fall, and he rocks his head backward, staring at the ceiling. “I won’t have anyone to trust.”

I don’t say it enough, but you’re one of the few people I trust in this place.

Your throat feels dry. Your stomach sinks for some reason—-or is your heart just hammering? You realize that he’s staring at you now, inches away from you as you hold his arm with bandages. The AC whirrs softly, but the only other thing you can hear is his breathing and your own.

“You’ll get another assistant.”

“Nobody else is as good as you,” he responds immediately.

Your eyes narrow, and you turn away, dropping his arm. “You must’ve not had many assistants.”

“I don’t need to.”

He sounds too serious. Too genuine. The air feels suffocating. You rise from the armchair and pace towards his desk with the first aid kit in hand, chewing on the insides of your cheek. Whatever he means—whatever he’s implying—it’s dangerous. He’s your boss. Your boss, who kills for a living on missions that could kill him. Your boss, who spends his nights passed out at his desk. Your boss, who most of your coworkers call an asshole. 

His hands perch on either side of you onto his desk. He’s close. Close enough for you to feel his breath on the shell of your ear, and it sends shivers down your spine. Your fists clench as you will yourself to calm down, but to no avail. What the hell is even happening?

You whip your head to him. “Sir, I–”

“Caleb.”

“What?”

“Call me Caleb when we’re alone,” he mumbles. “Please.”

Your eyes go wide. “That’s not appropriate.”

“I don’t want to be appropriate.”

You nearly choke. He’s delirious. Perhaps from blood loss, surely. “You’re—you’re not acting yourself.”

“I’ve always been like this,” he sighs, and then you feel him drop his head onto your shoulder. It makes you jolt, your breath hitching as you register what he’s doing. “You just don’t care enough to notice.”

“What are you—”

“How much more obvious do I have to make myself?” he whispers against your neck. “Do you like humiliating me?” 

Either pigs are flying or hell must’ve froze over. You open your mouth to respond, unsure of what you’ll say until you feel him slump over your shoulder. You blink. Did he just?

You nudge his limp body.

He did. He did just pass out. You might kill him before anyone else does.

Colonel Xia, as you’ve known for some time now, is a mess.

But only to you.

He doesn’t make you nervous anymore. If anything, he’s annoying. Alarmingly so. You’ve become a kind of emotional support pet and assistant rolled into one, to the point that he deems it acceptable to message (spam) you at twelve in the morning. You roll your eyes when you see your screen light up in the darkness of your room, knowing there’s only one person who’d message you at this time.

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: where are the files i asked you for this morning? I can’t find them

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: hello?

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: hellooooooo

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: also do you have time tmr night :) we should go out

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: please (unsent)

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: oh the files

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: xie is on my ass about it

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: fucking asshole, im gonna kill him :3

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: hello??? Where is my pretty assistant that nobody can replace

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: that wasn’t sarcasm btw

When you tap away your answer, pressing send and tossing your phone across your bed, the response is immediate.

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: thanks hot stuff ><

[vanilla boss (DNI)]: the office misses you already

The office that only he occupies at this hour?

You’re not paid enough for this. You ignore the subtle burning in your cheeks.

His feelings for you become an unspoken truth between the two of you for the next few months. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem embarrassed about it at all. Despite most of his attempts to egg you on being rejected, he doesn’t let most of it faze him. You remind him that he’d look bad to others if he started dating his assistant, but the thought doesn’t seem to even cross his mind, even if you tack on a dozen other reasons why the two of you shouldn’t mingle in anything romantic. He’s never really convinced, much to your dismay.

Which is unfortunate, especially when you realize how much this is affecting you.

When his eyes seem to always drift in your direction, even when he’s in a meeting, you can’t help but feel your heart race. When his name pops up onto your phone, you can’t help but check what he said immediately. You stay later into the night to bring him an extra cup of coffee.

But this is what any assistant would do, right?

“What’s that?” you ask a coworker as she paces towards the colonel’s office with a stack of papers. You eye it suspiciously, especially considering the giddy look she has on her face. 

“The colonel asked for these. He asked me, specifically,” she smiles, cheeks pink. “Y’know, up close, he isn’t so scary. He’s kind of nice, and also really cute…have you noticed that?”

Of fucking course you’ve noticed it. You’ve worked with the man for the past few years! Even when everyone else said he was terrifying. Even when everyone else avoided him! Before you know it, your fists are balled at your sides, and you don’t even know why. All you know is that you want to yell at him right now. What’s the point of having an assistant if you’re just going to use other girls? Is he taunting you? Does he have no use for you anymore? Is your work not good enough—even after you responded to him in the middle of the night to his stupid questions with his stupid cute emojis? Your annoyance burns, and you suddenly find yourself marching to his door after having snatched the stack of papers from the woman. She remains oblivious and completely confused as you leave her behind.

You don’t bother knocking as you slam the door open.

He looks up from his desk, eyes widening. Upon realizing it’s you, his lips etch into a lopsided grin. “Oh, hey, what—”

You stroll straight to him, dumping the entire stack just inches from his face. It lands onto the desk with a loud slam, and it surprises him as he jerks back. His gaze flickers back up to you, and he blinks. “Why are you bringing me this?”

“It’s what you requested, sir,” you snap, and his smile is gone. “From someone else, for some strange reason. But as your assistant, I felt it was appropriate for me to bring it, no?”

What the hell were you even saying? The words were tumbling out, fired by anger but uncontrollable. You were definitely going to die of embarrassment later on, but you don’t care in the moment. For someone who claims to like you so much, why is he asking other girls to get his things? What are you, some backup plan? As if you don’t bring him his coffee every day? His paperwork? His laundry—

He blinks. “It was a lot to carry, and I didn’t want to make you—”

“Yes, and let’s ask some bumbling woman who doesn’t even know how to make these double-sided. That’ll get the job done instead of asking the woman who’s been doing this for years,” you hiss. The more you speak, the more unreasonable it sounds. You know it’s ridiculous, but…

Gears turn in his head. And when it clicks, his eyes soften. His adam’s apple bobs as he slowly stands from his desk, seemingly beginning to understand your frustration. He’s always been quick to noticing how you feel, even before you could fully process it—and you don’t know if you hate or love it. 

“Are you jealous?”

You balk, appalled at the thought. “No! Of course not!”

“Then, why are you angry?”

“Because—” you sputter for an answer. “--I have a job, and—I want to do my job!”

He tilts his head. “Is that really it?”

“Yes!”

“You’re angry, because I didn’t let you bring me paperwork,” he confirms. "And I asked someone else to do it."

“Yes!”

His lips break out into a grin. “Sounds like jealousy to me.”

Your jaw slacks. Head spinning, you can’t ignore how your heart is going at an unreasonable speed, face heating in embarrassment as you entertain the thought. You can’t help but avoid his gaze, brows furrowing in an attempt appear more intimidating, but it does little for this purpose. So instead, you glare knives at him. His brown tousled hair. His purple eyes. His pink lips. The straight edge of his nose. His lashes that put most peoples' to shame. His grin. His laugh. That stupid fucking laugh that you count in tallies in your head, almost as if you’re always waiting for the next one. Looking forward to them. Yearning for them. His stupidly cute coffee order and his stupidly cute texts and his stupidly good-looking uniform and his stupid—

Fuck.

God, you want to kiss him.

“Hey,” he waves a hand in front of you, brow raising. “Sorry, I’ll stop teasing. I won’t do it next time so–”

Before he can finish his sentence, you yank him by the collar of his shirt and smash his lips against yours. The kiss is a mess. When he recognizes what’s happening after the immediate shock, he’s kissing back desperately, hands flying to either sides of your face to pull you closer. It’s awkward, given that you’re kissing over the desk, but neither of you could care any less. There’s a few grunts that escape your lips until you gently punch at his chest, pointing at your nose when his eyes flutter open. He pulls away to let you breathe, and he has the widest smile plastered on his mouth. You don’t know if you want to slap it off or kiss him again.

“Want to go again? On my lap this time.”

“Shut up, Caleb.”

You climb on top of him anyway.