missaengg writes things

Somehow, you managed to survive that night in Caleb’s apartment—clearly, as you’re here alive and not dead—but only just barely. Despite your best efforts to get some sleep, sleep eluded you, leaving you to spend most of the night repeatedly kicking off the blanket and pulling it back on to get comfortable, a feat near impossible knowing that Caleb was in the next room.

By the time Caleb knocked on your door the next morning, you were a zombie, half-conscious and hanging onto the waking world by a single, delicate thread. It took your comatose brain an embarrassing amount of time to register what he was murmuring through the door, to come eat breakfast before he drove you to the station. You made yourself semi-presentable, the best you could given your sleep-deprived state, and stumbled into the kitchen where Caleb was waiting with coffee and several of your favorite breakfast choices.

None of which you were able to stomach.

Breakfast had been unbearably silent. The heavy silence was charged with unresolved emotions and words left unsaid like the air before a storm explodes. Yet neither of you spoke a single word, not even to utter a simple “good morning”. It goes without saying that neither of you had the courage to mention what almost happened the night before, not even during the car ride to the station.

Judging from the dark circles present under Caleb’s eyes, it was obvious he hadn’t slept much either.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Your eyes drift to the clock, dread churning in the pit of your stomach. 

Only thirty minutes left until Caleb will be here in your home, and you’re nowhere near finished with the apple soda you’re preparing for him.

Curse you for thinking it clever to make the entire recipe from scratch. It would’ve been easier and faster if you had bought the apple juice or syrup pre-made, but no, you had to insist on making the damn juice and subsequent syrup yourself because it had to be special. Personal. Especially if it might make Caleb want to sweep you in his arms and kiss you and eventually date you…

You drop your head, a mournful moan falling from your parted lips.

Why couldn’t your brain have an off button or something?

If you previously thought the illicit fantasies of wanting to get fucked stupid by Caleb were awful, these new daydreams of wanting to date him were even worse. They were constant. Ferocious. So much so that you actually missed the days when it had just been about the sex.

Life had been so much easier then…

As if sensing your distress, the bright pink post-it note containing the recipe flutters from where it sits on the counter. Taunting you. Mocking you. Because underneath the recipe is written…

Caleb’s favorite kind ♡

Complete with a tiny heart.

A dead giveaway that this is for him, and you’d be damned if he were to see it.

“Ow!” 

A sharp burst of pain causes you to flinch. The apple in your hand drops to the counter with a dull thud, and when you examine your finger, a furious, crimson line blooms on the tip, courtesy of the paring knife you’d been using.

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, setting the knife down and reaching for the towel by the sink. “So fucking stupid…”

Except your hand never reaches its destination.

“Pipsqueak, what the hell?” Caleb, who’s not supposed to be here yet, rushes to your side in four long strides, snatching your hand from mid-air. “You weren’t paying attention, were you?”

You blink rapidly at the man, stammering, “I—I was.”

“I told you to be careful when you’re using a knife,” Caleb scolds, carefully inspecting your wound, twisting your finger left and right.

“I was being careful,” you protest, then sheepishly admit, “I was distracted for like a second.”

“And I told you a second is too long when you’re in the kitchen.” Caleb meets your eyes, a deep furrow on his forehead and a hint of irritation beneath the concern on the cusp of panic in his eyes. “I taught you better than this.”

Better than what?

Irate and somewhat confused, you open your mouth to demand what exactly he means because heaven forbid you make one tiny mistake like any normal human being, but when he pops your finger into his mouth, it falls open to the full extent your jaw will allow.

Caleb sucks down.

Hard.

A startled gasp tumbles from your lips as his tongue swirls around the tip, applying pressure to the cut.

A rush of heat surges through your body, settling in your sex like a raging wildfire—the kind that razes entire mountains into nothing, but smoldering embers and ruin. 

His mouth feels exactly like you dreamed it would. Wet. Scorching. Sultry. His tongue caresses your finger in long strokes as his cheeks hollow, and you can’t help, but wonder, if the sensation of his mouth on just the tip of your finger is enough to make you gush down there, what it might do if it were to suckle on something else like your nipple or your throbbing cunt.

Your breath catches in your throat. Your brain grows hazy and dark. On the verge of hyperventilating, you wrench your hand from his grasp with a nonhuman burst of strength, shrieking, “Caleb, what in the actual fuck?”

“What?” Caleb startles. “What did I do?”

“You stuck my finger in your mouth!”

“I was—I was just—” He frowns, the gears in his head turning slowly, scrabbling for an explanation. “I was tryin’ to stop the bleeding!”

Scowling, you swipe the towel he prevented you from grabbing off the counter and wrap it around your bleeding finger. “That’s not—that’s not how you stop the bleeding, idiot!”

“Yes, it is, Pipsqueak,” Caleb replies, punctuating each word as if you’re the idiot in this scenario instead of him. He reaches for your hand again, but you turn away, cradling it close to your chest.

“No, it isn’t,” you snap back. “You’re in the DAA. Didn’t they teach you basic first aid or something?”

“Yeah.” Caleb’s frown deepens, perplexed by what you’re insinuating. “So?”

You stare at him for a beat, mouth agape before your brain can process words again. “It’s unsanitary? Gross? Unhygienic?” you finally sputter. He’s a pilot for god’s sake. He of all people should know this. Caleb raises his eyebrows, prompting you to add, “Mouths are filthy?”

“And?”

And…?! 

What about bacteria and infection and a million other things that could lead to something like gangrene and losing your finger? Maybe even your whole arm?

None of which even touches on what his sinful mouth was currently doing to your poor cunt.

“Just know that if my finger gets infected, I’m blaming you.”

Caleb scoffs, crossing his arms. “It’s not going to get infected.”

“Uh huh,” you click your tongue, your eyes narrowing into skeptical slits, “and how exactly am I supposed to know where that mouth of yours has been?”

A mouth you may not know where it’s been, but certainly know where you’d like for it to be—exploring every inch of your hot and bothered body, dragging that tempting tongue down your torso to that hidden valley of pleasure between your—

No, absolutely not.

You are NOT going there.

Not right now, not when you have no graceful means of reprieve.

“Jesus,” Caleb scrunches his face, “way to make me sound dirty.”

“I’m not making you sound dirty,” you huff. “You are dirty.”

Yes, very dirty indeed…downright filthy actually…

Caleb blows out a disgruntled burst of air, and then he grows still, his brows knitting together as he studies you with a pensive expression—one that makes you very, very nervous. “You’re actin’ strange…” he muses after a terse pause.

You feel yourself stiffen, and when you respond, your voice is clipped. “I am not acting strange.”

“Yes, you are,” Caleb insists, staring at you intently. “First, you freaked out when I caught you starin’ at my ass—”

“Well, of course I’m going to freak out if—”

Caleb doesn’t wait for you to finish. “Then you freaked out when I wasn’t wearing a shirt in my own home—”

“It’s called common decency, asshole—”

“And then you freaked out when I try to stop the bleeding—”

“Because you stuck my finger in your dirty ass mouth!”

“Seriously,” Caleb’s expression shifts from one of confrontation to concern, “you’ve been actin’ off around me lately. What’s going on?”

His eyes stay locked with yours, and you bite your lip, looking down and off to the side.

“Is it…is it me? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

His question is sincere, so sincere it makes you want to scream.

Did he do something wrong? How could he ask that with a straight face? As if the two of you didn’t almost kiss the last time you saw each other and then never talked about it? As if he hasn’t been torturing your poor heart—and your poor cunt—these last few visits?

Your grip around the towel tightens, squeezing the ever loving shit out of your appendage.

But…it wasn’t fair to place all of the blame on Caleb. It’s not like you brought up the almost-kiss yourself nor planned on doing so anytime soon either. That would open up a can of worms, a can that could potentially end with the confirmation that he doesn’t feel the same way about you.

And you’re not sure if you’re ready for that just quite yet.

“No, I’m not mad at you,” you reply through the anxious clench of your jaw. When Caleb doesn’t respond, you reluctantly lift your eyes, making eye contact in a bid to feign your sincerity. “Everything’s fine. Promise.”

God, you’re a terrible liar.

Caleb’s jaw flares as he probes you silently. His eyes are heated, conflicted, piercing deep into the depths of your soul as if the truth to his question lies there.

A cold bead of sweat trickles down your back. You fight the urge to avert your gaze, praying that your attempt to remain blank and impassive is enough to deter him from digging too deep and discover the secret you’ve been desperately hiding.

In the background, the damn clock continues to tick away.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Caleb finally speaks. “Pipsqueak,” he says slowly, carefully, “whatever’s goin’ on, you know you can always tell—”

“Oh, Caleb, you’re here early,” your mom remarks, breezing into the kitchen and inadvertently interrupting the building tension.

Caleb whispers a sigh. He gives you one last look and then turns to greet your mother. “Yes, Auntie,” he says with a dazzling smile, the epitome of charisma and charm. “I wanted to see if you needed any help with dinner.”

Your mom smiles warmly at the man turning your life into a living nightmare. “Such a good boy. Why couldn’t you have been my son, hm?”

Caleb chuckles, his full attention now on your mother.

You take this opportunity to breathe. Your lungs fill with fresh air, the tension holding your body tight draining with every gulp—that is until your mom’s head swivels towards you, pinning you with an accusatory frown.

“You two aren’t fighting again, are you?” she asks, mainly to you because next to golden boy Caleb, you’re obviously the instigator.

Caleb laughs, the sound rich and boyish, diverting her attention blissfully away from you and back to him. “No, Auntie. We’re not fightin’. We’re just playin’ around.”

You almost choke on your own spit. 

Playing around? That’s what he calls “playing around”? If interrogating you is considered “playing around”, then you’re the fucking queen of England.

A derisive snort leaves you before you can temper your incredulity, causing your mom to throw a disapproving glance in your direction.

“Good, good,” she says, back to Caleb. “She may be my daughter, but she can be so hot-headed sometimes.” Your mom leans in like she’s about to share a big secret, her voice dipping into a faux whisper. “She gets it from her dad. You’re older so be patient with her, will you?”

“Of course,” Caleb smooths, shooting you an infuriating wink. “You know I adore her like she’s my—”

The wink is the last straw. You push past him with an exasperated grunt, ignoring the flicker of confusion that crosses his face. Once outside, you hurry down the hall, the plush carpet muffling the urgency of your footsteps. Their voices float after you, but you don’t hear a single word they’re saying. You can’t. Your focus is on getting to the bathroom where a first aid kit—and a sturdy lock—await.

Sadly, not too long after you’re made your escape, Caleb’s footsteps come thundering after you.

“Hey, wait up!”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Where’re you goin’?”

For fuck’s sake, take the hint, Caleb!

You speed up, muscles straining as you pump your legs as fast as they’ll go without breaking into a run.

“Pipsqueak, will you please slow down?”

Just a little more.

Just a little more, and you can shut the door in his face.

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be, and Caleb catches you by the shoulder, spinning you around.

“Seriously, what’s goin’ on with you?”

His persistence is now playing on the last of your frayed nerves. You look him straight in the eyes, wounded hand tight against your chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His insistence comes out as a boom, and Caleb hesitates, casting a cautious glance to the kitchen before he continues in a hush. “You’re being weird, and you know it.”

“I am not being weird, and I don’t know what you mean,” you mouth back, voice curt. “Now will you please just leave this alone?”

Yes, Caleb, please leave you to go lick your wounds—emotionally, mentally, and physically—in peace.

None of this serves to deter the man. Instead, he leans forward, placing his hands on your shoulders, and peers into your eyes with strained concern. “Listen, I’ve been really worried. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Right, and you usually do.

Except you can’t tell him about this.

You especially can’t tell him about your crush on him. About constantly fighting the impulse to jump his bones and plant love bites all over his god-like body. About wanting to cross that line and ride him like your life depended on it.

No, you’d rather die a thousand painful deaths than do that.

“I’m here if you need me.”

He solemnly murmurs the last sentence, a sad droop on the corners of his mouth, his mournful, purple eyes probing you for reassurance.

He reminds you of a lost, kicked puppy. Your chest tightens, and despite your ire, you can’t help, but soften, the irritation you’d just been feeling shifting into guilt. You give him a tiny, albeit tight-lipped, smile.

“I know. I’m fine, I promise.”

Caleb searches your gaze for a while longer, and then his grip on your shoulders relaxes, a surrender, though the skeptical wrinkle on his forehead says that he’s not a hundred percent convinced.

Caleb doesn’t move.

You wait. One second turns into two. Then three. On and on until the awkward pause is now an awkward silence, neither of you able to look away from one another.

Even without the clock physically present, you can hear it counting down in the back of your head.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Ticking as the silence closes in on you and you can’t take it anymore.

“Um, Caleb?”

Caleb stirs, perking up as his puppy dog eyes grow wide with a renewed vigor. “Yeah? What is it?”

“You mind letting go now so I can take care of my finger?”

Caleb blinks. A wave of disappointment flickers across his features before disappearing into a sheepish chuckle. “Right.” His hands fall as he takes a step back. “Forgot. Sorry.”

You hum. Just as you’re about to turn on your heel, Caleb thrusts his hand out again, clumsy and awkward. He motions for you to take it.

“I’ll help you.”

You stare at his hand for a beat too long. “It’s fine. I can take care of it.”

“Pipsqueak, I got this.” The lost puppy disappears, and the confident, borderline cocky pilot re-emerges. Undeterred, Caleb takes you by the hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

Your heart skips a beat.

His hand is comforting—soft and warm, firm, yet tender. Your hand nestles into his perfectly, almost as if its sole purpose in life is to be held by him.

The butterflies from earlier swarm once more into their chaotic dance, except this time, you don’t feel the violent need to retch. No, this time, they stir up an excitement, an anticipation, like the first time you returned home for the holidays after moving away to college.

Though this is nowhere near the first time he’s held your hand before, it’s the first time he’s held it since you’ve developed feelings for him. Or rather, since the first time you’ve become aware of your feelings towards him.

Thinking back, it’s possible that you’ve always felt this way towards Caleb.

From the time you were in diapers up until now, Caleb had always been a constant presence throughout your life. 

He was there when you first learned how to walk, when you lost your first baby tooth, and when you first started school. He taught you how to swim, how to ride a bike, and eventually how to drive. He was there to comfort you when your grandmother died and surprise you with an impromptu visit when you whined about how homesick you were after starting college.

Hell, he was even the first person you told when you started your period. The one who helped you buy your first round of tampons and pads because you were too embarrassed.

He was your protector, your cheerleader, and your person.

And possibly even your first and earliest crush.

Back in high school, he was the first person you’d seek out between classes, running over and kicking his ankle like a rabid chihuahua the moment you spotted him. You’d ambush him the moment school let out, pestering him for ice cream and begging him to carry your bag because it was “soooooo heavy and breaking your back”, which he always obliged and you took for granted.

You made sure to attend each and every one of his basketball games, even the away ones no matter how far. You’d stay up all night making giant signs with his face plastered all over it and then embarrass him with them, psychotically cheering him on—jumping on your seat, shouting at the top of your lungs, all while waving this giant sign around like a beacon.

And of course, you displayed the same level of energy at all his graduations, beaming with pride as he walked the stage and presenting him with a comically large bouquet of flowers afterwards.

Back then, you assumed you were seeking him out because he was your oppa, but what if it wasn’t? What if you had been seeking him out because you were always subconsciously finding your way home…to him?

The realization settles in your chest, deep and unsettling, as Caleb leads you into the bathroom and commands you to sit.

You drop onto the closed toilet with a heavy thud, mind in shambles to the point you almost vocalize your displeasure when Caleb releases your hand to grab the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet. 

Almost.

Thank god.

“This might sting a little,” he says, opening the kit and pulling out the disinfectant. “I’ll try to make it as painless as possible, okay?”

You nod, but when the wand comes into contact with your cut, it stings, causing you to hiss. Caleb doesn’t stop, continuing to dab away with a careful reverence, though he blows lightly to lessen the sting.

As he works, a few wisps of hair fall into his eyes. Your fingers itch to brush them away, but you resist the urge, curling them into your palm instead.

Caleb notices your clenched fist almost immediately. The corner of his mouth twitches, mistaking it as your effort to withstand the pain. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs. His breath ghosts along the back of your hand, causing goosebumps to dot your skin. “You’re doing so well, Pipsqueak.”

In encouragement, Caleb continues to utter soft praises—praises that evoke an image of a steamy, naked Caleb whispering in your ear as he slowly sinks inch-by-inch into your slick cunt.

Your fingers curl deeper, your fingernails digging into the soft flesh of your palm.

This is dangerous.

Desperate for distraction, you direct your focus onto Caleb himself, taking in the pinch of his brows and the pucker of his lips.

Would this be the face he makes when he buries himself in your warmth? The face he’ll make as he relishes the sensation of your walls fluttering as they adapt to his impressive girth?

A rush of heat invades your nether regions. Your cunt spasms, the unmistakable ache of your arousal soaking through the thin fabric of your underwear.

Behave, you tell yourself, behave, behave.

Your thighs tremble.

You double down, chanting the word silently in your head like a mantra to some invisible god above.

Behave. Behave. Behave.

It doesn’t help.

“I’m almost done, Pipsqueak. You can handle this. You’re being so good for me.”

Oh god, the soft murmur of his voice sends a torrent of blood through your sex, and his next utter of praise sends you careening, blurring fantasy with reality.

Caleb’s throaty moans fill your ears. His breath is hot on your neck. Your hands slip down down his back, which is slick with sweat, scrambling for something to hold onto as his pace quickens. Each frantic thrust kisses your cervix, cresting you further along into an inevitable orgasm.

Your cunt clenches around nothing as anguished tears prickle your eyes.

Behave. Behave. Behave, behave, behave, behavebehavebehavebehavebehave—

You almost cry in joy when your phone buzzes from inside your pocket. 

Thanking some deity that exists above, you shimmy out your phone, your savior, and skim the notification.

Hey, Jenna assigned me to the big Hunters project you’re working on. Wanna sync up on Monday to get me up to speed?

Caleb’s attention flickers to your phone, something dark flashing in his eyes when he spies the name of the sender. “Who’s that?” he asks, a little too casually.

“Nero,” you reply, clicking the off button and placing the phone face down on your lap. You look up to Caleb’s cocked eyebrow and add, “A colleague from work.”

Caleb swaps the disinfectant for the ointment, his movements stiff. “You don’t have to answer him right away?” he asks, uncapping the tube and dabbing an appropriate-sized blob on your fingertip.

His tone is light and nonchalant, but you note the thin press of his lips and the subtle flare of his jaw.

Could it be that Caleb is jealous? Of Nero?

“It’s nothing important,” you hastily blurt out, worried that he might get the wrong idea about your teammate. “I can get back to him on Monday.”

Caleb’s response is to trade the ointment for a bandaid and carefully wrap your cut. He gives your bandaged finger a gentle squeeze, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t like it when you hurt yourself, Pipsqueak. Be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” you mumble. His gaze is tender and soft, and your heart performs a rather acrobatic flip, swelling to the point you fear it might burst. “I will.”

“Good.” Caleb flashes you a lopsided grin and then rises to his feet. “All right, Princess. Let’s go finish whatever it is you’re makin’.”

You scrunch your nose in reply, but accept his outstretched hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Caleb guides you out of the bathroom in the same manner you both entered, hands tightly locked together. Once outside, Caleb doesn’t let go, and you don’t move to disconnect them either.

Caleb leads the way back to the kitchen, a half-step ahead. The walk back is silent. The pace is much slower than your initial sprint, but the distance back seems shorter, like the hallway magically shrunk while Caleb tended to your finger.

With each step, the thought of losing the soothing weight of his hand spurns an inquietude deep in the pit of your abdomen.

You don’t have to let go, right? There’s no rule that says friends can’t hold hands, and Caleb used to hold your hand all the time when you were growing up. That doesn’t have to change because you have a crush on him. Besides, it’s not like Caleb’s holding your dominant hand. Surely, it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience to get through life with only one hand. You could make it work…

You take another step forward, and your chest tightens a little bit more.

Except Caleb is a pilot. Would he be able to fly with only one hand? And on that note, could a fighter jet even seat a second person? Would you even be allowed to fly with him for the DAA?

You place one foot in front of the other, watching the distance close, almost back to the kitchen. Your heart sinks.

If only you could hold his hand forever and never let go…

Or so you think until you notice the pot still simmering away on the stove.

“Shit!”

Immediately casting all your musings aside, you rip your hand from Caleb’s and rush to the stove. You turn off the burner and move the pot to the counter, grabbing a wooden spoon and giving the mixture a stir. It’s only when the syrup swirls at the desired consistency that your panic melts into relief.

“Pipsqueak…”

“Don’t,” you warn, twisting your body around to shoot him a glare. “Don’t you dare say another word.”

“What?” Caleb raises his hands in an absurd display of innocence. “I wasn’t gonna say anythin’.”

“Uh huh.” You narrow your eyes. “Sure you weren’t.”

“Scout’s honor.” Caleb grins, holding up three fingers as if the gesture means something despite the fact he’s never been a scout before in his life. He strolls over to join you, scanning the items strewn about the counter. “So, what’s left?”

“I have to cool this down and finish peeling the apple slices for the garnish.”

“Okay,” Caleb slowly nods, assessing the situation, “I can handle the apples if you want to take care of the syrup.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Might be a good idea to keep you away from knives for a bit,” Caleb smirks.

“Jerk,” you grumble to which Caleb chuckles.

Caleb picks up the knife and rinses it in the sink while you begin pouring the syrup into a jar.

“So this Nero guy…”

You shuffle to the fridge, absentmindedly swapping the jar of syrup for the club soda. “What about him?”

“You two close?”

“Uh, not really,” you reply, lips pursed, more preoccupied with measuring eight cups of club soda into a pitcher than where he might be going with this question. “We worked on a few projects together, but that’s about it. Why?”

“No reason.”

The forced nonchalance in his reply piques your interest.

You glance at him, an eyebrow raised. “Really? ‘Cause it sounds like there’s a reason.”

“Nope.” Caleb shakes his head. “No reason at all.”

Your eyebrow that has yet to rise, rises to join its partner.

When you don’t verbally respond, Caleb glances in your direction and sighs. “It just…it feels like I don’t know who your friends are anymore, that’s all.”

A harsh bark of laughter flies out before you can stop it. “That’s ‘cause you moved away after the Academy.”

“I know,” Caleb says, fidgeting with the apple in his hand, “but you used to tell me everything.”

“Yeah, well, life got busy.” You shrug, and then quietly add, “You got busy.”

Caleb pauses mid-peel, lowering the knife and turning towards you, so abruptly it startles you. “I’m never too busy for you, Pipsqueak.” He holds your gaze with a dead serious intensity like he’s drilling the words into your brain.

Unsettled, you swallow hard and then look away, returning to the pitcher before you. “I know,” you mumble. “I just got busy, that’s all.”

You feel the weight of Caleb’s stare on the side of your face, prickling along your skin. You silently will him to look away, to free you from his probing gaze. To your relief, he looks away, but the relief is short-lived due to what he says next.

“What’s this?”

You freeze.

The post-it note.

You forgot about the fucking post-it note on the counter.

Sharply, you spin on your heel to the sight of his long fingers plucking the note off the counter.

“Were you…” Caleb squints, tilting his head to the side. “Were you makin’ an apple soda for me?”

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

This can’t be fucking happening. You can’t be found out like this. Not like this, not right now.

Abandoning the pitcher, you lunge for the paper pinched between his fingers. “It’s nothing, Caleb. Give it back!”

“Don’t seem like nothin’.” Caleb dances away as he reads the recipe out loud. “Let’s see…One third apple syrup, one cup club soda, apple slices for garnish.” When he reaches the end, his lips form a devious smirk. “Caleb’s favorite kind along with a tiny, adorable heart.”

And you’re dead.

Good-bye, world. It was nice knowing ya.

“You know,” Caleb muses, his eyes glittering, “you never tell me that ya miss me.” He waves the source of your untimely demise in the air like it’s a first place trophy he’s won in some competition. “Should I take this as a sign that you do?”

“Think whatever you want,” you mutter, the fight leaving your spirit.

“Well,” Caleb sings, thrusting the object of your undoing in your face, “according to this, I think it’s a sign that you do.”

If only the earth could split in two and swallow you into oblivion. 

“Whatever makes you happy.”

“Then I’m going to assume this is your way of sayin’ ya like me.”

His words hit a little too close to home.

“Your face is red again, Pipsqueak,” Caleb coos. He closes the distance, cupping your cheek with his large palm and stroking it with his thumb. “Is that why you’ve been actin’ weird around me? Is it ‘cause a little Pipsqueak likes me?”

Way too close to home.

“No,” you snap, tilting your chin and defiantly meeting his stupid, twinkling eyes. “You wish I liked you, you neanderthal.”

“What if I do?” His voice is like silk. His eyes gleam with mischief, but you think you see a hint of something more sinister brewing underneath.

You gulp.

He’s teasing. You’re almost a hundred percent sure he’s just messing with you. Even so, this is cruel. Inhumane. He’s being a bully and a menace, torturing you for his own sick, twisted pleasure.

But…what if you’re wrong?

You feel something stir within you—a curious, hopeful twinge of a different possibility that this could be something different.

What if this is his way of trying to suss out whether you like him because he likes you too?

“I wonder…” His voice dips, eyes flickering to your lips. He trails his hand down to your chin and hooks a finger underneath, tilting it up like he’s on the verge of kissing you. “...what a little Pipsqueak might do if she were to find out her oppa likes her too.”

Could it really be that Caleb has feelings for you?

“Caleb, stop teasing me,” you manage to rasp, your heart thundering in your ears.

The wicked smirk on his face widens. “Make me.”

Christ, he makes you want to scream. Or crumble. Or both.

This is all too much for your poor heart to handle.

Especially when all you want to do is jump in his arms and rub yourself all over his broad chest like a needy, affection-starved cat while breathing in his intoxicating pheromones.

Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, furiously pumping blood throughout your feverish body for the second or third time this evening. With all the extra exertion, you’re surprised you haven’t dropped dead from a heart attack already.

“God—god damn it, Caleb,” you croak, your throat as dry and arid as his refrigerator back in Skyhaven. “You’re being—you’re being ridiculous.”

Something dark flashes through Caleb’s purple eyes as he steadily peers at you through his long lashes. The devilish smirk he’d been wearing disappears, replaced by something primal.

Something predatory and dangerous.

“Am I?” he asks, his thumb tracing the outline of your bottom lip. “‘Cause I think a little Pipsqueak has a crush on me and won’t admit it.”

“I don’t—I don’t like you.”

“I don’t believe you, Princess.” Caleb’s hand ghosts down your neck, coming to a rest above your clamoring heart.

“I don’t—I—I don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t—”

Your voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.

You can’t fucking breathe. You can’t even fucking think. It’s as if he’s stolen all the air from what little space exists between your bodies. As if he’s aware of the effect he has on you and is tormenting you intentionally. As if he’s taking delight in watching you squirm.

“Caleb, you’re being a jerk!”

Caleb chuckles. His stare reminds you of a predator stalking its prey, boring into you with such ferocity you fear he may try and devour you whole right then and there. Your body stiffens, your muscles locking into place like a rabbit ready to bolt when faced with a wolf. 

Caleb trails his fingers down your sternum until they graze the crest of your heaving breasts.

“Am I?” he purrs, the sound low in his throat.

The air around you pulses.

Your wide eyes don’t dare to look away, not when he might pounce at any moment. You feel yourself start to tremble, your breaths shallow and quick. 

And then, without warning, Caleb pulls back, a giant, goofy grin overtaking his stupid, smug face.

“Just a jerk and not a jerk face?” 

Oh. Dear. God.

This man was going to be the death of you!

You can picture your grave already. Your body in a coffin, buried and covered with dirt. The tombstone reading “Death by Caleb”. Not “Death by Caleb’s Dick”, which would be your preferred way to go, but “Death by Caleb”.

Your fists slam into his chest. “Caleb, I swear to god, you’re such an insufferable asshole!”

Caleb yelps, rubbing his chest while wearing the most offended look like he’s the victim in this scenario, though his mock offense does little to mask the laughter threatening to spill over.

You scowl and shove him back with every bit of fury burning through your quivering body. Only then does Caleb’s amusement abate as the realization that you’re mad—more than mad, furious—registers in his pea-sized brain.

“Aw, come on, Pipsqueak, I was just joking.” The smile drops from his face. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”

“A joke?” you sputter. “That’s a joke to you?”

“Yeah, I was just teasin’.” 

“Even teasing has its limits, Caleb.” You glare at him, breathing hard. “That—that was over the line. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry. I was just tryna have some fun.”

“Yeah, at my expense,” you snap.

“Come on, Pips, I was just playin’.” Caleb takes a step towards you, but you shake your head and step to the side. “Don’t be mad at me. Pips, please.”

“No, that was—that—”

Actually, you don’t know what the hell that was. You don’t even know what you’re supposed to be feeling let alone what you’re currently feeling at this moment.

“Just leave me alone, Caleb.”

Caleb runs his hand through his hair, ripping a few strands out in the process. “Pipsqueak, I’m sorry.” He takes another step in your direction, and you shake your head once more, taking a step back. “Pips.”

“No.”

Caleb inhales about to say something more, but the heavens must have finally decided to take your side for once today because the doorbell rings.

Saved by Caleb’s parents.

You give him one last scathing look of reproach and then sprint for the front door, Caleb close on your heels. You skid to a stop, adjusting the scowl on your face into a welcoming smile before opening the door to his parents waiting outside.

“Hi, Auntie, Uncle,” you greet them. “Please come in.”

Your smile must be convincing because Caleb’s mom enters without a word, immediately pulling you into a giant hug.

“Oh my goodness, look at you!” she gushes, pulling back to appraise you. “I swear, you’ve gotten prettier since the last time I saw you.”

You smile again, this time a genuine smile. “Auntie, you saw me like two days ago.”

“And you’ve gotten prettier since then.” Caleb’s mom warmly pats your cheek and then notices Caleb standing behind you. “So that’s where my son went. Should’ve known he was already here.”

“Mom,” Caleb groans, pulling her away from you. “Not now, please.”

His mom shakes her head, a bemused twinkle in her eye, but says nothing, simply tapping his butt as she passes by.

“My wife is right,” Caleb’s dad says, entering after his wife. “You’ve become even lovelier.”

“Uncle.” You roll your eyes, but smile in return, shutting the door behind him.

“Oh, who’s this?” Your mom’s voice booms from the adjoining living room. “Could it be my best friend in the whole wide world?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Caleb’s mom tuts, pursing her lips before breaking into a beaming smile. “It’s only your bestest and most precious friend in the whole wide world.”

The two women cackle and embrace one another, their boisterous laughter filling the foyer where everyone has now gathered. 

Your dad and Caleb’s greet each other by shaking their hands, laughing at their wives’ antics.

“Every time,” your dad chuckles.

“You’d think we’d be used to it by now,” Caleb’s dad comments.

“Oh, hush.” Your mom sticks her tongue out at the two men and then grasps her friend’s hand. “Come on, let’s eat. The food’s ready.”

She leads the procession to the dining room, but you slip away, heading back to the kitchen and your unfinished drink. Dropping the smile you had on your face, you pull the syrup out of the fridge, measuring it out and mixing it with the club soda in the pitcher. You then grab six tall glasses and place them on a serving tray, garnishing each glass with a rabbit apple slice, courtesy of Caleb.

Your anger towards Caleb still has yet to subside, but even so, you have to begrudgingly admit that the slices are cut artfully—small enough to nestle on the rim, but clearly shaped into that of a rabbit. He’s skilled with a knife. You at least have to give him that.

Right as you’re about to grasp the tray, Caleb appears by your side, lightly nudging you out of the way.

“I’ll take this,” he offers. “Why don’t you bring the pitcher?”

Your gaze slides to him for a second before letting him take the tray. “I’m still mad at you,” you state.

Caleb pauses and then in a quiet voice says, “I know.”

You grasp the pitcher before he can say anything more and wordlessly exit the kitchen for the dining room. Caleb follows silently, the twinkling of the glasses the only sound to keep the both of you company.

Once in the dining room, you scan the table for an empty clearing to place the pitcher without much success. If the table could speak, it would groan under the weight of all the dishes laid out on its surface. There’s enough dishes to feed a small invading army—plenty more than necessary for a party of six. Even you have to admit that your mom has outdone herself. There’s braised beef short ribs, braised chicken, japchae, a spicy squid stir fry over udon noodles, seafood pancakes, several different vegetable side dishes, and a giant, heaping bowl of rice.

Though you’re impressed, you’re not surprised. Your mom loved to host. Growing up, these dinners had been a regular occurrence, only slowing down once you and Caleb left home for college.

“Pipsqueak made an apple soda,” Caleb announces, setting the tray down on what little space he could find. He takes the pitcher from you and gestures for you to sit.

You hand him the pitcher and sit in the chair next to your mom.

“She made the whole thing herself, including the syrup,” Caleb continues, pouring the fizzy liquid into the glasses one-by-one. He passes them around the table, except for the last two glasses, his and yours, which he places in front of you as he comes around to take his seat across from you. “You should try it.”

“Really?” Caleb’s mom takes a sip, her eyes lighting up as she hums in appreciation. “It’s delicious. You made this by yourself?”

You nod. “Caleb made the rabbits,” you mumble, not wanting to take credit for his handiwork.

“Pfft, that’s the easy part,” his mom tuts. “The hard part is the drink itself.”

“Thanks, Auntie,” you shyly respond, taking a small sip of your own.

While you didn’t have the highest of hopes for your concoction, Caleb’s mom was right. The syrup turned out better than you expected despite the extra time on the stove. The soda was light and refreshing yet flavorful. The sweet syrup coated your tongue without being cloying, and the fizz of the club soda tickled your throat as you swallowed, adding a fun twist.

Caleb’s mom sighs, eyeing you from across the table. “You’re all grown up.” She looks to your mom directly across from her. “She’s ready to get married at this rate.”

“Married!?” your mom snorts. “She’s far from being ready to get married. She still has so much growing up to do.”

“What do you mean, ‘much growing up to do’?” Caleb’s mom frowns. “She’s got a good job. She’s handy in the kitchen. Look at her! She’s all grown up. I’d say she’s more than ready.”

“She still doesn’t clean or do her own laundry or know how to cook,” your mom counters.

Oh god, not your mom spilling your dirty secrets in front of Caleb…

“Mom,” you hiss, giving her a sharp poke in the thigh, which results in a stern glance from her.

“Because you do all of that for her,” Caleb’s mom argues. “She’s smart. She’ll figure it out when she starts living on her own.”

“No, no, she still has so much to learn.”

“Nonsense,” his mom scoffs. “It’s not like we knew what we were doing when we got married, and we were younger than her, but look at us now.” She turns to give you a wink. “I’d be honored to have you as my daughter-in-law.”

“Auntie,” you whine, a tickled smile on your lips.

From beside her, Caleb simultaneously huffs, “Mom.”

“What?” His mom shrugs, holding up her hands palm-up. “I think she’ll make a fantastic wife and daughter-in-law someday.”

You duck your head, hiding the light dusting of pink you’re sure is present on your cheeks.

“Wait,” your mom interjects. “Wait just a minute. If you’re claiming my daughter as your future daughter-in-law, then I want Caleb as my future son-in-law.”

“Oh my god, mom, please stop,” you groan, sliding down in your chair, mortified, though that doesn’t stop you from peeking to see Caleb’s reaction.

Caleb sits in stony silence. His body is rigid, his lips tightly pressed together. You watch in alarm as he stabs a piece of meat on his plate with his chopsticks, an angry wrinkle forming as his brows knit together.

Whatever you were hoping to see, it’s not this.

A deep sense of foreboding begins to gnaw the pit of your stomach.

“Why? He’d make an excellent husband,” your mom barrels ahead, unable to read the room. “He’s kind and thoughtful, an excellent cook, he actually knows how to clean,” she glances at your dad who simply throws a finger heart and an air kiss back in response, “and he’s financially stable with a prestigious job. He’d be good for you.”

You appreciate your mom’s support. You really do. But a sense of panic and dread join the foreboding in your stomach as the wrinkle on Caleb’s forehead deepens into a chasm the more your mom prattles.

“Oh, and then we’d be in-laws,” Caleb’s mom gushes, also oblivious to the storm brewing beside her. She nudges his shoulder. “What do you say, son? You want to make this old lady’s dream come true?”

Caleb sighs, dropping his chopsticks. “Mom.”

“What?” his mom pushes. “She’s sweet, and look at how pretty she is. She’s every man’s—and every mother-in-law’s—dream.” She nudges him again, a sly twinkle to her crinkled eyes. “It’d be your dream come true.”

Caleb’s head jerks up, regarding his mom in horror, almost…almost as if the idea of you being his wife is too appalling to fathom. “Mom, stop,” he hisses, a harsh overreaction that causes his mom to frown.

By now, your gut is twisting in on itself, but still you hold your breath. Watching. Waiting. Praying that his icy exterior is a mis-direct and that he’ll suddenly wink at you with that gorgeous, knee-buckling, lopsided grin of his and joke, “Well, Pipsqueak? What do ya think? When should we hold the wedding?”

Except he doesn’t. 

“You’re making her uncomfortable,” he offers as a half-hearted explanation and then plasters on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Besides, Pipsqueak’s like a little sister to me.”

Ouch.

And just like that, the truth was finally out. Your heart plummets, taking with it any hope that he might feel the same as you. This was how Caleb saw you. You were his dongseng, nothing more.

Caleb’s mom stares at her son with pursed lips, like he’s a puzzle she can’t figure out. Caleb looks down at his plate, and she softly sighs. “Sorry, dear. Apparently my son here,” she pinches Caleb hard under the table, squinting in satisfaction when he flinches, “is an idiot. And rude.”

“It’s okay,” you give her a tiny, polite smile. Then you look at Caleb, your eyes hardening into steel. “I feel the same. Caleb’s like a brother to me too.”

Your words are sharp, intended to wound. It grabs his attention and he looks up, straight at you. Something vulnerable wavers in his eyes, but just as quickly as you notice, they return to his plate. You decide to do the same, lowering your gaze to the piece of chicken you’re prodding.

Like a little sister to me…

His words echo in your mind, stabbing you in the heart with each loop. Tears prickle the corners of your eyes. You blink them back. The last thing you need is for them to fall in front of company.

In front of him.

Fine.

So you’re just a “little sister” to him.

Whatever.

There’s plenty of men in the world, men who are much better than your mom’s-best-friend’s-son. Men who won’t see you as a “little sister”. 

Besides Tara’s been dying to set you up on a blind date for some time anyway.

Maybe it’s about time that you let her.

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“Falling apart for me already?” he chuckles, amused, the sound deep in his throat. “But I’ve barely touched you.”

Sylus flicks the metal ball against your clit again, making sure that the full width of the piercing weighs on it. You squirm, your fingers curling into the sheets, your body instinctively trying to wiggle away, but the grip Sylus has on your thighs tighten, holding you in place.

“Uh uh uh,” Sylus tuts against you. “Naughty, kitten. I’m just getting started.”

Using his shoulders to keep your legs parted, he glides a hand up your inner thigh and hooks a finger under the damp gusset of your underwear. He pulls it to the side, exposing you to his hungry, carmine eyes. 

“God, you’re fucking beautiful.”

Sylus breathes heavily, his gaze fixed on your sweet cunt. He drinks you in, taking a moment to admire how you glisten for him in the dim light of his bedroom, and then he lowers his mouth back onto your pulsing sex, running the length of his tongue along your slit.

“And you taste like fucking honey.”

His whisper wisps on your sensitive skin, tickling your need into a frenzy.

“And it’s all mine.” He gives your clit a sloppy kiss—wet and possessive. “All fucking mine.” 

He glances up, capturing your eyes with his. Yours tremble as your breath quickens. A dark heat gleams in the depths of his. And then he smirks. Lazy. Dangerous. Predatory. One that causes you to swallow thickly and your breath to hitch.

“Lie back and enjoy it, kitten.”

His smirk widens.

His canines glint ominously in the light.

“Because I don’t plan to stop until I’m satisfied.”

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