❥ Grumpy Duck 🦢⋆ ˚

This auction house ran it’s events the way most mid-sized operations did. Weekend one-day auctions were routine, and when they got their hands on a Lemurian, they’d hold a special event that operated over multiple nights. Starting with a few nights of regular human offerings and culminating in one night focused on the Lemurian’s sale. These multi-night events would give Caleb and Rafayel time to scout the places out and figure out their plan of attack.

Tonight was the first night of bidding. All human lots. All Rafayel had to do was get a layout of the place, look for weaknesses. It was always worth being thorough, leaving the door open for lucky opportunities. At one of their first rescues—a smaller establishment unused to the attention a Lemurian lot would bring—he’d been lucky enough to swipe a set of keys and walked right out of the place with his target under his arm.

If only it was always that easy.

It had gotten progressively worse since then. The more they rescued, the more paranoid the auction houses and buyers became. Eventually, they’d need another approach entirely. But for now, the routine worked: pre-auction viewing to send a warning to their target, scouting the venue, snatch the target during post-auction exchange.

Pre-auction viewing usually commenced a week before the big night. Rafayel and Caleb would enter during the busier hours, with the crowds. Rafayel would make sure the little omega had spotted him among the bodies that circled their small viewing enclosure. It would ensure cooperation when they did come for them. They’d see the Sea God’s glowing eyes among the crowd gathered around their cages, and they’d know He would be coming for them. They’d know to be ready. Not to be afraid.

Shrugging his shoulders up, he fills his lungs with his last taste of the crisp winter air before slipping past a loud group of alphas clogging up the entrance—entering the overwhelming chaos of the auction hall. They’re always dark, noisy and overwhelming. It was intentional. They wanted people to feel invisible. To encourage even the most self-conscious, guilty, morally-conflicted spectators and potential buyers through their doors.

Rafayel finally escapes the bottleneck of bodies near the entrance and presses himself into a gap at the back wall. It’s slightly elevated, allowing him to make a scan of the large venue and make note of exits and layout.

“All good?” Caleb questions through Rafayel’s earpiece.

“All good,” he replies. “There’s an armed guard at each door. Pretty standard.”

“Keeping the serious security out the back,” Caleb adds, sounding calm. “Eventually, they’ll get so lazy in the auction rooms, I won’t be able to resist grabbing them directly from the stage.” A puff of air buzzes through Caleb’s microphone. “I doubt they are paying the kids in there enough to even try and shoot me on the way out.”

“Yeah, well, as long as they’re armed–”

“Too many bystanders,” he interrupts. “I know. I’m the one who talked you out of the idea, remember?”

The loud thrum of a room packed with at least a thousand excited people lifts louder as a group of omegas shuffle onto the stage. It’s nothing new to Rafayel. He’d probably seen more omegas in his life than most alphas alive. It’s so routine that the sharp anger that rattled him during their first few rescues had long-since dulled into a festering pit of disgust.

Only humans could do this to their own.

He watches the bidding from the shadows, eyes flicking across each terrified face lit up by blinding stage lights. At least the intense lights offered the tiny trembling humans a little heat. They always looked so cold.

Once the bidding well and truly stirs up the crowd, and all eyes are on the entertainment, he makes his way through the crowd. Make mental notes of exits, security rotations, any points of weakness. Then he could get the fuck out.

He finds an alpha slumped against one of the emergency exit doors, head hanging between bent knees. It was early in the night be knocked out by drink, but he’d seen worse.

There should’ve been a security guard here, like at the other emergency exits. They are always quick to toss inebriated bodies out into the night, so the door had been unguarded at least as long as the man had been slumped against it. Rafayel slinks back into the crowd, checks his watch, and waits—eyes flicking between the stage and the unguarded door.

Each lot is sold, one after the other, tiny human offerings pulled off stage when each of them is done facing their fate and hearing their monetary value.

Rafayel waits. Patient. Focused.

The unconscious alpha slumps over onto his side.

He checks his watch. 10 minutes without intervention from any security.

A point of weakness.

Caleb’s words rattle around in his head. At some point, the risk would have to be taken. Their approach was getting too predictable, and opportunities like this were too tempting to pass up.

The crowd jostles him a little as a new group is bought on stage, eager to get a good look at the new batch. Unlike them, Rafayel is focused on the man at the door. Another alpha steps out of the sea of bodies and kneels down in front of him.

He can’t tell if the man is security or a good samartian. His line of sight is obscured with the movement of the crowd, and when he attempts to shove his way closer to his point of interest, an elbow nearly smacks him in the jaw.

An impassioned alpha shouts out a bid—roars it—directly in Rafayel’s ear. Then he raises his numbered paddle with equal enthusiasm, and Rafayel is forced to dodge it.

It’s enough to break his focus on his task. It’s only for a moment. His eyes instinctively flick up to the stage, towards the focus of the man’s eager attention.

That’s all it takes.

One moment of distraction, and his life is thrown off-course.

The ringing in his ear, caused by the man’s roar, seems to spread to the other without any cause. He can hear nothing around him. Just a dull hum and a high pitched whine echoing in his skull.

You’re dressed like the rest of them: a flimsy shapeless unbleached piece of fabric hangs off you, ending just above your knees. It’s almost sheer. Almost. It gives the impression that if the lighting was a little different, it would be.

It’s all intentional.

Everything about how you are presented to the crowd is intentional. Even down to the slightly raggedy nature of the dress. Omegas of all genders wear the same little sack. It makes them look… in need, wanting; clean and kept but… unloved. To nurture and provide was an instinctual desire for alphas. A need these evil fucks hoped to trigger in potential buyers.

Rafayel had laughed, hollow and bitter, the first time he’d realised all the tiny insidious ways they were targeting alpha instincts. “How human,” he’d spat, releasing his frustration at Caleb as he’d slammed the car door closed.

“What is?” Caleb had asked, starting the engine.

Rafayel hadn’t known how to answer. It was one of his first times in a place like that. He couldn’t process it: how they… how humans had so successfully ignored their own protective instincts to cause harm to the very people they were supposed to protect. Not just individually. As a whole society, in an organised manner. They were ignoring their own instincts enough to cause harm but were still aware enough of them to be able to weaponise them against each other.

“Cruelty,” Rafayel had muttered in response, suddenly finding himself too drained to offer any other explanation.

Frozen in place, with his ears still ringing, Rafayel drags his eyes over you now, searching. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for. You have something he needs.

Searching.

Searching.

The trembling girl to your left darts her hand out to grasp yours as her sale is finalised with a slam of the gavel. A flood of adrenaline floods his system as Rafayel’s eyes snap to the sudden movement on stage like it’s a threat. There’s no threat, his rational mind shouts.

Someone shoves into him.

He stumbles forward.

The girl grasping your hand is scanning the crowd. Maybe searching for her new owner, or maybe for the exit—one last desperate, hopeless instinctive look towards freedom.

There’s a tug somewhere deep inside him, reminding him he should be looking at exits too. That’s what he’d been doing. He had a task. A man slumped across the emergency exit closest to him. He’d been distracted from his task. His neck even twitches a little at the thought, like his body wants to turn towards the exit, but finds itself paralysed by an invading parasitic host that has taken control.

His ears are still ringing.

Your lot number is called next.

Rafayel doesn’t hear it.

You’re entirely still, like him, eyes fixed over the crowd.

He wonders if the lights are hurting your eyes.

The girl beside you is tugged away, and when she reluctantly releases her grasp on you, your arm hovers awkwardly out from your side—stiff and unnatural.

He’s never seen you before.

He searches his memory desperately for any trace of you.

Nothing.

So why does he knows you.

He’s looking at a face he’s never seen before in his life and feeling instead like he’s looking at someone precious to him. Not just precious. Someone resurrected from the dead. It’s a flood of emotion like he’d been missing you for lifetimes and had now, finally, found you. His emotions are incongruent with reality to such a degree, he wonders if maybe he’s dreaming, or dead.

A bony elbow jabs into his ribs hard enough to bruise.

Sound floods back into his skull.

The auctioneer is shouting numbers out across the hall. The current going price.

Your price.

You are being bid on.

Someone is about to own you—take you away.

The voice in his ear snaps the tension in his body like a jolt of electricity, and it’s only his years of masking all his emotion—of keeping his cool in places like this—that prevents him giving any physical indication at all that he’d been startled.

“Status update,” his partner says through his earpiece, business as usual.

He’s asking.

It’s a request for information.

Rafayel is aware he should answer.

His eyes settle on your clenched fist, grasping tightly to the fabric of your dress now that you’ve lost your one hand to hold. That hand was gone now. Sold.

Rafayel lifts his sleeve to his mouth to communicate with his partner. “Call in and bid on lot 520,” he orders, letting no trace of his dazed state leak into his voice. “Secure her.”

A beep. Another beep. The line opening and closing. A buzz of empty static fills his ear. Caleb had opened the line and let silence hang.

The buzz cuts off.

A second or two of dead line.

Then, “Secure lot 520?”

This wasn’t normal. Nothing about this was normal. There was no precedent for this. They didn’t participate in the auctions. Ever.

Rafayel watches as the auctioneer searches for a higher offer, gavel raised like a threat. Dread turns his gut inside out, his eyes flicking between you and the lanky man threatening to take you away forever.

“Do it now,” he hisses, panicked.

His heart thumps rapidly in his chest as he imagines you being dragged off… to be collected by some other alpha. A feral urge to surge through the mass of bodies and climb up onto the stage runs like an electric current through his muscles, shocking him still. He even considers the unguarded door with the drunken man. Fuck bystanders. He’s a man suddenly afraid of himself—out of control—paralysed in that microsecond before fight or flight.

The lanky auctioneer points his gavel at a woman at one of the phones with her hand raised. Caleb had called. The tension leaves Rafayel’s body in a flood that nearly brings him to his knees. Caleb has an instruction, and he wouldn’t fail him. He knows it now like he’s always known it. It was one of two things he grasped onto in his darkest hours: the ocean and it’s people were his, his responsibility; and Caleb would never, ever fail him.

He begins to weave through the crowd, partially freed from his paralysis. He can move his body freely, but only towards you, and his eyes never leave you. Drawn towards you like prey hypnotised by a glowing light pulsing in dark ocean depths.

The noise around him dulls to a muffled buzz again, entirely tuned out.

He’s close enough now to see your fingers are pale at the tips as you squeeze white fabric like a lifeline. He wants to reach out and pry them free—to hold your hand in his—transfer them to the lifeline he could offer instead.

Your eyes are still fixed at the back of the hall. He doubts you can see anything at all with the stage lights pounding down on you. Still, he looks up at you, and wills you to see him. His lips move with his silent pleas. Look at me, he begs. Over and over.

The gavel drops.

Sold.

It looks like a string snapping. Like you’d been a puppet, forced by your invisible master to keep your body held up on the stage in one position, and now, released, the lifeless puppet pools into a mess of limbs on the floor.

He has to press his nails into his palms until he’s sure he bleeds to stop himself giving into his urge to jump the barrier and climb the stage. Maybe Caleb was right. Maybe no one in the room cared enough to shoot him.

But if they did, they could hit you.

He watches as two men step out from the shadows, lift you up, and carry you away.

The moment you slip behind the curtain, out of his sight, he staggers back, his own string snapping.

There’s a big dark empty pit inside him. One that had existed before he’d entered this hall. How was it possible he hadn’t paid it much mind before now? He can feel the shape of it, the depth, the space it carves out from his flesh.

Caleb’s saying something in his ear again. The final price. The price they had paid.

“Can I get her now?” Rafayel fires back in response, breathless. He’s shoving his way through bodies as he fails entirely to keep the desperation from his tone. Caleb will know something is very wrong if he hadn’t before. This isn’t how their missions usually go. It’s not how they’ve ever gone before. Not in all the years their years together.

Silence.

And then, “I’ll finalise it and send you the authorisation to collect her.” A pause. “Should I remain in place?” It sounds like many questions in one.

Rafayel knows, even if his frenzied state, it’s only the trust and bond between them that saves him from an on-the-spot interrogation through his earpiece.

“Yes,” Rafayel responds, bursting through the crowd of bodies and into open space, breathless. “Stay in place. We’ll be out.”

We.

Him and… you.

He presses his palm to the cool concrete wall, catching his breath and regaining his composure. The noise and chaos floods back around him slowly, a welcome distraction from the throbbing pit of absence in his chest.

There’s a ramp to his right, leading down into the collection hall.

He straightens his coat and tie and makes his descent, composure restored—at least to any eyes that happen to pass over him.

When his hands start trembling, he shoves them in his deep coat pockets.

Steel mesh separates his walkway from another. The one mirroring his descent, ascends up to a separate exit, where newly purchased lots could be led out by eager owners without having to battle through the bustling, inebriated, crowd in the auction hall.

A towering man passes him on that other ramp, separated from Rafayel by mesh, and trailed by a shivering figure in white. Rafayel scowls, eyes catching on the little omegas bare feet.

They didn’t even clothe them properly for collection.

It was mid-winter outside. Cold enough to see his own breath as he’d marched from the car to the entrance. He shoves his hands deeper in his coat pockets at the memory. Pausing, he fishes out his discovery: a woollen beanie buried in the deepest corner of his right pocket. It was one of Caleb’s, likely stuffed into one of Rafayel’s pockets out of convenience during a previous outing. He shoves the hat back down again and tries not to think about how Caleb will react when he discovers Rafayel has no explanation for what he’s done.

He sits in the waiting area, staring at his phone in anticipation of authorisation paperwork, and slowly, gradually, returns to himself. His heart rate steadies along with his trembling hands.

What the fuck had just happened to him?

Mates were fairytales. A fantasy long relegated to the past—before omegas had faced a population decline so sudden and catastrophic, the entire structure of human society had cruelly shifted to compensate. There was no space for the fantasy of finding YOUR omega. Not in the corrupted hell humans had built for themselves.

His phone buzzes in his hand. Rafayel sucks in a steadying breath as he refocuses on his task: collect you, get out. Until you were physically by his side, outside this pit of moral decay and desperation, he wouldn’t take an easy breath. He clenches his palms and swallows the anxiety down, and by the time he catches your scent in his nostrils, he’s a picture of calm composure.

He knows it’s your scent before he sees you, like he recognised a face he was seeing for the first time. It’s so familiar, it feels like a childhood memory. All emotion without the details.

You’re still dressed solely in that scrap of almost-sheer natural white fabric. And with a gentle shove from the woman who had led you out, you shuffle to stand at his side. You’re all-consuming presence beside him feels entirely out of proportion with the reality of you: tiny, cowering, and shivering.

He hadn’t noticed you shivering on stage. Either he was too far away or you were colder now. Or more afraid. His stomach flips at the thought. Why wouldn’t you be afraid of him? He was your new captor. Another in a long line for an omega born into a world such as theirs. And for all you knew, he wanted something more from you than anyone that had come before him. That’s what people bought omegas for, after all. He swallows, suppressing a wave of nausea.

Refocusing on his mission of getting the fuck out of the place, he shakes a clammy hand over a desk, collects a large envelope containing his certificate of ownership, and leads you towards the ramp—hyperaware of any potential threat between you and the exit.

He resists looking down at you as he leads you up that ramp towards your freedom. He knows you’ll be feeling anything but free.

Rightly so, really.

The envelope feels heavy in his hands.

There’s a small seating area at the top of the ramp, tucked a little to the side, out of the way of any natural route to exit the building. He quickly leads you into the small nook, drops the envelope on the floor and begins to tug his coat off, rushed and pumping with adrenaline now the exit is so near. You stumble back a step, clearly startled by his frenzied attempt to free himself of the heavy wool.

He freezes, the heavy coat hanging from one arm, paralysed in response to your little display of fear.

Nausea wracks him again.

He takes a shaky breath, forced to inhale a lungful of your fear in the process. Bitter.

You were so afraid. Afraid of him.

“It’s cold outside,” he starts, gently. “I’m just going to put this on you, okay?”

Your eyes are fixed at his feet, and you are entirely unmoving. Apart from an uncontrolled tremble as a shiver racks your small frame.

You aren’t running, or stepping further back. That’ll have to do.

His hands tremble, matching you, as he drapes the heavy coat over your shoulders. He hesitates, suddenly nervous about releasing its full weight onto you. An image of your crumpled body under the stage lights flashes in his mind, unwelcome.

But then you thread your arms into the sleeves and wrap the oversized coat around yourself, cocooning yourself in the remnants of his body heat still clinging to the fibres.

A little marble of warm light rolls into that dark pit inside him, bouncing in the bottom, echoing. He’s done something good for you—provided—and you liked it.

He could do so much more. God, he wants you to know how much he’s willing to do.

You lift your shoulders up a little and tuck your chin into the cocoon you’ve made, like you’re attempting to bury yourself in the cashmere.

The beanie.

He takes a small step. Then hesitates. “I’m just–” He moves like a stalking cat trying not to startle a mouse. “–getting a beanie from the pocket.”

A painstakingly slow dip of his hand into the nest you’ve made around yourself, and then he steps back quickly, successful in his delicate extraction.

“Can I…” he trails off, gesturing awkwardly with the navy blue beanie. It’s covered in Caleb’s scent, flooding Rafayel’s senses with a comforting familiarly as he waves it in front of him.

No shuffling away. That’ll do, he supposes.

Slowly, he lowers the beanie over your head, finger brushing the shell of your ear.

Your eyes snap up to meet his.

He freezes.

He’s bent over at an awkward angle, arms acting as a bridge between your bodies, held stiff where he’d been working to arrange the hat so it wouldn’t fall down over your eyes.

You blink up at him, eyes watery, either from the cold or emotion. He wishes he knew which.

It wouldn’t be until much later that he’d fully process it, but something about the way you look at him now triggers the first stages of a spiralling thought: Why did he instruct Caleb to bid on you? Why had he so instinctively side-stepped all his long festering disgust and participated in the human torture system instead of snatching you from your buyer’s hands like they did will all their Lemurian rescues? The envelope with the papers certifying his ownership of you slides under his boot on the floor as he shifts his weight. What… the fuck… had he done?

A small, cold, trembling hand snaps him from his spiralling thoughts.

You cup his wet cheek, arm extended towards him, mirroring the way his arms still bridge the distance between you.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises—a little broken noise. It comes out of him like a plea for mercy.

Your lashes flutter as you blink a few times. Then you nod, retracting your hand back into your cocoon.

He’s hardly breathing as he begins moving again, careful not to touch your skin. You let him arrange the hat carefully on your head, staying still as he delicately moves your hair out of your face in his final touches.

Then he steps back, admiring his work.

His satisfaction is short-lived.

Your feet are bare.

Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee, crumpling the large envelope that now sports a large boot mark on it’s cover. He looks up at you. “Will you let me carry you to the car?” he asks, again, sounding much like a man begging for mercy.

You take a small step backwards.

He goes stiff.

He stops himself reaching out.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, repeating his pledge. “And I won’t ever touch you if you don’t want me to. It’s just very cold—probably colder than it was when I came in—and you don’t have shoes.” He watches you look down at your feet, like you hadn’t noticed. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring any,” Rafayel adds, finding himself unable to stop speaking, desperately seeking the right words. “This wasn’t… the plan. I wasn’t ready for you.”

You shuffle towards him.

It’s a tiny little movement, hardly closing any distance between you at all.

He holds his breath.

Watches your face.

Your chin dips.

He’s almost afraid to rise to his feet. But then you take another small step closer, and suddenly, he desperately wants to be out of this place. He wants to take you home, where it’s safe and warm and he can finally process what was happening—how his life had just changed forever.

He snatches the crumpled envelope from the floor, bends it in half, and shoves it in one of his back pockets. Then, just before he can take a cautious step towards you, the hand that had rested on his cheek so gently, slips out to tuck a little stray clump of hair behind your ear. He can feel your touch on his cheek still, lingering, and he suddenly finds himself desperate for the chilled night air on his face.

With calm movements, careful not to spook you, he scoops you up: a delicate bundle wrapped in soft wool.

You tuck you chin into your chest and curl in on yourself, and he makes sure he’s got a secure hold on you, aware you aren’t holding onto him at all. It was all on him, and idea of you relying on him so fully, even in his little way, triggers another little marble of warmth to roll into that deep dark pit inside him.

Then he catches the scent of you, stronger than ever before. There’s something else in it now. Something new. It’s not all bitterness, like it had been up until now. He can’t decide what it is exactly. One day, he’d know your feelings like he knew his own. For now, all he knows is that little tinge of something new is… sweet. And sweet had to be good.

Her hand hovers in the air before him, eyes full of steel.

"The proper way to greet a queen, is with a kiss," she states. He knows this, of course. Despite his solitude, Xavier has never lost the knowledge of etiquette from his royal upbringing.

Eyes like a night sky flash with light, a shooting star across a clear horizon.

He kneels. Heavy leather gloves holding her fingers with the tenderness one might use to gently brush a butterfly off their shoulder in a summer breeze. Despite the fabric between them, she can swear she feels the heat emanating from his skin.

Lips press delicately to her ring. Xavier's long hair slips from behind his ear, tickling against her wrist and shielding him from her view.

"Of course, My Queen. How may I be of service?" His soft voice whispers down her spine, and her fingers stiffen in his grasp.

The air she breathes weighs heavily in her chest, as if each breath carried the burden of Xavier's devotion. She withdraws her fingers and looks down on his kneeling form; his strict posture, the way his shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly under the weight of his armor, the heat of the blue flame in his gaze; hers to command.

"You may rise." Her tone is measured, lips carefully forming each word she speaks to him so that he may memorize and treasure each of them.

Xavier stands, his heavy garments dragging along the ground and rustling as he moves. She turns, the hem of her dress swishing in accompaniment. Taking a deep breath to embolden herself, she walks towards the bed. As she reaches the foot of the bed, she turns her head. Xavier stands where he had risen, not at attention, but with the composure of a soldier.

"Undress me." She commands,facing back away from him. She can hear his footsteps crossing the room, weighty but not clumsy.

"As you wish, My Queen." The words caress the shell of her ear as his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. The leather of his gloves creaks gently as his fingers curve to fit the shape of her.

The cool texture of the gloves grazes over her collarbone as he slides his fingers beneath the clasp that sits settled in the hollow of her throat. It comes undone with a soft click, and he lifts the cape up and away from her shoulders. He places it to the side with a reverent air, letting the long, sheer fabric slide through his hand with a hiss.

Returning to her, his hands grasp her upper arm. He runs his fingers down her skin, one hand coming to rest beneath her elbow, the other continuing onward to hold her gloved hand. Xavier delicately pinches her middle finger, sliding the material of the glove down the digit.

The hinges of his gauntlet rasp gently as he flexes his fingers; points of cold metal catching on the soft satin fabric of the glove. Her fingers tremble as the glove comes away with a hiss, gently tickling over her wrist and palm. Xavier's large fingers, made even more bulky by his glove and gauntlet, hold her delicately.

The glove slides away, revealing her hand, fingers more calloused and worn than those of a queen ought to be, by any means. The hands of someone used to wielding a sword, of someone thrust into royalty; not born into it. The pads of Xavier's fingers catch on the callouses, guiding her hand up to his eyes and taking in each line as if divining a future in each mark and crease. Candlelight flickers, warming her skin and glinting off the worn points of his gauntlet.

He leans over her shoulder, long hair tickling her collarbone, and kisses the tip of each finger. The first kiss makes her breath hitch in surprise. The second, the air shudders out of her chest. The third and forth each accompany another jagged inhale and exhale. He turns her hand to kiss her thumb and his tongue darts out to slide against her fingernail before enveloping the digit with his lips up to the first knuckle.

She swallows hard, knees wobbling. Her eyelids are heavy with lust as she turns her head to the side, looking away from his display of calculated subservience. Her hand lowers and the warmth of his body behind her disappears as he steps away, the ghost of his touch lingering as she flexes her hand.

Xavier folds the glove with the same sense of ceremony as the cape, placing it gently to the side before repeating every painstaking action on her other hand. Removing the glove, admiring each section of her skin like a jeweller inspecting the facets of a gem, and delicately kissing the tip of each finger. He remains quiet throughout, the sounds of their combined breathing filling the space with warm tension.

Stiff leather slides down her spine, gloved fingers looping through the ties of her dress and undoing the knot. She feels the ease of the fabric as the ties loosen around her ribs. The sound of silk ribbon sliding over steel whispers over her senses like a soothing hush.

Her back is bare as the dress falls away. It pools on the ground in a ripple of white fabric, like the reflection of a full moon on a pond. The cool air on her bare skin makes her shiver for a moment. She looks back over her shoulder, chin raised to watch him through her lower lashes. He awaits further instruction with a leashed desire burning in his deep blue eyes. She turns her whole body, bare with the exception of her bejewelled shoes.

Her feet step gingerly out of the dress, moving towards him with imperious clicks of her heels. He kneels dutifully, allowing her to perch her foot on the muscles of his thigh. His eyes are dark as he looks up at her; a lunar eclipse in a clear night sky. Her chest heaves, nipples pebbling on her bare breasts.

His hands move to the clasps on her shoe; impossibly dexterous as they unfasten the clasp lying against her ankle. Beaded straps fall away as his hand slides the shoe off her foot, they tickle against the arch of her foot and catch slightly on her toes.

A leather-gloved hand escorts her calf until her foot returns to the ground. He takes her other foot; metal gauntlet careful not to pinch her sensitive skin as he unclasps the fastener. Before he places it back on the ground, he brings her foot to his lips, ghosting a kiss over the top of her foot with his eyes fixed on her face.

She swallows as she meets his gaze with heat burning in her eyes. Her foot touches the cold floor, grounding her in this moment where only she and Xavier exist. Their breath synchronizes, lingering between them.

After a moment, she breaks the silence. She looks away, flexing her jaw, and points towards the closet.

"Fetch my dressing gown. This room is cold." Her eyes steal another look towards Xavier, butterflies flapping their wings rapidly in her stomach as she tries to gauge his reaction. Xavier rises, armor clinking against itself as he stands and moves across the room to fetch the gauzy purple dressing gown.

He returns, holding apart the shoulders and sliding the sleeves up her arms. His hands linger on her collarbone as he sets the garment on her. A gentle caress pulls her hair out to lie atop the back of the gown, making her earrings tinkle softly in her ears.

Strong hands slide down her waist, pulling the sash tight and fastening it with a perfect bow above her hip. He holds his hands there, so close to where he wants them to be. She may be strong, but he's far stronger than her. He could easily use those hands to dig into the flesh of her hips, to move her against him, to take her to bed and hold her hostage against his body until she begged him to let her free. Instead, they squeeze softly, once, as if testing the idea for themselves before retreating back into perfect obedience at Xavier's sides.

She steps away from him, exhilaration whirling through her as she keeps her flushed face turned away from his view. She pads up to the bed, taking a moment to gather her composure before turning back to watch him. She sits on the ottoman at the base of the bed and crosses her legs.

"Undress yourself," she commands, "Let me see."

Xavier smirks a bit as he meets her eye. "Of course. Whatever the queen desires."

The first thing he removes is his gloves; when he wears them they're pliable, dexterous, able to wield tools and to nimbly undo delicate fastenings. Only when he pulls them free is it apparent how heavy they weigh on him. Leather and studs and clinking plates of mail slide from his wrists and fall to the ground with hefty thuds. Pale hands peek from his sleeves, indented with pink seams from the gloves. He idly massages his palms in turn, glancing up to see her eyes fixed on the movement.

Xavier lets out a single chuffed chuckle. He kneels slowly to pick up the gloves, emphasizing each movement and turning them over in his hands. He steps towards her, chin raised in an impetuous display. She raises her eyebrows as her gaze moves up to his face.

"Something amusing?"

"Not at all. Your Majesty is quite obvious in revealing her proclivities." He smiles, a cheeky smile, and brings his hand to his own mouth. He maintains eye contact as he presses his thumb down on his lower lip, sliding his tongue along the tip of his fingernail. His smirk widens and his eyes dart down, taking in the sight of her flushed chest and bobbing throat; utterly transfixed at the sight.

Her eyes flash back up to meet his, steely and full of expectant arrogance. She snatches the gloves from his hand, covering his thumb with the gusset of the glove before kissing the leather softly. He startles, eyes widening as the ghost of her breath caresses his cheek. She withdraws with a coy smile.

"If that's so," she challenges, fingers trailing across the raised pattern on his metal gauntlet, "then you ought to be quite capable of keeping my attention."

Xavier doesn't back down; he keeps his eyes fixed on hers as he steps back, and slides his thumb in a line down his chin. He draws it down the center of his throat, and catches it beneath his collar, unfastening his cloak and letting it fall to the ground behind him. He watches as her eyes follow the movement, self-satisfaction playing on his lips.

His other hand settles at the buttons on his abdomen, fingers twining through the chains that lie atop his doublet. His index finger twirls spirals along the length of the chain until it draws tight and slips off the button at his waist. His thumb worries against the buttons before smoothly unfastening them. The coat opens, revealing the dark, skintight undershirt.

"I'm getting impatient, at this rate I'm going to need to entertain myself at this rate." She barely conceals her excitement, goading him. The pads of her fingers catch on the prominent ridge along the center of his gauntlet, sliding a decisive finger along it's length and raising her eyebrow up at him.

"I wouldn't want Your Majesty to lack proper stimulation," he agrees. His fingers twitch with a phantom response as he watches her fingernail catch on each hinge on the joints of the gauntlet.

She shifts, sliding the gauntlet between her legs, and positioning her core atop the long ridge in the center. The metal feels cold against the heat of her dripping folds, even through the flimsy fabric of her gown. She settles onto it; clit perched against the raised metal filigree on the arm of the gauntlet. Her eyes flutter as she grinds down, arousal soaking through the thin material of the dressing gown. A soft groan escapes her lips as she furrows her brow and concentrates back on the man before her.

A pink blush blooms up Xavier's neck and tinges his pale ears, which peek through his long strands of ash blond hair. His eyes are wide, soaking in the sight of her.

"I didn't tell you to stop yet," she reminds him, angling her hips and pulling her legs up beneath her to properly straddle the gauntlet. Xavier swallows hard, watching her hips slide down the length of it and streak the metal with her juices. He blinks to refocus, looking back into her eyes with determination.

His doublet is open at the chest and he slowly slides one arm out, then the other. The dark undershirt clings to his muscled arms and chest; outlining the planes of his body in the low light. His pants cinch at his waist, the fly now tight against his hardening length.

Xavier kneels again, sliding his hands down his thigh to the buckles of his greaves. The leather hisses through the fastener as it loosens and comes away. The metal releases from his shin and he stands to step out of his boot. The muscles of his calf flex as his pointed toes clear the top of the shoe and he gingerly steps back down, repeating the action on his other leg. His hands draw up the skintight leggings from the knee, unbuckling the leather garter belts encircling his muscular thighs. His fingers slide beneath the strap and his leg, making the meat of his thigh balloon slightly as he curls his fingers into a hook to pull it down his leg.

His hands cross at his waist, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants to find the hem of his shirt.

"Stop." Her voice is breathy as she squeezes her thighs around the gauntlet, eyes hungry. Her wide eyes devour the sight of him like a starving woman presented with a feast. Her hand slides up her abdomen to cup her breast. Her chest heaves as her fingers tweak her nipple through the fabric of her dressing gown. "That's enough."

Xavier raises an eyebrow but stays silent, smoothing down his shirt and waiting for her instruction. His light hair falls on his chest like silk tassels on a tapestry; they drape over him, adorning him like he himself is a part of this ancient bastion of forgotten times.

She leans back, beckoning with one finger as she slides up onto the bed. Xavier follows, stalking up to the bed with a predatory gleam in his eye. A thrill races through her,and her fingers clench against the plush fabric of the duvet. Her thighs slowly fall apart,making space for him. Outstretched fingers cup his face once he's in reach, thumb smoothing a line along his cheekbone.

"I await Your Majesty's orders." The words are saturated with coils of rippling desire, his azure irises engulfed in glimmering night.

Her fingers slide up his face to weave into his hair, clenching at the roots of his silky, ashen locks.

"You may taste me, until I find your mouth unsatisfactory." Her eyes are dark with hunger as she looks down on him.

Xavier licks his lips, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I should hope that means I remain here all night, My Queen."

He leans in and kisses her throat, tongue darting out to catch a bead of sweat and savouring it on his tongue. She shivers as his breath ghosts over her hot skin. With her hands still woven into his hair, she insistently pushes his head lower, beginning to get impatient.

"Your Majesty said I could taste her… is something the matter?" His tone is impish, eyes flicking to her face while stubbornly refusing to follow the guidance of her hand. He turns his head towards her outstretched arm, his tongue snaking out to lick a small wet circle on her forearm. "This part of you tastes delicious as well."

His eyes trail to hers sidelong, challenging her. Tongue sliding back over his own plush lips, pushing her so she tells him exactly what she wants; that she wants him, that she needs him.

Steel glints in her eyes, their resolves clash like crossed swords. Her eyes catch on a subtle hint behind his teasing gaze, and she softens. Redirecting to cooperate with him; swords flourishing to point in the same direction.

"In that case, you should be thorough." Her fingers loosen their grip on his hair while the other hand unties the sash at her waist. The robe falls open. The fabric catches on her pebbled nipples, making her inhale sharply and wince at the sensation.

Xavier's eyes feast on her body before him, swallowing hard. He glances back up to her, a moment of conflicted victory flashing across his eyes. He doesn't linger on it too long, dipping his head in a minuscule bow, "Thank you, Your Majesty."

His soft voice whispers over her senses, settling low in her stomach. She clenches her thighs around his waist and swallows hard. She doesn't have time to recover as Xavier's lowered head nestles against her chest and his lips encircle her nipple. She squeezes her eyes shut as he sucks and licks, tongue flicking and circling until her fingers clench in his hair.

He moves to the other breast, lavishing his tongue over it with equal attention to detail. He sucks against her skin; blossoming hickeys following his lips like a field of flowers coming into bloom. His tongue moves diligently over her skin, maliciously compliant with her remark that he should be thorough. Her back arches as his lips trail down her collarbone, her breath hitches as he kisses a ticklish spot along her ribs. She tenses, stomach twitching, as his lips trace a line down her abdomen, pausing at her belly button to look up at her with dark, hungry eyes.

He moves down her body, licking the sweat off her skin. His hair falls over her like a curtain, ensconcing him in privacy as he completes the tasting menu of her body. She writhes beneath him; almost delirious from the teasing. She bites her tongue, unwilling to cry out his name or beg for what she really wants. Her fingers sink into the plush cover on the bed, gripping into the fabric to ground herself from the soft affections of Xavier's lips.

Finally, he kneels on the ottoman at the base of the bed, eyes fixed on her face as he kisses her inner thigh. Her walls flutter around nothing as she props herself up on her elbows to watch him, mesmerized and out of breath. His gaze never leaves her face as he kisses his way up her inner thigh until his breath is puffing over her soaking wet slit.

He waits there a moment: one more chance for her to break and beg him to take her. His nose twitches as he inhales the scent of her. He swallows hard as his mouth waters.

That's what does it for her; the sight of Xavier's desire glistening in his eyes and dripping from his lips.

"I need you, I need your mouth to-!" She doesn't even get the full sentence out before he cuts off her pleading with a swipe of his tongue. Her eyes squeeze shut and a small sound escapes her lips, fingers clenching in the bedsheets again as Xavier dives into her.

As soon as the taste of her is on his tongue, his whole body melts in relief; like an over-tuned piano string that finally snapped. He groans into her, hips rutting against the foot of the bed as he hoists her legs above his shoulders for more leverage. She squeaks in surprise as she slides down the bed towards him.

Xavier's hands dig into the plush curve of her hips and ass, squeezing as he desperately claws her closer to him. He buries his face between her thighs; tongue making long strokes through her folds and slurping messily at her clit. She bucks against his face, trying to get leverage with her heels along his back. They slip against the fabric of his shirt, serving only to press her core more firmly against Xavier's nose and mouth. He groans into her, making her tremble, walls twitching around nothing.

She feels drawn tight, like a bowstring. He keeps his pacing, relentless as he devours her. Her toes flex, calf muscles tensing and spasming as her gasps increase in frequency and pitch.

Xavier is single-minded, his whole body dedicated to the task of exploring and pleasuring every inch of skin between her legs. His grip readjusts as he pulls her closer, nose nudging over her clit and sending sparks through her senses. His hair falls between them, tickling at the back of her thighs.

His tongue delves inside her, swirling and nudging her open before withdrawing. She jerks against him, her body aching for him to be deeper, for them to somehow be closer. She whines in frustration and squeezes her thighs around his head as he sucks on her clit.

Xavier lets out a breathless chuckle, but doesn't stop. His movements become more precise; driving her towards her climax with every swipe and kiss. She gasps as that tightness grows inside her, drawing further, further…

Until it releases.

Her back arches, and she stifles a scream. Xavier drinks at her, swallowing as she releases all over his mouth. He groans, vibrations buzzing over her sensitive nerves earning another twitch against his nose. He plants his lips on her, kissing and sucking as she comes down from her high but not stopping.

She blearily looks down to see him still eagerly licking through her puffy folds. Her brow furrows and she pushes back his bangs with her fingers. Xavier's eyes flash up at her like a wild animal guarding its meal.

Her fingers draw back, startled and she clears her throat. "Xavier…?"

He kisses her inner thigh, licking his lips before he speaks. "Your Majesty said I could taste her until she find my mouth unsatisfactory." Cobalt eyes glint with steel resolve, "It certainly seems like she still finds it satisfactory."

"You can't -!" Her plea is cut off as Xavier's teeth graze over her swollen clit, sending sparks through her vision.

"Your Majesty… there's no need to lie to me. Not when your body is so honest."

She grits her teeth, fighting back tears of overstimulation as he parts her pussy lips with his tongue, circling and swirling with an almost cruel vigor. He teases her: kissing softly before sucking hard. Her feet continue to fight for purchase on his back to push away from him but his fingers keep a firm, bruising grip on her hips.

Her orgasm crests into a second, less impressive, one. Waves of pleasure shudder up her spine as she groans, head tossed to the side.

Xavier doesn't stop.

She weakly smacks against the top of his head, he glances up at her mischievously.

"Your Majesty?"

Her eyelids are heavy as she looks down at him with a drunken gaze. "No more."

"I see… My mouth is unsatisfactory, is that it?" He prompts her. She nods. He lowers her to the bed, her legs flopping bonelessly to the side as he perches with his chin above her stomach. "If that's the case…"

The stretch of his fingers is so unexpected that she clamps down on them. Shock plays over her features as her walls twitch around the intrusion, finally feeling the fullness she had so craved. Xavier smirks as he whispers, "I should make sure to keep the Queen's attention."

His fingers curl and she comes again. His long digits reaching deep inside to that spongy spot that makes her unravel. He beckons her orgasm along with his movements, thumb circling her abused clit. Tears prick the corners of her eyes and she keens as her body spasms.

Xavier watches her body heave and twitch beneath him with a gaze saturated in lust. He licks his lips once more, desperate for any trace of her left on his skin. He withdraws his fingers, waiting until her eyes are back on him to suck them into his mouth to clean them off.

She's panting for breath, unable to muster any more arousal despite the erotic display that he puts on for her. Her body is covered in sweat and saliva, the air between them suffused with the smell of sex. Her fingers idly wind through his hair as she catches her breath.

"Is Your Majesty satisfied with my service?" He teases, voice cracking slightly.

She closes her eyes and nods, pulling him up to nestle into her chest.

"Entirely satisfied." She affirms.

His breathy chuckle wafts over her skin as he kisses her once more on the chest, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling into her skin.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

A/N

“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.”