I can't ignore this kink any longer

Sure, it’s only been a year since he left for college. But somehow, Caleb comes home taller, broader, with a sharp jaw and deep voice that makes your stomach twist.

“Whatcha starin’ at, pipsqueak?” he teases. “Forget what your big brother looks like?”

He reaches for your head—an old reflex, the kind he used to do without thinking. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the usual palm to your scalp, the rough tousle that always left your hair a mess.

But it never comes.

His hand stills mid-air, lingering by your temple. His fingers brush down the side of your face, gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. But they don’t leave. Instead, they hover there—just for a second too long—knuckles grazing your cheek like he forgot what he was doing halfway through.

“You’ve… grown up,” he says, low. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Your breath catches. You force a small laugh, trying to shake it off. “Yeah, well. Happens when you abandon me for a whole year.”

He huffs out a smile, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s still standing too close, still looking at you like he’s trying to solve something he doesn’t want to admit is a problem.

“You look different,” he says. You can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

You swallow. “So do you.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just lets the silence stretch between you until he eventually steps back and clears his throat.

“I should go unpack.”

And you nod like your heart isn’t racing, like you don’t still feel the ghost of his fingers on your skin.

Later that night, you’re curled beneath your sheets, phone light dimmed, still scrolling through nothing when a soft knock sounds at your door.

“Hey,” Caleb’s voice comes through quietly. “You still up?”

“Yeah,” your heart jumps as you toss your phone aside. “Come in.”

He opens the door, hair damp from a late shower, shirt clinging just slightly at his collarbone. You try not to notice how strong he looks in your doorway, how the deep V of his lower abs is exposed each time he runs a hand through his hair.

“I just wanted to say goodnight,” he says, leaning against the frame. “Didn’t want you thinking I forgot.”

You smile, suddenly shy. “Thanks.”

He steps closer, bracing a hand against your wooden headboard, leaning over you just slightly. He was so close could smell his shampoo, feel the heat of him near your skin.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, eyes flickering over your face. “You used to throw a fit if I forgot to kiss you goodnight.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I’m not little anymore.”

“No,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You’re not.”

Something changes in the air, but you don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Not when he kneels beside your bed. Not when his thumb sweeps the corner of your mouth. Not when he leans in close—closer than he should—and lets his lips press to your forehead, slow and warm.

It should’ve been harmless. It used to be. But he presses another kiss, lower, this time against your cheek. You feel the breath hitch in his chest, and you wonder if he feels yours. And when his lips hover over your mouth, you forget how to breathe entirely.

But he stops. Pulls back.

“You should get to sleep,” he says, like it’s nothing. But his voice is frayed, like he’s holding something back.

You nod, curled under your blanket, the heat of his goodnight kiss still tingling on your cheek.

He lingers in your doorway, but he doesn’t quite leave.

“You’re not gonna walk me out?” he asks after a beat, half-teasing. “You used to always lock the door behind me.”

It’s true. You used to be afraid of a lot of things, and locking your door at night made you feel more at ease. But that was years ago.

“I know,” you say, shrugging into your blanket. “Guess I’m not scared anymore.”

“You sure?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “I trust you to keep me safe now.”

His gaze drags over you—your bare legs, the way your comforter is pulled up only halfway. He swallows.

"I always have,” he says before stepping out. But this time, it sounds like a promise. Or a warning.

And when he closes your door, he doesn’t shut it all the way.

—

You didn’t lock the door.

Caleb knows because he waited. After that kiss, after your voice, so quiet and sweet— I trust you. He stood in the hallway for a long time. Listening. Wondering if you’d get up. If you’d change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You don’t hear the door creak open a few hours later. Don’t see the way he stands in the doorway for too long, just watching you. You’re turned away, breathing slowly, body slack with sleep.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Your heartbeat isn’t slow. Not anymore. You know he’s there. You don’t know why he’s there, but you don’t dare to move.

He sits beside you on the mattress, careful and quiet. Too quiet, you think. You feel his fingertips brush against your outer thigh, where your shorts had started to ride up your legs.

“You shouldn’t sleep like this,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Like he’s angry with you for letting him see.

His voice is hoarse, rough in a way you hadn’t heard from him before. You think maybe he’ll pull away.

He doesn’t.

His hand slides under the covers, palm finding your knee. He grazes the inside of your thigh with the back of his fingers, your skin so soft there. So warm.

“You’re not scared anymore, hm?” he says. “Maybe you should be.”

He knows he shouldn’t want this. His hand moves higher anyway, up under your sleep shorts, until his fingers meet the cotton hem of your panties. Damp already. He exhales like it knocks the breath out of him.

“Shit,” he whispers. “You’re already soaked.”

He presses down, just a little. Just to feel. Just to see how you’d respond. You shift under his touch, a tiny whimper escaping your lips. Not pain, not fear, just…need.

He thinks you’re still asleep.

That makes it worse. Better. He doesn’t know anymore.

“You trust me, don’t you? You trust me to keep you safe, and…and this is what I do?”

The pad of one finger drags up the center of your panties. Once. Twice. You try not to move, but you can’t help but arch into his touch. He drags his finger again, slower this time, and watches you twitch.

“Look at you,” he breathes, almost in awe. “So sensitive.”

He hooks a finger under the thin fabric of your underwear and drags it to the side, for a moment just staring at you in awe. Like he’s not sure if he should keep going. Like this is something he dreamed about and now it’s real and he might die from it.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re unreal.”

His hand starts to tremble. He moves his finger again, slow and tentative, like he’s testing the edge of a fantasy.

“This,” he mutters, dragging two fingers through your slit, “—fuck. This is why you lock your fucking door.”

He keeps moving up and down, gliding through the mess he’s made of you. His breath stutters with every touch.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” he whispers between strokes. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself.”

He tests your entrance, his free hand palming his cock over his sweatpants.

“How many times I had to sit across from you on the couch, pretending I didn’t want this. That I wasn’t imagining how you’d feel…” He finally presses inside, brushing against a spot that makes you clench around his finger. “…ah…right here.”

His jaw tenses. You feel the tension in his whole body, the way he’s shaking from how hard he’s holding himself back.

“Pretending I didn’t notice how you’d squirm when I stood too close. How you’d look away when I caught you staring.”

He strokes you again, this time with more pressure. His thumb brushes just beneath your clit—an accident or a test, you can’t tell. He curses under his breath when your hips jump.

“You don’t even know what you’ve been doing to me,” he mutters. “And if you did…you wouldn’t have left the door unlocked.”

He gently pulls out of you, and the withdrawal is enough to make you gasp. Just the softest sound. Barely even a breath.

But it undoes him.

His body goes rigid, like he’s been punched. His hand pulls back so fast, you’d think you burned him. He stares at you—like he’s looking at something he wants more than anything, and knows he’s not allowed to keep.

“God,” he says, low and broken. “What the hell am I doing?”

His fingers curl into fists, like he’s trying to erase the feeling of you. Like he knows he never will.

“I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Then he turns, walking out without another word.

And this time, you hear the lock click behind him.

—

You didn’t move when you heard the door open the next night, holding your breath when you feel the mattress dip under Caleb’s weight.

You’d left the blanket low on your hips when you tucked yourself in. Wore your smallest tank top, your softest underwear. An invitation in all but words.

You weren’t sure if he’d come to see you again that night. But, God, you’d hoped he would.

“I told myself it was just a mistake,” he murmurs. “That I’d touched you by accident. That I stopped before it went too far.”

His hand finds your calf beneath the sheets, thumb brushing circles into your skin like he’s afraid to wake you.

“But then I tasted you.”

Your stomach flips.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “It was still on my fingers. I just… I couldn’t help it.”

His hand trails higher, settling on the curve of your waist. He kisses the inside of your knee, and your chest hurts from holding back a sound.

“I’ve never done that before. Not with anyone. I never wanted to,” he murmurs. His fingers slide to your hips, finding the band of your underwear. “I told myself it would only ever be you.”

He kisses higher.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he whispers. “How you started wearing less around the house. How you left your door unlocked?”

He starts to tug your panties down gently, like he’s giving you time to stop him. But you don’t.

“You didn’t say it. But you knew what it would do to me, didn’t you?”

You didn’t know, not really. You’d hoped he’d look at you if your skirts were shorter, hoped he’d notice your new perfume. But you never imagined it would break him. That pretending to sleep would make him finally tell the truth.

You didn’t know what it would do to you, either. Because now you’re soaked, shaking, desperately waiting for what comes next. And you don’t think you can go back.

“I told myself I’d wait until you were older. Until you were ready. Until I could look you in the eye and ask.”

Your panties reach your knees. Then your ankles. Then the floor. You feel his breath hot on your thigh, his mouth brushing higher up your legs.

“But you’re already giving it to me, aren’t you? Mmm… just like this.”

He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, your stomach.

“I jerked off with you still on my hand, you know,” he says softly. “Didn’t even wash it off, just fucked my fist thinking about how warm you were. How wet. For me.”

You squeezed your thighs together at his confession, already wet at the thought of your brother tasting you, touching himself because of what you did to him.

“…Still asleep?” he murmurs, almost like he’s asking himself.

He waits.

You don’t answer. You don’t move. You let him believe it. Because you want this. Want him. Want him so far gone he needs an excuse to fall apart.

He groans roughly as he leans in, breath hot and ragged against your core.

“Then don’t wake up,” he whispers.

You let him part your thighs farther and finally, finally taste you. Slow licks at first, then longer. Deeper. He parts you open, groaning into you like he’s the one being undone.

He makes a sound, deep and guttural, like it physically hurts to feel you this way.

Then he pulls back, just enough to look at you. To see you.

“This,” he pants, eyes wild, “this is what you’ve been keeping from me?”

His voice breaks like he’s spiraling.

“You don’t know what this does to me,” he says, dragging his tongue through you again. “You don’t know what I’d do to keep it.”

He doesn't stop. Doesn’t pause , doesn’t breathe , just stays buried between your thighs like you’re oxygen.

“I used to imagine what you’d sound like,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your slit with each word. “What you’d feel like. How soft you’d be here. For me.”

He pushes in. Just one finger, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he goes too fast. But you don’t. You clamp down around him so hard he shudders, and his breath hitches against your skin.

“God,” he breathes. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

His lips press back to you with long licks, like he’s trying to taste everything he’s ever missed. He spreads you open with his tongue, hands gripping your thighs so hard you think you’ll bruise.

“I’d give you anything,” he whispers. “Everything. Just… just let me stay here. Just let me taste you.”

Your breath falters, but he doesn’t even notice—he’s too far gone, bucking his hips into the mattress, moaning softly into your cunt like he’s starving.

“Can’t believe you’d let me,” he murmurs between strokes. “I’d die for this. You don’t even know—fuck, I’d die.”

And when your body starts to tremble, when your thighs tighten around his head, when he feels your slick pulse against his fingers—

“You’re coming,” he breathes like it’s a sin. “You’re actually—fuck, I can feel it.”

He keeps licking you through it, past it, like he doesn’t care if you beg or speak or even wake up.

Because he’s already ruined.

Because there’s no version of his life after this where he gets to pretend it didn’t happen. No version where he stops wanting. Needing.

“God,” he breathes. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You curl your fingers into fists beneath the covers, digging your nails into your palms—anything to keep still. Anything to keep yourself from reaching for him. To keep from sobbing. To keep from whispering it back.

He presses one last kiss to your thigh, breathes you in like he’s trying to memorize your scent. Then he finally pulls away, chest heaving, eyes glazed over with something between worship and shame.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” he swears as he leaves.

But not before grabbing your pink panties from the floor, folding them neatly, and slipping them into his pocket.

—

Tonight, you’re curled on your side. You don’t even bother with a blanket. It’s not like you were cold, anyway.

Caleb didn’t wish you goodnight.

You’d spent the past few hours staring at the ceiling, listening carefully for the click of the front door, for the hum of a car engine in your driveway. Just something, anything, to tell you that Caleb had come home.

He had said he was meeting up with some friends tonight. Said they wouldn’t be out too late. But you knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth—not when he pulled on that jacket. The worn leather one he only wore on nights that mattered. Nights he didn’t want you to see.

And when he looked you in the eye and said you weren’t allowed to come along, you didn’t argue. But you watched the way he lingered at the door, like he wanted you to stop him.

You didn’t, even when seeing him leave made your heart ache.

You must have drifted off at some point. Because when you hear footsteps outside of your room, you jolt awake. The door doesn’t open, but you know he’s there. You can feel him watching. Waiting. Wanting.

And on the other side of your door, Caleb stands in the hallway with his jacket still on, hand braced against your doorframe.

He told himself he wouldn’t come here again, not after last time. Not after what he said. What he did. But he can’t stop thinking about you. The way you looked when he left, wearing that tiny fucking tank top he hates.

No—not hates. He hates what it does to him. He hates how you crawl into bed like that with no blanket and expect him to stay away. He wonders if you’re asleep now, if you left the door unlocked again.

His hand finds the knob.

He tells himself he’s just checking on you. That it’s fine. That you like when he checks. That it doesn’t mean anything if you never wake up.

The knob turns easily. You left it open. Again.

His eyes find you immediately, face half-buried in the pillow, bare legs tangled in the sheets like you wanted to make it easier for him. Like you were inviting him.

He can see the curve of your ass under the hem of your shirt—his shirt, he realizes. The thin black one, worn soft from too many washes, now sliding off your shoulder.

His throat goes tight, hand flexing at his side.

He should leave. Just check on you and leave.

But instead, he breathes your name—quiet and raw and unsure. And when you don’t answer, he steps closer.

He kneels beside you, fingers resting at the hem of your shirt. Just resting. But he’s breathing hard now, like it’s taking everything in him not to slip them higher.

“I tried to forget you tonight,” he says, words soft and laced with whiskey. “Tried to stop thinking about you for five fucking minutes.”

He huffs out a low, bitter laugh.

“Didn’t work.”

He sways, his hand tightening in the sheets.

“They smiled at me. Other girls,” he adds. “One of them touched my arm.”

He laughs again, but your stomach twists at the thought of it.

“And all I could think was—you wouldn’t like that.”

You almost smiled at the thought of it. He was right.

He shifts closer, his fingers brushing your bare thigh.

“You’d give me that look. The one that says don’t touch what’s mine.”

He exhales hard.

“I didn’t want any of them. I was hard the whole night with your fucking panties in my pocket.”

Your heart lurches. You didn’t realize he had taken them last night.

“They were still damp. I kept reaching for them like a goddamn addict.”

His hand slips under the shirt you stole from him, fingers grazing your stomach.

“You don’t even have to ask me not to look at anyone else,” he breathes shakily. “You already have everything. All of me.”

His hand leaves your skin, leaving you cold at the sudden absence. You listen to the rustle of denim. The sound of his belt unbuckling. The low sigh he lets out when he peels his jacket off, then his shirt.

He’s stripping down slowly, like he’s trying not to wake you—but also like he needs this. Like he’s been holding it in for too long and can’t take it anymore.

When he’s down to just his underwear, he hesitates. But it’s only a second before he lifts the blanket and crawls into bed behind you.

His bare chest presses warm and strong against your spine, his boxers doing little to hide the heat of him against your backside.

“You always smell like me when you wear this,” he murmurs against your shoulder, bare from where his oversized shirt slipped down your arm.

He breathes you in again, slow and deep, like he can’t get enough of it. Like he’s been starving for this and didn’t even realize how bad.

“I wish I could take you out,” he admits, breath hot on your ear. “So I could pull you into my lap. Press up against you. Make you grind on me while everyone watches.”

He shifts behind you, his hips pressing closer. You can feel the way he’s aching, the full weight of him throbbing against you now.

“But I can’t do that, can I?” he says through gritted teeth. “Because I’m not supposed to want you. Can’t even touch you like this unless you’re asleep.”

His mouth finds your shoulder again and kisses it. Bites it—just barely.

“You make me wanna fuck up everything.”

You feel him adjust himself behind you, the soft fabric of his boxers being pushed down just enough.

His cock presses up between your thighs from behind, hot and heavy against your bare thighs.

He groans like it hurts.

“Let me,” he breathes. “Just let me pretend.”

He grinds once, slow and shallow, just the head of his cock sliding against your entrance. Not in , not yet. But God, he’s close. You don’t stop him.

You’re soaked. He feels it, and chokes on a moan.

“You’re wet,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking wet.”

His hand clenches on your waist.

“Are you dreaming about me too, baby?”

His cock slides against you again, this time slower.

“Fuck, you’d let me do this?” he whispers. “You’d let me use your body like this? Just—just for a second—”

He grinds once more, more pressure this time. His tip catches on your clit and he gasps. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, fighting everything in you to keep still.

“Sometimes I think about taking you away,” he confesses, barely above a whisper. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows us. I’d lock the doors and keep you all to myself.”

He presses against you harder. Just the tip. Just enough to make both of you shake.

“You wouldn’t need anything but me. I’d take care of you. Feed you, fuck you, make you forget anyone else ever existed.”

His cock twitches, and everything in you tightens, begging to be filled by him.

“Isn’t that what you want?” he breathes. “To be mine?”

You want to scream yes. You want to beg him to keep going. You want him to stop pretending. But you don’t move. You let him grind against you. You let him pretend a little longer.

“I tried to be good. I tried to just be what you needed.” His mouth presses against your throat, tongue licking your pulse. “But I never stopped hoping you’d need me like this.”

He thrusts between your thighs again, a little faster. He’s not aiming for anything. Just relief. Just friction. Just you. And he’s right there—so close to slipping in, to crossing that final line he swore he wouldn’t.

“I wasn’t supposed to love you like this,” he groans, grinding against you like he’ll die if he stops. “But now I don’t think I could ever love anyone any other way.”

You don’t move. Not when his hips slow, not when his breath hitches against the back of your neck. Not even when he tears himself away from your body with a curse, like it hurts him to do it.

You feel the mattress shift as he pulls back, one hand lingering on your waist like he’s not ready to lose that contact. He places a kiss on the crown of your head.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, like a promise. “Tomorrow I’ll be good.”

—

Caleb was good the next day.

His eyes didn’t linger on your legs for too long at breakfast. He didn’t rub your shoulders when you looked tired at the dinner table. And he certainly didn’t kiss you goodnight.

And that was the problem.

Because you didn’t want him to be good. You wanted the version of him that slipped into your bed like a secret and touched you like he’d die without it.

So when midnight came and your door stayed closed, you got up.

The house was quiet. His light was off. He didn’t keep his door locked. Of course he didn’t.

You found him lying there in his bed, face so peaceful in his sleep, the blanket slipped low on his waist. He’s in his boxers and nothing else. And he’s hard.

So hard.

You shouldn’t look. Shouldn’t let your eyes linger on the shape of him under the thin fabric, the way the outline strains just enough to show you everything. The way the tip is already damp with precome, staining through.

But you do. And your thighs press together involuntarily.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity as you climb onto the bed beside him. Just a little closer.

He doesn’t stir.

So you sit on your knees, hover over his hips. And when he still doesn’t move, you reach.

Just two fingers. Just to touch. To trace the edge of that wet spot and—

He groans.

His hips buck up into your hand, slow and sleepy like he’s still dreaming. Like he wants it, even in sleep.

“Mmm—fuck…” he murmurs, not quite conscious. “Don’t stop…”

Your hand stills.

You shouldn’t.

You absolutely shouldn’t.

But—

“So warm,” he breathes. “So soft… always wanted… you…”

Your core throbs.

You want to hear what else he says in dreams. You want to see how far he’ll go.

And God help you, you want to take him there.

“Just wanna feel you. Just once. Just a little—please—” he mumbles.

One hand slides between you, wraps gently around the base of him. He twitches in your grasp, lets out a low, broken moan—your name barely audible on his lips.

“You’re supposed to be good,” he slurs, voice heavy with sleep. “I’m supposed to protect you from this. From me.”

Your hand trembles as you push your panties to the side, hesitating for only a breath before you sink down—just enough to feel the heat of him, the stretch that makes your breath catch. Just enough to lose your mind.

“God, yes, that’s it,” he whispers. “Let me have this. Let me have you…”

You sink a little deeper. Then deeper. Until you’re fully seated on him, trembling from how good it feels. How wrong it feels. How much you don’t want to stop, either.

“You’re letting me—” He gasps. “You’re letting me .”

You bite your lip, hard. Because it’s too much. It’s not enough. And the worst part?

He was still holding back.

Even now. Even inside you, he’s shaking with restraint. Like he’s terrified that if he moves, you’ll disappear.

So you do the only thing you can.

You rock your hips.

“Oh my fucking—”

And that’s it.

His hand grips your hips, mouth pressing against your neck as he thrusts just once, impossibly deep.

“—Fuck. You feel so real.”

You ride him slow, deep, your walls fluttering around him.

“I dream about this every night. You never stay,” he pants. “You leave right before I get there.”

You kiss his neck. His jaw. His chest.

He shakes.

“Always leave me aching. So fucking close. Never—never get to finish,” his voice breaks. “Never get to stay inside.”

Your body clenches at that.

He notices. He stills, just for a second.

Before you can react, his hands are on your waist, flipping you effortlessly onto your back.

“I’m not letting you leave this time,” he growls. “But you want me to lose it, don’t you?”

He thrusts back in, deeper this time, rougher. You gasp, and he smiles.

“That’s it,” he pants, fucking into you with a force that makes the headboard knock. “That’s what I’ve been wanting to hear.”

His hand wraps around your throat—barely there, just enough to own you.

“Wanna keep you like this forever, tied to my bed. My pretty little girl.”

He presses his forehead against yours, losing rhythm.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you? You’d take it? Let me fuck you full?”

His hips start to stutter up into you, shallow and desperate. His hands roam, frantic—over your waist, your thighs, your ass, like he’s trying to feel everything before he loses it.

“Mine,” he murmurs. “You’d be mine.”

He fucks you like it’s instinct, like he wants to stay inside so long you forget anyone else ever existed.

“You always were,” he whispers, mouth against your neck. “In every dream. In every fucking life. You were mine.”

You shouldn’t say it. You know you shouldn’t.

But your body’s trembling and he’s buried so deep inside you and he sounds so sincere, like he needs this more than air—and God help you, you need it too.

So you whisper it.

“Caleb,” you breathe. “I’m yours.”

Just once. Just for tonight.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You never say that. Never let me hear it. Not even in my dreams.”

He thrusts deeper. Holds you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.

“Say it again,” he begs, desperate. “Please, please—just one more time.”

You bite your lip, shake your head. But your hips lift, chasing him.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m yours.”

He comes with a cry, mouth on your throat, arms locked around you so tightly it almost hurts.

“Mine,” he repeats, softer now. “Mine, mine, mine…”

Like he’s still half-dreaming. Like he doesn’t realize you’re real beneath him, trembling and aching and filled with him.

His thrusts slow to nothing. Just the faint tremble of him buried deep inside you, the quiet warmth of his breath on your skin.

“I always wake up,” he whispers. “Right before this part. Right before you say it back.”

You freeze.

“I say what?” you whisper.

But he doesn’t answer. He’s already drifting. Already pressing a kiss to your cheek like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams you never knew about.

You slip out before sunrise, slow and careful, peeling his heavy arm from your waist, untangling your legs from his. You’re still sore where he held you down, where he gasped your name like a prayer and begged to stay inside.

He’ll wake up thinking it was a dream, and you’ll let him. Because if Caleb knew it was real, you don’t think he’d ever forgive himself.

And you really need some ease. These last few weeks at work have somehow felt even more grueling than when you first started. You made it through this latest hunting season okay, not the worst on your team, for sure, but not quite the best either. Your Evol helps, but you know it can only take you so far.

Maybe that's why you ditch Linkon for Skyhaven, to get some space from your usual environment. You bring along your favorite plushies to make up for the fact that Caleb can't join you. He's needed on base, overseeing some project that requires all hands, even the top brass. You're disappointed but understanding, and he still calls you almost every day. It'll have to do because it's all you have.

It only makes sense then that you need to make up for his absence by sleeping in his room. All of your things for the next two weeks are put away in your dresser, but after the sun goes down and your pajamas (one of Caleb's old t-shirts) are on, bedtime means being snuggled in Caleb's comforter, inhaling his smell and sighing peacefully. Being near his things, putting your head where he rests his when he's home, it could almost trick you into thinking he'll be back any minute. Maybe you throw on one of his old jackets too, if it's extra cold and you want to stay up reading. Sometimes you stay up really late...

Like tonight.

Sometimes things get weird when you stay up late in Caleb's room. Your body starts to feel... odd. You writhe under the blankets, wishing he was here, not only in his home, but in his bed. With you.

During the day, these feelings can be explained away as just missing him a lot, as long as you don't look too closely, but at night there's nowhere else to look.

Visions of Caleb's eyes staring into yours float through your mind, flashes of that striking purple with a sunset glow. A cupid's bow mouth turns into a sweet, captivating smile and a voice that sounds like heaven when it calls you. An expansive, chiseled chest tans in the sun and those hands, so much larger and rougher now than yours, they're still gentle and guiding. Just imagine if they were holding you right now. Touching you. Everywhere.

You bite your bottom lip, pressing your thighs together tightly. It burns, but in a way that feels uncommonly good.

You never completely give into these feelings. Admittedly, you're not sure how to. You know some things from observation and gossip and a little conservative web searching, but when the only person who has ever aroused you is someone you aren't meant to think of in that way, you more or less write off these urges as simple curiosities or, in this case, lapses in restraint.

Alone in the dark, you pull Caleb's jacket over your nose and breathe deeply. Your nipples tingle and harden and you give into the temptation to give one the lightest brush.

A voice in your head reminds you again that you shouldn't be thinking of Caleb like this, but you forgive yourself because what's the harm? A tiny little indulgence in the dead of night? No one will ever find out. Besides, it's only been a couple years that you've had this more sensual kind of longing for him... well, maybe more than a couple, but it's bound to pass sooner or later.

Satisfied with your reasoning, you wrap your whole arm around his jacket now. You don't quite dare reach down to touch your most sensitive spot, but you cup your breasts through your shirt and toy with yourself that way. Just a small treat before bedtime. You'll fall asleep eventually.

Lost in your little "exercise," you don't hear the front door open.

---

Caleb has been planning for weeks to surprise you. He traded duties around like game cards, called in favors, pulled a decent chunk of overtime, and finally he made it work. He's on his way to make sure you won't be spending your much-needed vacation alone.

He's been hearing it in your voice, how hard the last few weeks have been on you. That far away, distracted tone you've been using too often with him lately, like you sometimes did during your college years, makes his heart sink. Either you're pulling away or you don't feel like you can tell him everything anymore, or worse, maybe both.

Caleb will be the first to admit that he needs this visit as much as you do, maybe more. Even if he did it to keep you safe, he still mourns the year he spent without you. Sometimes he needs you to lean on him, just to know you're still there. Truthfully he needs even more than that, wants things he knows he isn't supposed to want, but this visit is something it's okay to have, so he focuses on that as he walks into his dark house.

The front door closes almost silently after he steps inside. The moon is full and streaming a pale light through the large windows, enough for him to see his way around. He removes his coat and boots before he takes a another step.

It's late. Very late. You've probably been asleep for hours. His plan is simple. Sneak to his room without waking you, nap for few short hours to recharge, wake up early to have breakfast ready for you, and then etch the ecstatic look on your face into his mind to hold him together when he's back on base and it feels like he'll fall apart if he can't see you.

It's a good plan. Straightforward. Not everything he wants, but it'll have to do. Right now, it's all he has.

Caleb sneaks down the hall (you'll sense his Evol if he tries to use it to float to stay silent) and past your door, hearing only silence inside. He smiles when he makes it to his door without hearing so much as a rustle from your room, but then he stops, listening closer.

There are no sounds coming from your room, but there are sounds coming from his. They're soft and he can't make out what they are, but it must be you. His heart leaps at the thought that you miss him enough to be in his room while he's gone. But what are you doing in there?

Not one for idle speculation, Caleb opens the door and flicks on the light.

"Pipsqueak?"

You're so startled that you nearly fall off the bed.

"Caleb?!"

You snatch your hand away from your chest at once and sit up, scrambling back on the bed like he's an intruder.

Caleb stands with his hand still on the light switch, a strange half-frozen smile on his face. Your heart starts hammering, and not just from the interruption.

"Caleb, what are you doing here?!"

You're elated. You're furious.

You're wondering how much he saw.

Caleb doesn't answer you right away. You follow his gaze as it falls on his old jacket, still gripped in your fist from when you were holding it to your face.

You toss the jacket aside.

Caleb looks at your bare legs.

You grab it back to cover them.

Finally, his hand drops away from the light switch. His eyes bore into you in a way eerily reminiscent of your earlier visions.

"I was trying to surprise you," he says, attempting nonchalance through his shock. "Buuut maybe you should tell me what you're doing here, pipsqueak."

Caleb watches you frantically trying to calculate what will no doubt be a preposterously bad lie. His brain, the one that had stopped working as soon as the lamplight showed him his room, slowly begins to come back online. What he saw was only for a second, but his senses are keen and he remembers.

You were holding his jacket up to your face with your eyes closed, but you weren't asleep. Your other hand was grasping the front of your shirt (which he now sees is actually his shirt) doing... something, and your thighs were rubbing together, like you couldn't sit still.

His room smells enough like you to tell him that you've been in here for a while, but he also catches the scent of something else, something damp and enticing. A scent that sends a blush over his face and a surge of heat coursing through his groin.

You were doing that. In here. With his things.

Caleb almost sways on his feet like a drunk, suddenly light-headed. In your flustering, you don't notice.

"I was just... I was..." You clear your throat. "I was reading."

Caleb collects himself. He makes a show of looking around the room and then back to you. He tilts his head to the side.

"So where's the book?"

You whip your head around in a panic, tussling the covers while Caleb stares at his jacket covering your lower body, trying not to think about running over and shoving his face into it.

The book appears when you lift one of the pillows and you hold it up like a scavenger hunt prize.

"Right here."

Caleb just smiles and shakes his head, hoping it disguises how hard his heart is beating. The vibes in the room are sensitive. You look like you might bolt for the door at any second and he can't abide that. He never expected to find you this way and he won't let this chance slip away from him.

But he can't resist teasing you either.

"Reading a book that's under a pillow? Does your Evol give you x-ray vision now?"

Caleb steps the rest of the way into the room and closes the door behind him. The click of the catch sounds abnormally loud to your ears.

You lower the book.

"I fell asleep," you lie.

"You weren't asleep," he truths.

Silence. Each of you stare the other down. You curse him for always trying to get you to own up when you've been caught. Someone else might let it slide, let you sheepishly slink out of their room, but no, not Caleb.

Still hot between the legs, you observe him, looking for a way to get the upper hand.

He looks casual, he must have changed into his civvies before leaving work. His face is calm but slightly pink. His arms are crossed, hip cocked to the side into his duffle bag that's slung over his shoulder, but his chest is heaving a little, like he's trying not to breathe too hard. A tiny smirk is creeping across his face, but his eyes are a little too wide, pupils dilated.

So he's embarrassed too, you think, and he just wants to make you more embarrassed than him? Well, it won't work. You won't be interrupted and disarmed on what's supposed to be YOUR vacation.

"Alright," you concede, tossing the book onto the nightstand. "You tell me then, Caleb. What was I doing?"

There's a challenge in your eyes, but also (without your intention or even your awareness) the hint of an invitation.

Caleb's whole body freezes, his smirk falling, transforming into incredulity. He doesn't say anything at first. He lets the bag slide off his shoulder and studies you for a long moment.

Are you seriously calling his bluff while wearing his shirt? Holding his jacket over your naked thighs? In his BED?

He huffs out a small, disbelieving laugh.

You are something else.

The part of him that's lorded his older-and-wiser status over you in years past grins wolfishly inside him and he wants to bite back, to teach you a lesson, naughty brat that you are.

However, that ploy won't help him right now. You're still too tense. You might backpedal. You might try to get away. He won't allow that.

"You don't want to tell me?" Caleb asks, gentle this time.

You gulp.

"Well, you're talking like you already know, so..." You fidget a little, but still you lift your chin. "So go ahead. You first."

Caleb pauses, staring with those beautiful wide eyes, and then he raises both hands in surrender.

"Fine. You win, pipsqueak."

You feel triumph... and a whisper of disappointment.

Caleb watches your body relax, unclenching the fist that was holding his jacket.

Good. That was close. He underestimated you. He won't do it again.

You watch him as he walks over to his dresser, sitting the duffel bag beside it. He unzips it and starts putting his clothes away. You forget your determination not to be disarmed by him.

"That's it?" You ask, cautiously.

Caleb glances at you, but doesn't stop what he's doing.

"Yep," he replies, "that's it. If you say you were sleeping, then you were sleeping."

You both fall silent again, the only sound is Caleb using the dresser drawers. You nervously run your hand over the rumpled bedclothes, but can't bring yourself to break the silence.

The bedroom door is right there. Every sensible thought tells you to go say goodnight and go back to your room. You'll see him in the morning. You'll have a proper reunion. You'll forget any of this every happened, except...

Except Caleb was the one who closed the door. This is his room, it's after midnight, and yet he hasn't asked you to leave.

Caleb puts the last item of clothing away. He shuts the drawer and stands still for a moment, as if debating something.

Then he removes his shirt.

Several things happen to you at once. One, you turn your head away so suddenly that you almost twinge your neck. Two, you gasp audibly, despite the fact that you know Caleb sleeps without a shirt on and despite the fact that you've seen him shirtless countless times. Three, your face flushes hotter than a fever and you feel something stirring, confusing you, alarming you... and exciting you. An out of control sensation that makes you believe that this must be some kind of punishment.

You look down at your lap, legs still warm under his jacket.

"I'm already embarrassed enough," you mutter. "You don't have to make fun of me."

Caleb turns away from the dresser to look at you. Your upset face is like a magnet, compelling his instinct to be near you, to take whatever is hurting you away.

He takes a step towards you.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

You cut your sulking eyes at him, but they don't stick. They slide down his sculpted chest and arms, to the v diving below his waistband. You catch that the top button of his jeans is undone before snatching your gaze back up with a quick inhale, but you don't answer him.

Caleb takes another step. One more and he'll be between you and the door again and you both know that he won't let you push past him once he's there. He hesitates despite himself, giving you a moment to decide.

Your body tenses, and then calms. Instead of looking at the door, you look at him, your eyes angry and pouting and pleading all at once.

Caleb has a blush that easily rivals yours as he takes those final steps and leans over you, putting his arms on either side of your hips, bringing his face right in front of yours. His voice is tender and not mocking in the slightest when he speaks.

"I thought we didn't have any secrets, pipsqueak. You used to trust me. Remember?"

"I still trust you, ge," you whisper, your throat suddenly dry.

"Then tell me the truth," he coaxes. "Do I really look like I'm teasing you right now? Is that really what you think?"

His face is mere inches from yours and you can feel the heat coming off of his broad chest. You're falling headfirst into those eyes that you've always loved in more ways than you'll admit.

"No," you shake your head, "I don't think you're teasing me."

"Good," Caleb reassures you, "Because I'm not. Now, will you trust me just a bit little more?"

You nod and bite your lip. If you looked down again, you'd see the growing hard-on in Caleb's jeans beginning to push his zipper down as it tries to free itself.

Caleb rocks forward and puts his lips right by your ear so you feel the desperation dripping from him when he asks:

"... What were you doing in here when I walked in, pipsqueak?"

His breath travels down your neck and a great serpent of desire uncoils in your belly. Your confession that was bound there releases.

"I was... I was thinking about you... touching me."

"Touching you where?"

"Everywhere."

Caleb lets out a deep, shaking sigh, crumpling the bedsheets up into his fists.

"Do you want me to touch you now?"

You can hardly breathe when you answer him.

"Yes."

He pulls back again to look at you. His eyes dart to your lips and then all around your face before coming back to hold your gaze again. Your noses are practically touching.

"What do you want me to do?"

"... Kiss me." You put a finger to your lips. "Here."

Caleb slowly takes your hand away from your face. He presses his lips to each one of your knuckles, one at a time, in relief, in gratitude.

And then he kisses you on the mouth.

Your body steams instantly in response, radiating waves of heat orders of magnitude greater than your "little indulgence."

Immediately, Caleb presses forward, leaning you back into the mattress, drawing your lips apart with his own, letting his tongue flick and glide between them, tasting, exploring.

He tries to go slow at first, to savor you and the moment, but his heart is beating out of his chest from the need to fall completely into you, to press as much of his body onto yours as he can because it's you, it's finally you. Not a dream or a fantasy, but your true heat, your smooth skin, your breath, your fullness, all of you, finally his.

Caleb rips the jacket away from your lap and your skin electrifies where he grabs your thigh, grasping and stroking with his long fingers and wide palm. A breathy moan escapes you and Caleb presses further, kissing you deeper, answering you with high, hungry moans of his own.

As the space between your bodies begins to disappear, your hands wander up his arms, fondling the steely muscle beneath his sweet-smelling skin, over the rippling plain of his strong back and then slowly moving down. His jeans have drifted lower, down to the tops of his thighs now. Your fingertips graze the elastic of his underwear before beginning to slide underneath it, urging him closer.

Caleb responds and moves in, almost fully on top of you when his cock, unspeakably hard and already leaking precum through the fabric of his boxer briefs, caresses your inner thigh. He grunts at suddenly touching you there and his teeth catch on your bottom lip.

"Pipsqueak," he growls. He tries to pull himself back, but his body disobeys and instead he rubs his shaft on that extra soft skin a second time, gasping.

"What's wrong?"

You move one hand off of his back to massage his neck. You try to clear your head, but you're enjoying him too much. You end up squeezing him with your knees, making him jolt and gasp again.

He looks so perfect between your legs. Like he's right where he belongs.

"I..." Caleb pants heavily, struggling for coherence. "We should take it slow or I might..."

He gives you a meaningful look, but unfortunately, the meaning-making part of your brain shut off some time ago.

"Might what?"

Thwarted, Caleb lets out a small laugh. Should he describe how he's dying to move his cock on you, to rub it along the soft insides of your parted legs over and over? That doing that alone would have him on his knees in less than a minute, the front of his boxers drenched?

"I might come soon," he says finally, gripping your leg, trying to at least hold you still since he can't seem to pull away.

"Oh," is your suspiciously noncommittal reply. "... Is that bad?"

"Not exactly, but if I do... you know, it might take a minute before I can..." Caleb trails off as he finally notices your shy but puzzled smile.

You have no idea what he's talking about.

"Pipsqueak," he begins in a delicate voice, "when you think about me touching you, do you... do anything else?"

"Ugh, Caleb!" You bury your face in the crook of his neck. "I thought you weren't teasing me."

"I'm not!" he insists, but he can't keep the smile out of his voice at your reaction.

"Meanie," you accuse, but your tone says otherwise and Caleb chuckles.

You smile back and fiddle with his dog tag, trying not to sound too embarrassed.

"I just think about you," you reply, "that's all. I don't..." You hesitate, but there's no other way to say it. "I don't touch myself or anything. Not there, anyway."

"Never?"

"Maybe once or twice. Not for long."

Caleb tries to cool himself down while he processes this. In the forbidden corners of his mind, he always hoped you'd be each other's firsts, but he never thought he'd be the one with more knowledge, if not experience. Now he's grateful for every awkward question he floated towards Gideon and Patrick after their girlfriends stayed overnight. Those moments of enduring their amused looks at the most desired figure on campus being a virgin, plus his time spent running and then erasing incredibly detailed and highly suspect web searches, it wasn't in vain after all.

He can see to it that from now on, you'll only be able to think of him when you come... because he'll be the first one to help you do it.

However, he still remembers your defiance of him earlier. You're acting cute now, but you'll put him on the spot without any reservations if he doesn't play this right. He's almost always been putty in your hands, but this time has to be different.

This time you must to do as he says.

"I know what happens," you inform Caleb, guessing the general direction of his thoughts and snapping him out of his reverie, "when you keep going. I've just never..."

You reach down and brush your hand over Caleb's abs, sighing. You notice the damp mark that the tip of his very significant cock is leaving in his boxer briefs and your inner muscles clench around nothing. Caleb shivers and closes his eyes at your touch.

You know what happens, alright. Or at least you know enough.

"That's okay," Caleb says softly, when he finally opens his eyes again. "Don't worry. Lie back."

It only arouses the slightest bit of suspicion that he doesn't question your knowledge or lack thereof, but you chalk it up to the fact that most of his blood is now in that intimidating member straining below his waist.

You do as you're told and Caleb scoops underneath you, turning you lengthwise on the bed. You accept his positioning with no argument, relaxing completely in his arms. He resists the urge to praise you with a "good girl." It's not the right moment. Not yet.

Your breath quickens again as Caleb strips off his jeans and socks and climbs into bed with you. Turning on his side, he creates a large, warm wall of muscle between you and the rest of the room, penning you in, keeping you safe. His cock, even hotter than the rest of him, presses along your side, but this time he masters himself.

"Will you tell me... where you want me to touch next?" Caleb asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

With his free hand, he reaches for you, tangling your fingers in his.

You give him a playful grin.

"You're the one who caught me. Guess."

Caleb smirks back. He glances briefly at your chest.

"Okay then. Let me see... here?"

He puts his finger on your nose.

You roll your eyes. He laughs and keeps going.

"Here?"

Your bellybutton.

"Close. Maybe later," you grant.

"Noted. What aboouut..."

You're prepared for another silly answer, so Caleb is rewarded with your surprised moan when he lightly squeezes one of your breasts with his hand, brushing his thumb across your still-hard nipple.

"Oh, I see. Here."

He moves his thumb back and forth, half-pleasing, half-teasing, but his smile fades to a slack-mouthed hunger as your eyes close and your body starts to arch and twist next to him.

Your small fingers whispering over the firm nubs earlier felt like nothing compared to what Caleb is doing. His hand is large enough to cover one breast completely, encircling it in heat, while the pressure of his thumb swirling and tweaking creates an electrifying tingle that feels too big to be concentrated in that one small spot. Even with the fabric of the shirt in the way, it drives every other thought from your mind.

And your reaction drives every other thought from Caleb's.

He lets go for a moment and you give an involuntary whine of protest that turns to a relieved sigh when he slides his hand under your shirt. You look like you could cry in gratitude and Caleb exhales shakily at his first direct contact with this long-imagined part of you, the warm fullness settling in his hand.

It isn't long before his mouth is on you, tongues entwining yet again. You moan helplessly into his kisses while he massages the round flesh underneath your (his) shirt, and the more you moan for him, the more he bears down on you, needing to be closer, needing to be all over you.

Caleb releases your lips and and goes for your neck. Your sounds become even more exquisite as dives in, exploring every way his mouth can bring pleasure your skin. He hears you yip as he loses control and leaves a mark on you, a blooming patch of dark red that will soon turn blue and purple. (He'll see it the next day and think, "that's mine" before bending you over the kitchen table.)

His body now fully on top of yours and unable to hold back any longer, he pulls your shirt up to your neck and there they are, your plump breasts, areolas pulled tight by your nipples hard as pencil erasers.

In the cool air, small bumps of gooseflesh begin to rise all over the smooth skin. Caleb whimpers with need and looks at you, asking with his eyes because he's not sure he can speak.

You grab the back of his neck and pull his face to your chest. When his mouth latches onto you, your eyes pop and then roll back in your head.

"Ah! Caleb!"

He groans with happiness when he hears you and his cock twitches hard underneath him. He'll remember it always as the first time he made you scream his name but far, far from the last.

The suction is incredible, the moist cavern of his mouth, the weight of his body on yours, the chill of his necklace against your stomach. You've never been drunk, but you imagine this must be similar, your body buzzing and your head swimming.

With your breast still filling in his mouth, Caleb grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head and holding them down with one massive hand while the other plays rough with your other tit. He can feel the heat from that dark triangle between your legs against his torso. So can you.

Caleb works his mouth over your tender, excited nipple with increasing urgency, not just sucking, but circling it with his tongue, kissing it, pulling on it, grazing it with his teeth. He starts to rut between your legs, against the mattress like a dog, forgetting his goal, forgetting everything except wanting to make you say his name over and over.

Overstimulated for the first time in your life, it's you who pulls both of you back from the brink.

"Stop!"

Caleb stops, forcing his head up like a rearing horse. He stills his hips even though his balls are screaming and his dick completely rigid and you look at each other.

You attempt to form a sentence through heavy breaths.

"I think you said... Like before... We could... slow down."

"Yeah..." Caleb nods, breathing just as hard. "Yeah, you're right."

But it's so, so difficult. He rests his head between your breasts and loosens his grip on your wrists, but he can't help but gently kiss you in various places across your chest. His urge to suckle and bite doesn't dissipate, but he holds it in check for now and as the seconds pass, conscious thoughts begin to return to him. Thoughts he was having before he opened his bedroom door and everything changed.

"I've missed you so much, pipsqueak."

He says it like it's a confession and not something he says every time you see each other. You wriggle your wrists free so you can run your fingers through his hair that's still as fine and silky as when he was a boy.

"I've missed you too."

You kiss the top of his head and he sighs.

"Even when you were busy with work?"

"Of course. Why?"

Caleb nuzzles into your chest, more afraid of this truth than any other.

"It's just that sometimes you sound... distant when we talk," he admits, "Like part of you is somewhere else."

It's not what he intended to say, but what little control he had over his feelings for you leaves him more and more the longer he stays here, with his body on yours and almost nothing between you. It's how he's always wanted it to be.

"I'm sorry," you murmur into his hair. "I didn't want to make you worry. You're so busy, you have a life-"

"You're my life, pipsqueak," he interrupts, looking up at you. "Everything that I do, it's always for you. To keep you safe. To make you proud of me."

You feel yourself smiling at him, a calm descending on your spirit, surrounding you. It's that feeling that being near him always gives you, why you stay in his room while he's away, why you wear his clothes sometimes and eat his favorite snacks, why the very thought of him can keep you going through the worst trials life gives you.

He's your home.

"I'm always proud of you, ge," you tell him, "and I trust you with my life, my secrets, everything. I just wanted to take some of the weight off of you, to help take care of you like you take care of me."

"If it's your weight, then I want to bear it," he says. "I love taking care of you in so many ways. I want to take care of you now..."

He plants a kiss between your breasts, and then another one lower than that, just above your navel, and then, after a moment, he kisses that too.

"Will you let me take care of you? Please?" He asks, looking up at you with soulful, wounded puppy eyes.

"Yeah. I will."

Like you were ever going to say anything else.

"Can I... like this?"

Caleb places a hand over your pelvis, covering it completely. He presses his thumb into the soaked cotton of your ruined underwear, pushing slightly into your sensitive entrance on the other side.

You whimper and your hips twitch. You nod.

"Promise?" He asks.

"Yes."

"Good," he sighs, kissing below your navel this time, igniting a hot streak in that spot deep inside you.

When he speaks again, his voice is slightly different.

"You have to promise too that if it feels bad or hurts, you'll tell me right away."

You nod, your excitement stirring to greater heights as you sense something happening between you, the balance shifting. There's a weightiness emerging in Caleb's voice, an aura of command.

"But," he continues, "if you don't say those exact words, 'it feels bad' or 'it hurts,' then I'll keep going... And I won't stop."

When he meets your eyes again, you see the puppy is gone. This is that side of Caleb that you don't see as often these days, but that you know never left. The Caleb that could scare curious boys away from you with one look, who intimidated even your teachers when they were mean to you. The Caleb who would make you sit still if he had to, and you would if you knew what was good for you. He certainly did.

"You hear me, pipsqueak? I won't stop. No matter what. Do you understand?"

He asks with authority but allowance as well. He's walked you up to the threshold and you can see that he yearns with every inch of him to carry you over. He's done everything he can to invite you, but he won't force you.

You can step back. Or you can let him have you.

"Yes, ge. I understand."

---

It's dark in Caleb's bedroom now and so quiet in the house that you could hear a pin drop, only there are no pins. There's only the heavy breathing of Caleb's hulking body pressed against yours, blended with his high-pitched moans of ecstasy, as if your fingers were inside him and not the other way around.

You're in wild, unknown territory, heart pounding, shirt still pulled up above your exposed breasts, spitted on Caleb's hand as it works you in places you knew existed but never dreamed could feel like this. A storm of heat and joy rages between your legs as Caleb strokes your dripping slit, two large and long fingers pushing in and out, his thumb winding over your swollen clit.

You're his now, and he isn't about to let you go.

Along with Caleb's panting and whining, you hear your hiccuping breaths and desperate whispers. You tighten your grip on his arm.

"Caleb, please. Please."

He kisses the top of your head and sighs, listening to you beg as though it were divine music.

"Such a good girl," he responds, "all perfect and wet for me. So hot inside."

He's already stretching you with just two fingers, but he begins to work in a third, stealing your breath from you again.

"W-wait. Caleb," you try, but you can hardly speak, "Don't..."

"Mmmh," Caleb's voice thrums and he lets out a perfect "oh" as you take in his third finger like it was his very own cock, the same one that has escaped the split of his briefs and is now rock hard and seeping its thin, salty liquid all over your hip.

You cry out for him again, but your voice is weak, your head foggy and your body ablaze.

"Oh Caleb... Please, don't."

"It's okay," he whispers, working his wrist to pump even more.

You want to weep, but not from discomfort or pain. It doesn't feel bad, simply impossible to endure. The strength of his arm and the way he's touching you, both urgent and patient, controlling and loving, powerful and consistent. Aren't his arm and fingers tired? Can't he let you go?

But Caleb shows no sign of stopping, his body heat surging so high that he's sweating just from the sheer erotic pleasure of fingering you.

Between your breaths, there's the sound of his penetration of you, soaked digits squishing into your slickness. His reach is so long, you imagine you can feel him tickling your bellybutton from the inside.

"Oh," Caleb murmurs, savoring the easy slide of his fingers into you, the tender stretch as he spreads you apart. He bites his lip at the feel of your arousal coating his hand, covering your thighs.

"Ahh, there you go." He curls his fingers up slightly to press into your quaking walls and an involuntary tremor shoots through your legs. "Right there, yeah?"

You make an animal sound of lust, guttural and desperate.

His strokes get faster. Your body gets tighter.

"Ge... please. I can't!"

You attempt to shove his arm away.

Caleb cradles you with his other arm and kisses your eyelids, your forehead, your temple, resisting your shoves as though he can't even feel them.

"It's okay, pipsqueak," he promises with dark, heavy breaths. "You're okay. You take it so well."

You whine in distress. Caleb pulls you closer.

"Feels too good," you rasp.

"I know," Caleb's sweet voice croons, "I know it does. You like me inside."

It's not a question, but a statement of fact.

"No, no," you reply, but your denial is undercut by your grip. You're not trying to shove him anymore but clinging so hard your fingernails are leaving marks.

Caleb shushes you again. He nudges your chin up to capture your lips with his, attempting comfort but with an undercurrent of raw need. The kiss only makes you more delirious.

"I'm here," he swears, "I'll take care of you. You said you would let me. You promised."

"It feels weird, ge. It's hot. It's hot everywhere. Caleb, please."

But your protest seems to have the opposite effect. Caleb's crooning moans drift into your ear again, louder this time, and his cock twitches. He begins to move it up and down against your side and your whole body starts to rock gently with the motion.

"But you like it, don't you? Mmm, yeah. I've always wanted to feel the inside of you like this. You're incredible. God, I wanna fill every inch of you. Look at you. My good girl, being so bad for me."

You sob a little. Your heart is racing so hard it hurts. You want to try to push Caleb away again, but instead your hips start to buck instinctively into his thrusting fingers. He grunts and pulls you closer.

"That's it, pipsqueak. Use me. Let me make you feel even better."

"Caleb..."

"Damn," he spits, the sudden curse both vulgar and tender, "you're squeezin' me so tight. You're almost there, aren't you?"

You don't know. You don't know where you are. It feels like reality is disappearing around you, the fabric of your consciousness tearing at the seams.

"Caleb!"

Now the intensity is frightening. You turn your head towards Caleb's chest, away from the sight of his glistening hand ruining you, and bite his shoulder. He kisses your temple again, more fervently.

"Feel how deep I am inside you?" he whispers. "It's 'cause you're pulling me in. Mmh, I can't believe how wet you are. Just keep holdin' onto me, pipsqueak. Just like this."

The house is no longer quiet as the sounds emanating from Caleb's bedroom echo down the hallway. The bed-springs creak and groan as you rise and fall on the mattress. Your throat opens up with deep, halting cries and Caleb's hot breath cascades down your face as he whispers, encouraging you, beckoning you, but you can no longer make sense of his words.

Your hips push and you clench around Caleb's fingers, your clit throbbing against the pressure of his thumb that circles and strokes and never stops for a moment, never lets you breathe, never relinquishes its hold over your body and mind for a single second.

"Caleb, wait! Pl-please! Ah! Don't!"

Caleb's presses his lips to your ear, nipping the lobe, and all your thoughts cease, your wider perception breaking and falling apart. The entire world transforms into just Caleb: his tongue in your ear, his groans and panting leaving beads of moisture on your skin. The wall of heat that is him presses into you, his arm flexing along the length of your body, as his hand continues to pump furiously and inexorably between your thighs, making you burn so deep you could turn to ash.

Caleb looks down at your face contorting in a pleasure that looks impossible to bear. His lips part as his weeping cock starts stuttering and pulsing on your side.

He etches the look on your face into his mind forever. Your first orgasm.

"Yeah. Just like this, pipsqueak. You're gonna come for me. Be a good girl. Come."

You scream. And obey.

Clawing at Caleb, you sob, drool flying from your mouth as you cry out uncontrollably, grinding over and over into his still stroking hand.

"Caleb pleeease no it's so good ge I can't I love it please oh God Caleb please no it's too hot gege, it's hooott!"

Your pussy flutters and constricts hard around his fingers and Caleb can't hold back. He responds to you with his own deluge of want as he feels you reach your climax, his cock sliding around in the slick patch of sweat and precum he's made against your skin.

"Oh that's my perfect girl, god I feel you coming on me so wet so tight on me pipsqueak coming hard for me like a good girl, fuck fuck fuck!"

You're still sobbing and grinding your hips when Caleb's cock spasms and then pulsates powerfully, sending thick, warm jets of cum splattering across your waist and belly.

"Unh! Caleb! Ge-..."

Whining and crying, tears falling, you turn towards Caleb, throw your leg over his hip, and wrap your arms around his neck, sliding your aching clit along his shaft as his drenched hand finally withdraws from your twitching cunt. How you can want more is beyond you, but your body moves on its own anyway, wanting to draw out the last few drops of bliss.

With his newly free hand, Caleb sinks his fingers deep into the flesh of your ass, gripping hard. The sticky mess between you both smears all over your abdomens as Caleb rides out his last few thrusts, pushing into the tight friction of your bodies.

His voice sounds just as lost as yours, delirious with satisfaction.

"Oh, pipsqueak. Ahhh. Yeah."

You let out a final soft whine and your motions cease, awareness slowly returning to your sore, trembling body. The sensations of reaching that devastating peak begin to ebb as you come down the other side of it.

For a while, the room is quiet except for the sound of your hard breaths. You hold each other, locked in that sweat-soaked embrace, Caleb's cum oozing between you as your body gradually stops shaking.

Soon after, you start to feel kisses falling on the top of your head. You pull back and see Caleb's stunned and stunning eyes, adoring this shivering, euphoric creature you've become, cleaved to him and covered in his scent. Your eyes are ethereal, almost black from your wide pupils, and he kisses the tears from your cheeks.

Not quite able to speak yet, you kiss him back, his usually dry lips moist from your sweat. Too exhausted to crane your neck up for very long, you eventually sigh and push your face into his collarbone, pressing your lips there instead, listening to his heartbeat and the contented hums rumbling in his chest.

Another minute or so passes before you notice the continued heat and pressure of Caleb's cock between you and you look down. It's still mostly hard, softening imperceptibly slowly.

You reach between your bodies, covering your hand in the stickiness, and Caleb whimpers when you touch the sloppy, swollen head.

"Caleb," you whisper, "you made a mess."

He laughs, his voice a little shaky.

"Sorry, I'll clean up in a moment. It's not the first time I've made a mess in here because of you, pipsqueak. Trust me."

You snicker, but you're still fixated on the hot, fleshy knob under your fingers. Caleb moans lightly and pushes it a little into your hand.

"Don't," he says, echoing your earlier words. "Don't tease me."

"I'm not," you breathe.

Caleb gives you a sly look, as if he doesn't quite believe you, and slides a finger into your mouth. You look back up into his eyes, tasting yourself.

He exhales slowly, hungrily, the feeling of you sucking stirring him again.

"Then what are you doing, hmm? What's going on in that little noggin of yours?"

You swallow and Caleb's finger slips from your mouth as you move your lips to his ear.

"I'm thinking... that I want ge to make another mess."

Caleb laughs again.

"Okay, give me a min-"

"Inside me."

You had no idea you were going to say it, but once you do, the desire surges up in you again so strongly that it's staggering. It's as if the only satisfaction you'll know in this lifetime is the feel of Caleb's firm, red cock buried deep in your pussy, jerking and pumping as it fills you with hot, thick loads of his cum, all while his hips pin you down and he screams your name and you scream his.

Suddenly it's the only thing you've ever wanted in your life.

Caleb's mouth falls open.

"I..."

You feel his dick twitch against you, no longer deflating at its snail's pace. Your wicked grin says you've definitely secured the upper hand this time.

Caleb hears the water shut off, but you don’t come out right away.

You never do. He knows your rituals by heart now—lotions, oils, a towel wrapped under your arms while you hover in the mirror, dazed and soft and half-lost in your own reflection. Maybe you light a candle. Maybe you hum. He listens from the kitchen like he isn’t listening. Like this isn’t the highlight of his evening.

You’ve been friends since childhood. Now you’re roommates. Easy. Familiar. Innocent, on the surface...

Except... he knows your body better than anyone you’ve ever dated. By sheer force of proximity. The way your towel clings. The way your thighs look flushed after a long shower. The breathy little sighs you let slip when you think no one can hear. The way you’ve been slipping away to the bathroom with your phone at night, headphones jammed in, eyes glassy and far away when you return. The way you can barely look at him then...

He’s tried not to be a creep. Tried.

But he’s always been… curious. He checks your phone sometimes—only when it’s unattended, only when it’s obvious you’re not watching.

It's just to make sure you’re safe. Just to make sure no one’s talking to you the way he wants to. Your passcode has always been his birthday. You never changed it.

But lately, you’ve gotten good at… hiding things.

He noticed a few weeks ago—apps locked with passwords, strange browsing patterns, weirdly cleared histories. Some things that show that you've become suspicious. You’ve known. And that should have stopped him. It didn’t.

Tonight, you disappear into your room after your shower. He hears the door click. He waits.

Then he notices it. From across the room through the open bathroom door: your phone is on the bathroom counter.

It's just sitting there.

And it's still unlocked.

His heart skips. He hesitates for a long second—don’t do this again, she’s gonna know—but curiosity gnaws louder than guilt. He crosses the hallway barefoot and steps inside. The room smells like you. Vanilla and bodywash. The mirror is still foggy.

And there it is—your phone, propped slightly against the sink.

He picks it up.

His thumb glides over the screen. The home screen stares back at him. No passcode prompt. Open.

And your browser is up.

A shiver runs through him when he realizes you didn’t close your tabs.

The first one reads:

“Audio Only JOI — Deep Male Moans, Whimpering, Talking You Through It”

His throat tightens.

He scrolls.

Another:

“Buff guys edging themselves, arms shaking, moaning/whining”

Then:

“Muscled men begging for you (POV JOI)”

“Big hands, dark hair, rasp in voice, whiny strokes, slow”

His pulse drums in his ears.

The first reaction is jealousy. Who the fuck are you watching? Who makes you... wet... behind closed doors?

But then he really sees them, looks more. A string of thumbnails. Videos paused mid-frame. Slightly sun-tanned skin. Dark hair. Thick forearms. Sloped shoulders. One of them even has a voice like his... a bit husky, whispering something filthy with a tremor he recognizes from his own mouth.

And that’s when it hits him: they look and sound... like him.

These aren’t just random pornstars. This isn’t just one kink you stumbled into.

You’ve been searching for him, you just didn’t have the guts to say it.

The phone trembles in his hand. His breath fogs the mirror.

For a moment he does nothing. He just stares. Then, he locks the screen, sets it back on the counter exactly how you left it, and slips away before the steam fully fades.

You’re asleep when he checks on you.

Your door’s cracked open like always. You’ve collapsed on top of your sheets, still half-wrapped in the same towel, your skin warm and dewy. There’s a quiet glow in your face. A little smile at the corners of your mouth. Your legs are slightly parted and your arm is flopped between your legs.

Caleb stands there by your door for too long, listening to your breathing. Imagining what you did in the shower to slump into bed and fall asleep.

Imagining it was him you were thinking of.

When he closes his door that night, he doesn’t sleep either. He opens his voice recorder.

Just audio, he tells himself. Just once. Just to see.

He doesn’t even turn the lights on. The glow from his phone screen is enough. It casts his room in soft, cold blue. The hum of the fan drowns out the outside world. All he can hear is his own heartbeat and the faint echo of your name in his skull, like it’s trying to escape his throat.

Caleb sets the phone beside him on the bed, thumb hovering over the record button.

He’s never done this before. Not like this, with the thought of someone watching him.

A deep inhale. His other hand grazes down over his stomach, slowly. Testing. His skin is still warm from the steam that clung to him after he checked on you. He can still smell you—vanilla, shampoo, and the aroused sweat shamefully clinging to your towel. His jaw tightens.

He hits Record.

There’s a moment of silence. Then his voice, soft, cracking mutters, "I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Another breath. Slower. He drags his hand lower.

“You left your phone out, pips.”

“I know you wouldn’t want me to look. I know you’re careful now.”

A shaky exhale. The sound of shifting sheets.

“But, baby…”

“I saw what you’ve been watching. What you like to hear.”

The first sound of him touching himself comes quietly, slick, rhythmic. His breathing is hitching just enough to make it clear he’s already half-hard.

“Strong guys moaning, right? Big hands. Biceps. Deep voice... Begging...”

He whimpers as he edges and half-laughs at the sound, soft and low, more breath than noise. He's dazed... dizzy...

“They all kinda look like me.”

“Did you know that, pipsqueak? Hm? Was that on purpose?” His voice cracks on the last word.

Then there's a pause. A shaky inhale.

“You listen to them alone. In the shower. You touch yourself where I can’t see you.”

“You’re thinking about me, aren’t you? If it were anyone else I die... Had... to do this for you... you deserve the best...”

The strokes speed up slightly. His breath falters. He groans—choked off like he’s trying not to be too loud.

“God, I can’t stop thinking about your face…”

“What you looked like right after. Why were your legs open like that? Your hand was... fuck...”

There’s a rustle. His voice drops again, almost pleading.

“I felt dirty for checking, but honestly... I don’t feel guilty. Not when I know.”

“Not when it’s me you’re looking for in those videos.”

The sound of his hand is steady now. Wet. Measured. Like he’s savoring it, letting it build.

“You want me to moan like them? You want me to shake for you, say your name while I fuck my fist thinking about your mouth? It's not like I don't... fuck... It's not like I don't already...”

A hitched breath—he’s close. But he doesn’t let go.

He stops. Breath ragged.

“I could’ve cum already... M'so close...”

“But I want to wait. I want to record this right. I want to do it for you.”

“Just... listen to this later, okay?”

His breathing calms, shallow and soft.

“Pretend I’m in your bed. Pretend I know how you sound when you come.”

“One day, maybe you won’t have to pretend, yeah?”

He keeps for a while, choosing a few seconds after he cums, breathing heavily to be when he hits stop.

There’s a long moment where he just stares at the file, sitting there with his cock still wet in his hand and his breath still shallow and your name echoing in his ears like he whispered it into you for real.

He saves the file.

Names it:

For You — 1

Then he does it again the next night. And the next. Sometimes just audio. Sometimes video. Each one more unhinged, more sincere, more soaked in devotion and shame and desperation.

By the end of the week, there’s a whole folder.

He names it your name for now.

☆☆☆☆☆

He leaves that weekend, a five-day trip with Gideon and some old college friends, a bunch of guys being guys. He cooks for you, makes sure you have everything you need. You're teasing him about it, as he leaves while making you promise you'll eat and sleep and won't perish with him gone.

☆☆☆☆☆

Caleb sends the link the first night.

Gideon’s half-drunk on the other bed, babbling about some bar they’re gonna hit later. Something about tequila, maybe girls. Caleb nods along. Smiles. Pretends. But his phone’s heavy in his palm, your name pulsing in the corner of the screen, tied to the folder he’s been obsessively compiling for the last four nights.

He stares at the share settings. Adjusts them. Thinks about not doing it.

Then he hits Send.

That night, you don’t reply.

Not the next day either.

He doesn’t expect you to—at first. Maybe you haven’t seen it yet. Maybe you don’t know what to say. Maybe you’re scared. Maybe he crossed a line.

But by the third day, he’s pacing the motel room while Gideon’s out drinking with some friends from undergrad, replaying the moments before he hit “send” like a crime scene. The sound of your name in his own voice, whispering through his headphones. The way he begged, at the end, to see your face next time.

Nothing. No text. No reaction. No call.

He thinks he’s ruined everything.

Until: Incoming video call — [Pipsqueak]

His stomach drops.

He fumbles with the phone, thumb shaking as he answers.

“Hello...?"

The camera opens.

You’re in the shower.

You’ve propped the phone against the tile. The screen is foggy, but he can see you. Bare shoulders, your collarbones glistening. Water trailing down your chest. Your breathing’s already unsteady, like you’ve been working yourself up to this.

His jaw clenches so hard it aches.

“Fuck.” The word slips out of him like a gasp. He sits back hard on the edge of the motel bed. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t stop listening,” you say, voice barely above the rush of water. “I—I wanted to wait ‘til I saw your face again... you said you wanted... you wanted to see me...”

He covers his mouth with one hand, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he’s praying.

“You—you watched the videos?” he asks. He sounds broken. Hopeful. Scared.

You nod. Water beads off your lashes. “All of them. Like... a lot.”

Caleb’s breath punches out of him.

Your hands are moving. Slow. Just below frame. You’re not even hiding it. Your body is slick with water, each traveling droplet sending shockwaves straight to his throbbing cock.

“You didn’t text me,” he says. His voice cracks. “I thought I fucking scared you. I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you whisper. “You just made me feel... embarrassed... And filthy, shameful... And... so horny... I couldn't think... I can't believe... you spied on me... perv...~”

You moan in between shaky breaths as you touch yourself the same frustrated way you were before you even called.

He groans, head falling back.

“God, pips...”

The camera shifts. Your fingers trail up your stomach now. Soap and steam glistening across your skin.

“Will you look at me?” you ask, eyes wide, lip trembling.

He stares, blinking.

Soaks in every inch of your exposed body like he’s been starved for it. His hands move off-camera—then come back with his shirt dragging over his head, hair messy, breath already shallow.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he whispers. “You’re touching yourself in the shower... while I’m on the fucking phone, just looking at you... like that”

You whimper, face hot from both steam and arousal. “I wanted it to be like your recordings. I wanted to hear you. See you.”

He shifts. You can hear it now—his belt, the zipper, his hand stroking himself offscreen.

“D'you like watching me like this?” you ask, a little breathless. "I listened... to you moan my name so many times... I started hearing it when I touched myself without you... I couldn't stop.”

Caleb bites back a sound that isn’t even human. “Hngh... Fuck, baby...” His hand’s wet now, slick with spit, working faster.

“Will you…?” Your voice shakes. “Will you do what you did in those videos?”

He looks straight at the screen now, raw and trembling.

“I’ll do anything,” he says. “You—you were thinking of me when you came, weren’t you? It was me. Always me.”

You nod. Whine. Rock your hips against your hand.

“I want to see you,” he whispers. “Please. Show me. Let me see you touch yourself.”

Your camera tilts and your fingers move into view. He watches, jaw slack, a wild edge in his eyes like he might lose control right there.

“Fuck. You’re so—God, you’re perfect.”

“I want to watch you, too,” you whisper. “Come? For me? I want to see how it is when you can really see me, too.”

He groans, desperate. “Mmph... Y-you don’t even know what you do to me...” His strokes speed up. His breath is ragged. “I’ve been thinking about this for years, and now I’m watching you all wet and needy in the fucking shower while I’m stuck in this shitty room—”

You moan his name, your lips trembling while water beads down the length of your stomach, soft and pleading.

That’s it. He chokes on the breath it takes to recover from seeing you like this. Then, his body arches forward, his hand pumping furiously as he swears and whimpers your name like it’s the only word he knows. The phone tilts in his other hand—he tries to hold it steady, to show you everything, his face twisting in pleasure, lips parted, eyes full of something so hungry it almost hurts to see.

He cums hard. Streams of white down his thick cock and over his fist... Moaning just the sound of your name over and over, his voice panting into the speaker.

You come seconds later, soaking wet, gasping and moaning his name like you’ve lost your breath in it.

The call ends when you nervously press the end call button, and end up sitting there for a long time... just in the shower... water cooling, heartbeat still stuttering behind your ribs.

You press your forehead to the tile.

You don’t know what the fuck you just did.

The ache between your legs hasn’t fully faded. Neither has the sound of his voice—rough, breathless. Whiny. You try not to replay the way he looked when he came for you, the way he said your name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

But it’s impossible to ignore.

And now you’re stuck with it.

He comes home in two days.

You don't say much of anything after.

You texted him “goodnight” right after the call, a gentle end to something that felt more like a dream than real life. He replied just minutes later.

“Sleep good, baby. Can’t wait to see you.”

That was it. Two full days left.

You spend the next morning walking through your apartment like it’s someone else’s house. Everything smells like him. His hoodie’s on the back of the couch. His toothbrush is still wet in the cup. His empty mug is in the sink.

You keep touching your phone like you’ll find a message that says he’s changed his mind. Or that he regrets it. Or that he wants to do it again.

You start typing things, then delete them.

You scroll through the folder again, re-watch the last video he added.

The one with his face flushed, panting, his voice strained as he groaned:

“I wanna do this with your legs around me next time.”

“Want you to look at me while I fuck into you. No fucking screen. Just us... My hands all over you while I stretch you open like the good slut you wanna be...”

"Gonna whimper like this... while I fill you up... lose my mind inside you... you want that? That alright?"

You shut your phone off.

Your stomach turns.

Because it wasn’t just... phone sex...

You’ve seen him hard. You've seen him cum. For you. He’s seen you fall apart for him. You’ve heard his voice say things he can’t take back. And now he’s going to stand in your kitchen like always, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and what are you supposed to do?

What if he kisses you? What if he doesn’t?

That night, you find yourself back in the shower, again.

You want to touch yourself, but you're too full of nerves.

You just sit, knees pulled to your chest, and imagine him walking through the door.

☆☆☆☆☆

The day of Caleb's return, the knock is soft but it hits your chest like a thunderclap.

You’re lying on your bed in a yellow lingerie dress... this one you bought months ago for your own birthday, but never had the reason to wear.

Thin straps, delicate lace that hugs your curves just right, the fabric catching every light in the room like liquid gold. Your heart hammers so loud you’re afraid he’ll hear it.

You almost don’t believe he’s here. Part of you thinks he might knock and then leave if you don't answer. Part of you prays he won’t. Either way, you can't say anything.

The door creaks open anyway.

He steps inside like he owns the space—and maybe he does, at least in this moment. His eyes are purple and dark, and heavy with exhaustion, but there’s intesity lurking beneath. His gaze slides down your body, slow and hungry.

“You wearing that for me?” His voice is low, rough, a growl you want to swallow whole.

You can’t speak. You just nod, mouth dry.

He moves closer, and the air feels charged, electric.

Caleb’s breath catches when he takes you in fully. Then, suddenly, he collapses onto the bed, landing right between your legs.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just breathes you in—your scent, your warmth.

Then his voice is rough, desperate.

“Did you like the call?” He lifts his head just enough to look you in the eye. “Hearing me touch myself, thinking about you... watching you?”

You bite your lip. “I did. It made me feel…” Your voice trembles. “…dangerous?” You sound stupid, you think. You look away from him and he grins, a sharpened spark lighting his eyes.

“You are dangerous,” he says. “You’ve been testing me, all this time. Seeing you like this… like you’re daring me...” He swallows hard, voice dropping lower, “...makes me want to keep you locked in a world where no one else can even breathe your air...”

You hesitate for a moment, heart in your throat. Then you lean forward, lips brushing along his jaw in the softest kiss.

“Is that... okay? Can I keep you too?” you whisper.

His hand curls around your wrist, holding you close.

“You remember what I said in what I sent you?” His eyes darken. “About what I’d do if I had you like this.”

You nod, breath hitching.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m going to make sure you never forget.”

Caleb’s breath is heavy as he pulls you closer, his lips grazing your jaw like fire on skin.

His voice drops to a low, almost ragged whisper.

“What’s it gonna take to get you wet?”

He breathes out your name, then pushes himself just a little closer, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingertips tracing lazy, teasing circles.

“Just talk, huh?” he growls.

“You want me to tell you how hard I am? How badly I want to be your good fuck toy... just for you... my greedy girl... now that I know what you are?”

His voice breaks just slightly, more needy than he wants you to hear.

“Fuck... I know now... what a slut you are…” he murmurs.

“You can’t just, go around... smiling in my face... then stare at men who look like me, wishing for me... with your hands stretched between your thighs... fantasizing... when I’m not around.”

He presses a kiss to the pulse at your neck, teeth grazing.

“You’ve heard me for real now, haven’t you?” His voice goes softer, but every word drips with all he wants.

“You’re worse off than before… now that you know exactly how I could fall apart for you.”

You whine his name, voice trembling.

He bites his lip, eyes dark with need, then asks, desperate to know, “Is it working?”

You nod without hesitation, eyes screwed shut. Looking at him almost hurts, you want to swallow him whole. You want him to pull you apart by the thread.

His lips crash with finality onto yours, a hungry, searing kiss that steals your breath, flings open your eyes and leaves you trembling.

Caleb’s hand slides slowly over the thin lace of your dress, fingertips barely grazing your skin at first, like he’s afraid to shatter fine china.

Then he presses more firmly, and his breath catches as he presses barely over the cool wetness between your legs.

“Fuck…” he whispers, voice rough and broken. “I can’t believe how wet you are.”

You moan softly, heat pooling low in your belly.

His fingers trace the slickness through the fabric, slow and reverent, before dipping beneath the edge, finally touching bare skin.

His lips brush your collarbone, then trail down to your shoulder as his other hand tightens possessively around your waist.

You slip your hand under his waistband, fingers curling around the hardness you feel there, already aching and ready.

Caleb groans into your skin, the sound raw and desperate.

“God, you feel so good,” he pants, voice trembling like he’s holding back a flood.

Your hand presses harder, teasing, stroking beneath the fabric as his mouth finds yours again, a fierce, claiming kiss that leaves you breathless.

His fingers move with growing urgency, slick and warm, while you feel the pull of his desire against your palm.

“I need you…” he whispers, voice cracking. “So fucking much.”

Your breath catches as Caleb grinds against your palm, the heat between you two rising like a fever.

“Then take me,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “You’ve already had my mind… you've seen everything… all that’s left is this anyway...”

He groans, deep in his chest — an almost broken sound — and his hands are suddenly everywhere. Tugging the lace straps off your shoulders. Smoothing down your sides. Lifting your thighs around his waist like it’s instinct.

The dress is gone before you can think to miss it. Your skin prickles under his hungry gaze. His purple galaxy eyes track every inch of you, reverent and starving, like he’s still trying to memorize what he already knows too well.

“Say it again,” he breathes. “Tell me this is real.”

You pull him down, lips brushing his jaw. “I want you, Caleb. I want you to fuck me... s'bad...”

His name on your tongue, your filthy begging... it wrecks him. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s rougher than the first — all teeth and need, hands fumbling to free himself from his jeans, movements clumsy with urgency.

You help him — tugging, shifting — until you both breathe against each other in nothing but skin. He’s thick and heavy in your hand, leaking, twitching, hot against your stomach as he leans into you.

“Waited so long,” he mutters against your mouth. “Wanted this for so fucking long.”

He pushes in slow.

You both gasp — not just from the stretch, but the weight of it. Of everything. The phone calls. The recordings. The years of silence between every almost-touch.

Your nails dig into his back, anchoring yourself as he sinks deeper. He's so so big, stretching you more than you thought possible. His forehead presses to yours, brows knit like it hurts to hold back.

“Tell me it’s okay,” he pants.

“It’s better than okay,” you whisper, "but— can't believe... it's only half... so big..."

Caleb groans — a raw, strangled sound — and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and shaking against your skin.

“Don’t say that,” he rasps, voice breaking. “You’ll make me lose it.”

You tighten your legs around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him deeper. “Then lose it,” you whisper. “Try deeper, I can take you.”

He swears under his breath, one hand bracing against the mattress, the other gripping your hip so tight you feel the imprint of his fingers. He moves again — slow, deeper — and your breath catches, head falling back against the pillows.

“Oh God, Caleb…”

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moans, voice wrecked. “So wet for me... so tight... Can’t believe I’m finally inside you.”

You can't speak. You can only cling to him, breath ragged, as he rocks into you, hips rolling with a need so palpable it feels like it vibrates in the air around you.

The pace builds. Every slow careful thrust pushes more of him inside until he’s fully seated, flush against you, filling you so deep it borders on unbearable.

You’re shaking, overwhelmed. “Caleb, I—”

“I know,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He moves with more urgency now...

“I used to dream about this,” he admits between thrusts. “Used to jerk off thinking about how you’d feel… how you’d sound…”

Your moan answers him, involuntary and breathless.

“…but nothing — nothing — came close... to this.”

You arch beneath him, one hand tangling in his hair, the other scratching down his back as you moan from your gut, as your walls flutter around him.

His voice splinters. “Shit, pips—don't... don’t do that—I'm close…”

“Don't be silly. You don’t have to hold back” you whisper, eyes glassy, lips trembling. “Just come with me... don't keep it from me, Caleb~”

He groans like it tears him open. His rhythm stutters — then sharpens. Desperate. Perfect. Your body wraps tight around him, pulsing with the promise of release.

“Say my name like that... when it feels good,” he begs. “Lemme hear who's turned you into a slut like this…”

“Caleb...” Your chest bounces as he pounds into you, your voice barely more than a gasp, breathless and shy...

Again. He ruts into you with a moan of his own.

“Caleb—!”

You break. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, blinding and hot, pulling a choked cry from your throat as you lock around him, gripping him so tight it pushes him over the edge.

He follows with a broken sound, pulling out in a frantic rush as he spills all over your stomach, breath caught in his throat. He whines with his face pressed to yours while he grinds his cock onto your stomach, milking every last drop over you. His whole body trembles. You feel every twitch, every pulse, every ounce of need poured onto you.

Silence stretches.

Only your mingled breathing fills the room, quiet and heavy, shaky too.

Your breath shudders when he kisses you. "Thank you," you manage.

He laughs into your mouth, like you're silly for even thinking to say it.

“Next time… lemme just watch you, okay, pretty? Okay. You can cum as much as you want watching me edge this big stupid cock for you.” He whispers his filth in your jaw, hot calloused hand spreading across your torso.

You gasp, shaking your head as you blush at his straight forward dirty mouth.

“You're so... dirty, Caleb.” You whisper, steadying your index finger down his top and bottom lip.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers against your finger, sounding somehow like the world's most unsorry puppy. And honestly, his gaze looks at you similarly. “I can always... take it back…” he kisses your finger as you move to straddle him, ignoring the mess.

“No... no, you can't...”

You whine, dramatically, a quiet muttering between kisses that linger against his lips—soft kiss after soft kiss. He pretends not to melt under each one.

“C'mon, talk to me more, Cay… I'm not done...”

You never wanted to be a war medic. Not really. Since you were young, you thought you'd be a pediatric nurse—scraped knees, gummy smiles, common colds, bright colors on your scrubs, and handing out stickers for bravery. Nothing like this. Here, there's sand, and blood, and screams in the dark. You're here holding hope for men who lie before you, with your shaking hands pressed against chest wounds. While bullets hiss overhead and while bombs drop in the distance, the ground below you quakes. 

You've learned to dissociate. You keep moving, you become steady. Eventually your hands don't shake, and the screams don't phase you.

That's when he comes to you. You've heard a lot about him. Caleb Xia: The Man Who Can't Get Shot. The purple-eyed legend of a man, a man who practically bends the gravity around him. The man who makes men kneel before he kills them — as if they have no choice, as if the air itself buckles their knees.

Ironically he comes to you, slumped over as he's carried by two men below his station. He's got two bullet wounds in the same leg.

So much for the unshootable man.

“He wanted us to bring him to you specific. Said you were the best of the best and no one else could touch him.”

You don't mean to scowl but you do. You're not even ten minutes from your last operation and here he comes, pale with the fabric of his pants a torn and bloodied mess. You stand up, wipe your hands on your uniform and nod at an open cot as you walk towards it. 

“Lay him here, carefully. I'll handle the rest. Thank you, boys.”

When they lay him down you get your first good look at him. He looks too calm for someone in his position, as if he's above the pain, but he winces just a little with every movement. His eyes are as purple as they say. Like a coastal sunset, or bruise. Widened slightly by pain. 

When you cut away the ruined fabric of his cargo pants, and probe slightly, you see the two bullet wounds, clear as day. You shake your head. 

“So you can get shot.” You mutter. “Looks like you're lucky, Xia. Two hits, and both missed everything vital. Either you've got a guardian angel or you really do bend luck around you.”

Caleb… laughs. “No luck, no angels, just bad aim, and a soldier who can avoid a bullet. You don't seem like you believe in luck or angels, sweetheart.”

You don't answer him. This isn't the first time a soldier has tried to be a cocky flirt in order to brave the pain. 

You work on him in silence, fingers steady, the room heavy with the scent of alcohol, blood, and sweat. His leg is a mess, but fixable.

The first bullet wound is easy enough. It's got a clean entry and exit, both less than a centimeter. No major vessels are hit, and his femur is untouched and intact. It barely bleeds. You pack it with hemostatic gauze and apply pressure. He sucks in air through his teeth, just once, but his gaze never leaves your face. That is a first.

“Hurt?” You ask. Your voice is clipped and professional. You're well practiced by now. This isn't new. The blood, the gauze, the men. But something about the way he looks at you almost makes you falter. Almost.

He tilts his head. “Less when I'm lookin’ at you, angel.” 

You snort. “Save that for when you don't still have a bullet in your leg. This second one's gonna hurt more.”

He laughs like it doesn't hurt to. 

“Stay still.” You say it firmly and he breathes out through his nose. 

“Yes ma'am. Your house, your rules doc.”

“I'm serious. This one is not nice, One wrong move and you're out of combat.”

That shuts him up. You take a bottle of vodka and hold it to his lips.

“Drink. I need you not to feel this so much.”

He looks up at you as he sips and for a moment. Your eyes lock. You turn to hide the blush on your cheeks as you pull the bottle away. 

“You're gentle,” he mutters.

“Mm.”

You give him the strap to bite, place it in his mouth. You know he'll need it, but you're mildly surprised he doesn't protest. 

The second wound is bad. Flashes of experiences flicker through your mind's eye as you find the bleeder and press your finger there. Crimp the vessel shut with a clamp. And with a scalpel, you begin to fish out the pesky bullet, careful not to let it migrate. 

Caleb doesn’t scream or pass out as you operate, but he bites down so hard on the strap you think his teeth could break. His knuckles are white. All the while, his gaze never leaves your face, your hands, his haunting purple eyes tracking your every movement. Most soldiers at least close their eyes. He doesn’t even bother.

“Got you, bastard.” You pull it out with a wet sound. 

The bullet drops in the metal tray with a clink. 

“That's the worst part, I promise.” Your voice is uncharacteristically soft as you say it. 

With deft movements, you clean, pack, and suture like it's nothing. Your hands are steady. His heart rate reads 120. He spits out the strap with a big huff of breath. 

“I knew you were the best of the fucking best,” he slurs, “they told me I'd have to get evacced… but I've heard about you. Knew you'd fix me. Unit talks about you like you're heavensent.”

He makes direct eye contact when he says it, like a test. You ignore him, call it passing. Your face twists when you remember you can't just send him off. The wound could get infected. You have to watch for swelling, fevers and any other signs.

“You need at least a week off of that leg. If you're lucky. And for the next forty eight hours, you stay in this cot, you hear me? Legend or not, it's my job to make sure you're able to fight at all.”

He smirks.

“You… you didn't ask how I got shot, doc.” His voice is gravely and low when he says that. 

“Should I? This is war. It's kind of obvious.”

You move to clean your station when suddenly his hand is around your wrist turning you back. It's not forceful, just surprising. Unexpected.

“I let them. I let them hit me.”

He lets you go. 

“Yeah right.” Dammit. Your voice is uneven. He notices. Raises an eyebrow.

“Had to meet the Angel herself — see you work with my own eyes. I'm not the only ‘legend’ around here, honey.”

☆☆☆☆☆

Supervision of Caleb's recovery proves difficult. He's a predictably awful patient. He doesn't listen. Takes crutches, hobbles around, refuses pain medication longer than a sane man would. You're yelling at him within the first 18 hours. 

“Xia. I told you to stay off that leg!”

“It hurts. I'm bored and need distracting.”

“By… walking on it?” You're flabbergasted. He's like a petulant child.

“I didn't know you outrank me, Doc.”

“Here?? In this tent? Yeah, I do.” You snap, but for some reason unknown to you, you soften.  “Please, Caleb, just lay down. I don't want you to have any complications.”

When he finally obeys, you station yourself at his bedside between patients, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk. He grins up at you, all lazy arrogance, but there’s something else in those violet eyes—something that makes your pulse stutter.  

“You’re staring, doc.”  

You scoff.  “I’m supervising.”  

“Mmm. Like what you see?”  

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn.  

It’s infuriating. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The dreams start at the 30th hour. 

You wake to the sound of his voice—low, strained. You find him half-conscious, drenched in sweat, fingers clawing at the sheets like he’s trying to fight off an invisible enemy. His skin is boiling. Nightmares, fever. Infection. Shit. Shit. Shit!

“Caleb. Xia. Wake up.” You smack his face, his bicep, again and again before his eyes flicker open in terror. Until he sees you. 

“Mm... Hey, Angel… it, uh, it hurts pretty bad… to be honest… Are you gonna… fix me again?”

You nurse him through the night. You use everything you can: cold compresses, antibiotics, IV fluids, constant monitoring. You don’t sleep. You talk to him all night. Tell him about how you wanted to be a pediatric nurse until war came, and you, like many other medical professionals, were deployed. How the first time you lost a soldier you were full body sick for days on end, but it was the last time it got you that hard.

Instead, you got good enough to know it would never be your fault. 

You whisper for him to come back to you over and over and over.

You don't know why. You convince yourself it's professional care, due diligence. But it's more than that. A legend like him deserves to die better than this. Whether you believe it or not doesn't matter. Other people do. Other people who need the hope you long realized you had to give up on.

Then he mutters something in his feverish haze. 

“I thought you'd remember me.”

You were falling asleep, but not now. You shoot up. 

“What was that?”

“From… high-school. You were there.”

“Xia… you're delirious…”

“No… ‘member? I Graduated… b'fore you… Linkon High.”

You freeze. You went to school there. You didn't tell him. He's unconscious again before you can probe him for answers.

Caleb’s fever breaks. 

You’re slumped in a chair beside his cot, head lolling against your shoulder, when you feel fingers brush against your wrist. Your eyes snap open.

He’s awake, and he's smirking. 

“You stayed.” His voice is rough, but the teasing lilt is already creeping back in. 

You jerk upright, wiping the exhaustion from your face, slipping back into professionalism like armor. “Of course I stayed. You were septic, you idiot.”

He hums, watching you. “Liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stayed ‘cause you like me.”

You scoff, but your pulse betrays you.

“I'm sorry for not listening to you. I'll rest now.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief.

☆☆☆☆☆

After Caleb recovers, he’s relentless in finding excuses to see you—"check-ups," fake complaints, "just passing by."  

One night, you're beyond exhausted, half-asleep in the med tent, and he catches you when you stumble. Instead of letting go, he holds you just a second too long, his voice uncharacteristically serious:

"You don’t sleep enough, Angel."

You freeze. "War doesn’t stop for naps, Xia."

His thumb brushes your wrist and you shiver. "Yeah, but you’re no use to anyone dead on your feet."

"Why are you even here?" You try to push him off of you without being rough.

Caleb doesn’t answer your question. Instead, his grip tightens just enough to keep you upright, his thumb tracing idle circles over the inside of your wrist. The contact is electric, infuriating. 

"You never answered me," he murmurs. "About high school."

You stiffen. "You were delirious."

He shakes his head, “Uh-uh. Not really.” He mutters. “You were the library assistant. I was the guy who checked out all those books about planes.”

Finally, and suddenly, it clicks into place and you remember.

You remember him.

Back then, he was just that guy from second period shop class—quiet, always scribbling in the margins of his notebook. He’d come into the library during lunch sometimes, eyes barely meeting yours, fingers stained with grease or charcoal or both, asking for technical manuals, books on aerodynamics, flight trajectories. He’d borrow them in stacks, carry them like they were sacred text. 

You remember the day he left—graduated a year ahead, vanished into the military pipeline like so many others. He never said goodbye. You never thought you'd see him again.

“You remember,” he says, softer now.

“I do,” you say.

And it’s quiet. For once, he doesn’t smirk. He just looks at you like the war outside doesn’t exist, like this blood-soaked tent could be a confessional booth in another world.

“Who would've thought we'd both be stationed here?” He whispers.

He finally pulls away when a handful of men are being carried to your tent. A skirmish. Caleb fades away into your duties.

☆☆☆☆☆

You think it’s over when he’s transferred out of your station. You think he’ll vanish again, back into the smoke and blood, into some legend retold over campfires and comms chatter.

But he doesn’t.

He writes.

Letters. Sent by hand, tucked into ration shipments, passed from soldier to soldier until they reach you.

Updates on his healing. Fragments of memory. Tiny jokes. Questions about you. Always signed the same way:

- C (not dead yet)

You don’t answer the first few. But eventually, you do.

And then? It starts. The burn.

A slow build of connection that stretches across miles and dust and time. After months of back and forth, by some miracle, you're both rotated to the same base again, just for a few days.

His name meets you again before he does. A patient in a cot muttering about how the Invincible Xia saves their asses every time.

“Xia? Caleb Xia?” You barely believe what you're hearing. 

“Heard of him?”

“Something like that…” you trail off.

A couple days later when that soldier’s leaving, you call back to him. 

“Hey. Tell Caleb Xia there's a medic that wants to meet the legend.”

☆☆☆☆☆

He finally finds you again.

Dust-streaked, bleeding from the knuckles, but alive. You treat him in silence, your hands steadier than your breath. Wrap his hands in bandages. No questions. 

Tonight, the entire camp is tense. Rumors of a full-scale offensive begin at dawn. You both know what that means. High casualties. Maybe final goodbyes. Caleb appears at your cot just after lights-out, limping slightly, a tin of contraband instant coffee in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

"You still awake, Angel?"

You want to send him away. You should.

But instead you say, “Yeah.”

You drink coffee from metal mugs, seated on supply crates outside the tent under a bruised-purple sky. It matches his eyes.

You don’t speak for a while.

“Do you ever think about what happens if you don’t make it back?” You finally ask. 

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is hoarse.

“I used to. Not tonight, though. Not when you’re here.”

The silence between you buzzes.

When Caleb kisses you, for the first time since you met him, you too believe that he is the man that bends gravity. Because you can't pull away.

Your haphazard tent turned bunker is small, and your cot is only a little bigger than an average twin. But you drag him into it anyway by the collar of his shirt, kissing him as you stumble back, then fall onto the bed. Your breaths are heavy when you finally pull apart to breathe. His eyelashes flutter over his reddened cheeks.

“Angel,” he whispers in your ear with hot breaths, caging both sides of your head with flexing arms while you're laying flat under him. “Will you… allow me the pleasure of…taking care of you now?”

The moment stretches between you. His body above yours, shadowed by the dim light that filters through the tent wall—soft and dusty, flickering like candlelight in a church neither of you believe in anymore.

You swallow, your breath shaking. “Yes,” you whisper. It’s barely audible. But it’s enough. Caleb hears you and he sees you. He shifts just slightly, like the earth itself is tilting toward you.

His mouth meets yours again, but this time the kiss is unhurried. Like he’s reading you, memorizing the shape of your lips, the sound you make when he brushes just a little harder, then softer. One of his hands finds your cheek, thumb skimming the hollow under your eye. He exhales like he’s in awe. Like he’s been waiting for this—for you—since the beginning.

“I remember your laugh.”

Your eyes blink open.

“In high school. You laughed when I dropped all those fucking manuals. You helped me pick them up. You smiled at me. I thought it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. You were so pretty. and… and I really never forgot you, not really. You told me once that if you ever had to go to war like I was gonna, it would kill you. That you preferred the thought of stickers to gunshots.”

“Still do,” you say, only because there's nothing else, too much, everything else to say.

He kisses your face. His lips are softer than war should allow. 

“I know, Angel, I know.”

His mouth leaves your face only to trace lower—along your jaw, down your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. He breathes you in, inhaling the scent of you. The way he touches you it's like you're the only proof left that this isn’t just a hallucination conjured by his exhaustion and his adrenaline.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gravel low, lips at your throat.

You nod—but he doesn’t move until you say it aloud.

“Yes.” A whisper again, but this time steadier. “Please.”

Caleb exhales against your collarbone like it’s the answer he’s been waiting for all his life. His hands—battle-worn, calloused, prayerful—slip under your shirt with careful fingers. He doesn't tug or rush, just explores, tracing the slope of your ribs, the curve of your waist. The way he looks at you when he pulls your shirt over your head—like he’s seeing something holy—makes your stomach flip.

“You’re real,” he murmurs, as if to himself, pressing a kiss just between your breasts.

You reach for his shirt in return. It’s half unbuttoned already, streaked with sweat and desert dust, but he helps you the rest of the way. His chest is hard, scarred, and warm. You run your fingers across old wounds. Some are jagged, and some are smooth—like layers in sediment.

“Still think I’m unshootable?” he says, breathless, watching your hand move across a thick scar over his ribs.

“No,” you say softly. “Just stupid. Lucky.”

That earns you a real laugh. He kisses you again, harder this time. There's more heat now, less caution. The kind of hunger that’s been simmering for months in every letter, every near-miss, every time he touched your wrist and didn’t push further.

“Ah, so you do believe in luck,” he mutters into your chest. 

“Yours, yes.”

He huffs another quiet laugh, low and warm against your skin. “Good. ‘Cause I’m starting to think I used it all up just to get here.”

You want to tease him, say something clever, but your words dissolve into a gasp when he takes your nipple into his mouth—tongue flicking gently at first, then sucking, drawing a low moan from your throat. His hand cradles the other, thumb brushing over the sensitive skin in slow circles, learning you, memorizing what makes you twitch and tremble.

“Fuck,” you whisper, arching into him. 

“I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, moving lower—lips skating across your ribs, down your stomach, leaving a trail of kisses. He may not bend the air, but you bend for him. Into every last touch. “Around when you started writing me letters back. Couldn’t sleep half the time, thinking about what you sounded like when you came. How those eyes look without the focus.”

Your face flushes, heat rushing everywhere at once.

“You imagined me?” Your voice is breathy. Dazed.

“Every goddamn night. Does that scare you?”

You shake your head. You can't bring yourself to say there were nights where you let yourself do the same, with him in your mind's eye. 

His hands slip slowly beneath your waistband, the pace an unspoken request for permission. When you don't protest he touches you, pressing his calloused hands to your aching heat. When you cry out his name, when his fingers are immediately soaked with your slick, his breath shudders. 

“This is mine, yeah? Just for tonight?”

“Caleb… please…”

That’s all it takes. He kisses the inside of your thigh as he pulls your pants—what’s left of them—down your legs, eyes never leaving your face. It's like that first time with him bleeding in your hands, where his eyes never left you. Except now, he wants to watch you come apart. He wants to be the one to do it.

And when his mouth replaces his fingers—hot, wet, careful at first—your back arches off the cot. He moans when he tastes you, like it surprises even him. The sound goes straight through you, and so does the way he buries his face between your legs like a man starved.

He’s good. Too good. He learns your body fast, tongue curling against your clit just right, licking in slow, reverent strokes that make your thighs tremble. When you thread your fingers into his dark hair again, tugging without meaning to, he groans and pushes in deeper—his nose brushing your pelvis, his hands anchoring your hips down like you might float away.

“Please,” you pant. “Caleb, I—”

“Let go for me, Angel,” he says, voice husky against you. “Come on. Wanna feel it. Wanna taste you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave—hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, your thighs clenching around his head, your whole body tensing as pleasure floods through your system like morphine. Caleb doesn’t stop, doesn’t flinch. He rides it out with you, licking you through it, slowing only when your gasps turn to whimpers.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes blackened by his blown out pupils. He climbs up your body again, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple, whispering something soft between each one.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and you feel how hard he is against your thigh—hot and insistent even through the thick fabric of his fatigues.

“I need to feel you,” you whisper, half-lost already in the aftershocks, but it's somehow still not enough. “Please, Caleb. I want you inside me.”

He groans, forehead falling to yours. “Say that again and I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

“I want you inside me.”

His pants come off in a scramble, his hands shaking now, not from nerves but from restraint. He doesn’t rush, even now. He lines himself up and pauses, waiting, always waiting—for your nod, your “yes.”

You cup his cheek and say it again, firm this time. “Yes.”

He slides into you slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to hurt you, like he’s trying to savor every second he gets the opportunity to be inside you. You gasp at the stretch, at the pressure of him. He's bigger than anyone you've ever had, and you haven't had many, but your hungry cunt does anything it can to pull him deeper, to stretch wide around him. 

He curses under his breath, buries his face in the crook of your neck. “You feel… fuck, you feel so good.”

You hold him there, arms wrapped around his back, fingers digging into scarred muscle as he starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate—hips rolling, not pounding. He kisses your throat, your collarbone, your lips between each rhythm. You taste yourself still on his lips when he kisses you.

His pace is relentlessly taking, so slow it's torturous, it pulls quiet moans from your throat even as you try to suppress them for the sake of not being heard by the rest of the camp. Caleb's reputation would likely save you both from trouble but there's no guarantee. He fucks into you like he doesn't care. 

You try to stay quiet, but it’s impossible. The drag of his cock inside you is too much, too slow, too deep. You clamp a hand over your mouth but he catches your wrist mid-motion, presses your palm down beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs against your ear. “Let me hear you.”

You nod again, helpless under him, overwhelmed with the way he feels, the way he holds you there— with his body, and with the weight of everything that’s passed between you. Every night he wrote, every glance across the tent, every time he called you “Angel”. Every time that you wrote back. The first time you wrote “Caleb” instead of “Xia”, then “Dearest Caleb”.

He thrusts again, deeper now. You gasp—louder this time.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice shaking. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

Your eyes flutter, then snap open to look at him. He’s above you—disheveled, flushed, purple eyes shining in the low light, half-lidded but never looking away. He watches every expression on your face, memorizing it for the battlefield.

You arch your back and roll your hips to meet him. He groans, drops his head to your shoulder. 

“I can take more, I need more,” you whisper desperately trying to buck your hips into him faster for effect.

He growls low in his throat—a sound that doesn’t belong in war, or prayer, but maybe both—and pulls out nearly all the way before driving back into you, slow and deep, grinding his hips until you cry out.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmurs against your skin. “God, Angel. You already have.”

And you believe him.

You believe it in the way his voice cracks when he says your name, in the way his body trembles as he rocks into you with growing urgency, each thrust harder, faster, deeper, as if the world might end and he needs this—needs you—to tether him to the earth. 

“Fuck—Caleb…” Your whisper bends into a whine.

“I know, you're gonna give me another aren't you? You're close, I can feel you tryin to milk the life out of me.”

You moan—a quiet and breathless gasp—your back arching as the heat coils tighter inside you. It’s unbearable, the way he knows and the way his voice roughens as he says it. He fucks you like he’s worshiping and destroying you at the same time—deep, smooth thrusts that grind against the spot inside you just right, over and over.

“Caleb—” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulder. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare—”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he growls, lips brushing your throat as his hips rock into you again, firmer this time, more desperate. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel you lose it?”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. You gasp at the touch—sharp and sensitive—and he moans low in his chest, like your reaction feeds him.

“God, you’re soaked for me,” he murmurs. “Like you were made to take me, Angel. Fuck. This—”

He cuts off with a gasp when you tighten around him, your walls fluttering with every stroke, every filthy word. His thumb circles your clit just right—tight and slow, like this isn't the first time he's had you.

“I’m gonna—fuck—Caleb, I can’t—” You twist beneath him, pleasure building too fast, too thick to hold back.

“Yes, you can. You’re gonna come again. All over my cock this time. That’s it, my Angel, please let me have it.”

You do. It crashes over you like a tidal wave—blinding and hot, your whole body shaking as your orgasm rips through you, harder than the first. You cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, pulsing and slick and soaked.

“Shit—fuck, that’s it—” Caleb groans, burying himself deep inside you, grinding his hips as you flutter and tighten around him, over and over. “You’re gonna make me—”

He loses it.

With a broken sound, he thrusts once, twice—then comes hard, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spills into you with a guttural groan. You feel every throb of him, every ragged breath against your neck as he rides it out—his hands gripping your hips so tight it borders on bruising. His whole body shakes with the force of it, chest heaving against yours as he pants into the hollow of your throat.

“Jesus fuck—Angel—”

It takes a long time for either of you to move. You're still trembling, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, holding him there, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with the last aftershocks.

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips—slow and messy, like he’s drunk on the taste of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. You?”

He lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “I’ve never been better.”

He doesn’t pull out yet. He just stays there, pressed against you, forehead resting on yours, as your breaths sync in the dark. His cum begins to seep out around him, warm and wet between your thighs, but neither of you care. There’s nowhere else either of you would rather be.

His thumb traces your cheek.

“You really are my Angel,” he says, so quietly it’s almost a prayer.

You just hold him tighter.

☆☆☆☆☆

Later, when you're both cleaned and curled beneath an extra blanket in your cot, his arms around you like armor, he whispers.

"If I die out there tomorrow, or after that—"

You shake your head when you interrupt him.

"No, stop it, don't talk like that," you whisper against his neck. 

"C'mon, baby, I need you to know." His thumbs rub circles against your lower back. 

"You're not allowed to fucking die. You're here with me. My rules, Xia."

He's silent for a moment before he talks again, holding you even tighter. 

“Okay, Doc. Then. When this is over... we’ll find somewhere better, okay? Somewhere with bookstores and sidewalks. Somewhere you can wear scrubs with cartoon pandas and hand out sticker sheets. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

You don't believe him, mostly because belief is expensive. It costs too much.

Whispers spread first. They always do.

They arrive on the backs of the wounded—half-conscious soldiers mumbling about movement to the east, drone strikes gone silent, entire platoons going dark on comms. Some speak in riddles, others in prayer. But it all amounts to the same thing.

It’s coming.

By midday, the tension hangs so thick in the air you could choke on it. You prep your tent for mass casualties—reloading morphine pens, checking defibrillators, laying out body bags at the ready. Just in case.

☆☆☆☆☆

You don’t see Caleb all day.

Not until dusk.

He shows up at the edge of your tent with his sleeves rolled up, bandages still snug on his healing hands, jaw tense. There’s dried blood down his arm—not his. His eyes find yours, and you already know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.

“It’s real this time,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Caleb steps into the tent like a man walking into confession. You don’t know who moves first—you or him—but the next thing you know, he’s holding your face between both hands, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I need to say this before we go,” he breathes, rough and fast, “and I need you to actually hear it, please.”

Your throat tightens. “Don’t.”

“Angel.”

“No. You don’t get to say goodbye. Not to me.”

“I have to.” His hands tremble where they hold you. “If something happens—”

You grab his collar and kiss him hard. It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and breath and no finesse. His hands slide down to your hips anchoring you both. 

“I’ll come back,” he swears against your lips. “I have to. You’re the only one I wanna—.”

“Don’t promise me things you can’t keep,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “Just promise me you’ll try.”

He nods, once. Sharp. “I always do.”

☆☆☆☆☆

The sirens don’t wail. There’s no dramatic countdown. Just the distant thud of mortar fire echoing like thunder from the hills—and then hell breaks open.

Your med tent fills by the dozen. Blood and sand coat the floor in layers. You lose track of the bodies, of time, and there's no room to grieve, or pause, or ask who’s missing.

You don’t see Caleb.

Not that night.

Not the next morning.

Not even by the second sunset.

But the whispers continue. About how one unit got cornered and somehow made it out. A single soldier took a rooftop and held until backup arrived.

They say he was smiling.

They say he moved like gravity didn’t apply.

You say nothing.

Until—

A soldier staggers in at midnight, wide-eyed and coughing up smoke. He’s burned, dazed, but conscious enough to speak.

You lean over him, adrenaline in your throat.

“Who brought you out?”

The soldier smiles faintly through cracked lips.

“Xia. Said to tell the angel he bent the air for her again.”

Your knees almost give out, but you don’t cry. You keep working.

Later, when the noise dies down and your hands finally go still, you slip outside the tent and look up at the night sky—starless, bruised purple with war, still like his eyes.

You whisper to the wind.

“You better come back, you stupid fucking legend.”

You finally let yourself cry. A few tears that blow away as they come. 

☆☆☆☆☆

2 months pass, and you only know Caleb is alive because of the gossip. It takes time to get to you. 

‘They say he held down the last push in the east. Had them running in horror.”

“Did you hear Xia's still alive? Those bastards must have shit for brains if they haven't killed him.”

Twice. Your whole team has to relocate twice. You're scared. What if he can't find you? 

☆☆☆☆☆

Another month passes and gossip’s next to none. All you know is that too many people are dying. On both sides. People are calling it the One to One War. 

No one's winning. It's a bloody draw, held together by body after body.

☆☆☆☆☆

The sky cracks open in muted gray—no thunder, no smoke—just a silence so thick your ears ring. You’re mid-suture, needle paused above a soldier’s temple, when the first orders come through: cease fire.

Around you, the med tent erupts in stunned whispers.

Another medic shoves a folded radio transcript into your gloved hand. You read, breath catching: the high command has negotiated a window. No more bullets, no more drones. Safe corridors open. Field hospitals will exchange supplies and personnel. You hardly notice the words beyond no more bullets.

Outside, the distant thud of mortars has died. You stand, unsteady, blood-caked syringe still in hand, and peer out through the tent flap. Camp suddenly looks like a ghost town—hulking vehicles stalled in the sand, soldiers frozen, unsure. 

Delirious relief fills you. You drop onto the ground, pulse pounding. Across the clearing, the other med tents mirror your disbelief: gurneys abandoned, surgical kits left open. For two long minutes, no one moves.

Then the wounded continue to stir.

You’re back on your feet, adrenaline answering the void of violence with motion: triaging sprains, cleaning grazes, offering water. The fear in everyone’s eyes is still there. But so is something else, something like… hope.

You wash your hands for the first time in hours, letting the cool water chase away the metallic tang of war. Your reflection in the stainless basin startles you: dark circles, smudged camouflage, lips cracked from dehydration. You touch your face and realize the world outside has shifted while you were drowning in blood and screaming.

“Hey, Angel!” A voice calls from the tent entrance. You whirl, expecting Caleb’s grin—and instead see one of the Lieutenants, leaning on his crutch, eyes wide.

“They’re bringing in evac helicopters,” he says, voice trembling. “They said… they said we’ll swap supplies at dawn. No shooting.”

“Right,” you breathe, in disbelief still. “No shooting.”

He nods, glancing over his shoulder at the silent horizon.

“Every unit’s standing down. Rumor has it a treaty’s comin.”

And yet—Caleb isn’t here.

Your heart twists. No letter, no shadow at the tent’s edge, no purple-eyed savior bending his luck for a moment with you.

You swallow hard, letting the sudden emptiness hollow out your chest. Around you, the camp buzzes with hurried whispers of relocation plans, bed shortages, resupply manifests. But in your mind, there’s only one question: Where is he?

As dusk bleeds into night, you stay outside, arms wrapped tight against the cold wind. The last of the dust settles, and for the first time in weeks, the world feels still. You close your eyes, willing your heart to silence the questions, but they echo louder.

Did he make it through the push?

Did he follow the orders?

Or did the cease fire come too late for him?

Night blossoms in bruised purples and inky blues. A single lamp flickers by the tent flap, casting your shadow long against the sand.

And you stay there, listening for the familiar echo of his steps, the soft scrape of his boots in the sand—anything to tell you he isn’t gone.

☆☆☆☆☆

The cease-fire holds.

For three days, the camp is a flurry of movement—supply drops, medevacs, soldiers shuffling in and out like ghosts. You work until your hands cramp, until your vision blurs, until the names and faces of the wounded blur into one endless stream of pain.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t stop looking for him.

On the fourth night, you’re outside again, staring at the horizon, when you hear it—the distant hum of an engine. A single jeep rolls into camp, kicking up dust, its headlights cutting through the dark like a beacon.

Your breath catches.

The vehicle stops. The door opens.

And then...

Him.

Caleb Xia steps out, silhouetted against the headlights, and your heart stops.  

He’s alive.  

But something’s...

wrong.  

His right arm is gone.  

Just—gone.  

A clean unbloodied bandage is wrapped tight around the stump, just below his shoulder, stark white against his dirt-streaked skin. His face is pale, his lips cracked, his violet eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But when he sees you—when his gaze locks onto yours across the distance—he smiles.  

Like he alone has won the war.

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re sprinting, boots kicking up sand, lungs burning. He meets you halfway, his left arm catching you around the waist as you crash into him.

“Angel,” he breathes into your hair, voice rough.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Your hands are shaking again. You're gripping his shirt, his neck, his face just to prove he’s real.

He lets you.

When you finally pull back, your fingers brush the scarred stump, hovering just above it. Your throat is too tight to speak.

Caleb exhales, bending to press his forehead to yours. “Still in one piece. Mostly.”

You swallow hard. “What happened?”

He shrugs—or tries to. The motion is lopsided now. 

“Took a hit for the team, I guess. We got hit harder than before. I had to choose between the arm and my life.” A weak smirk. “And someone ordered me not to die. I was in recovery. Off of the Field.”

You choke on something between a laugh and a sob. You almost wonder if he lost it on purpose. You wouldn't put it past him.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

And he’s discharged.

No more war. No more bullets. No more waiting for him to come back in pieces.

You drag him into the med tent before he can protest, ignoring the way the other medics stare. He’s too weak to fight you, leaning heavily against your side as you guide him to a cot.

“You’re an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yes ma'am,” he slurs, already half-asleep.

The injury is clean—surgically amputated, already healed, mostly. They’ll fit him for a prosthetic soon. But for now, he’s here. Whole enough.

Yours.

You bandage him back up, your fingers lingering on his skin. When you look up, his eyes are closed, his breathing steady.

You don’t let go of his hand.

☆☆☆☆☆

The prosthetic is sleek, military-grade, all black metal and whirring joints. Caleb hates it.

“Makes me look like a fucking cyborg,” he grumbles, flexing the mechanical fingers.

You roll your eyes. “You are a fucking cyborg.”

He scowls, but he barely means it. Sighs in relief when you kiss him.

The war is over for you both.

The letters don’t stop.

Even when you’re lying beside him, even when you can reach out and touch him whenever you want, he still writes them. He leaves them tucked under your pillow, slipped into your pockets, folded inside your books.

You keep every one.

And when the time comes—when the discharge papers are signed, when the transport planes are waiting—you pack your bags together.

🏷️taglist: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

“Should I help you sleep tonight, I can… count airplanes to a hundred, you remember when I used to?” You giggle then, smiling and looking up at him, so precious you make his heart ache impossible more.

“I do remember that. I’d never make it to a hundred, did you count all that way?” He pulls back a bit, smiling.

“I did, you always passed out at fifty.”

“Your voice was so soothing,” you clear your throat now, looking at the fridge and bending down, grabbing the eggs out, brushing against him damn near. He barely handles the fucking motion, trembling as you do. “You can make em.”

“Smart girl.” You both fall into a comfortable silence, you finish the toast and slather it with butter, then pour him his favorite apple juice. It feels too fucking domestic, every bit of you both, how could you ever experience this with someone else in the future?

How would you ever be comfortable like with him, he’s seen you at your best and your worst, he’s the closest person to you. Part of you wants to shove these nagging thoughts back and just enjoy him until he leaves, the other part wants more than you fucking should. Far, far too much.

“You’re so quiet around me,” his words are soft, you hand him a piece of toast and smile then. “You okay?”

“We should um… spend time doing something fun together. Before you go, just the two of us.” He smiles then, his lashes lowering, taking a sip of the juice you poured now, adams apple bobbing.

“Let’s do it, what do you wanna go do? Amusement park?”

“Oh gosh, maybe the beach or something? I don’t know about rides!”

“You’re suuch a baby.”

“Hey!” It’s perfect then, until he gently brushes a drop of juice off your chin, and you both freeze at the damn contact.

How can you act normal when his touches make you want to straddle him!?

You are flushed then, so flushed he frowns, touching your cheek. “You’re warm, you feeling okay?”

“Too much sun lately.”

“But you want more?”

“Yes! While you’re here.” He nods then, and soon he’s driving you in his car, the tops down, it’s blissful. Him watching your hair fly back so fucking pretty, your beautiful smile on your face, those big sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose.

He wants to take a million pictures of you, to keep forever.

It’s perfect as you two set up your things, as you both run into the water and are laughing, Caleb knows you can’t swim for shit so he’s got you on his back as he steps deeper. The sun is shining as you sigh, snuggling up close to him, warming both of your skin, your one arm is wrapped around his neck as the other hand gently brushes his chest.

“It’s perfect here, let’s just stay,” you murmur softly, lips pressed against his ear as you rest your chin, he smiles back at you, little streaks of blond already in his hair showing through the thick chocolate strands. “I’ll become a fish.”

“You’d be a terrible fish,” he says, laughing now. “Can’t swim!”

“Well maybe I could if I was one!”

“You’d be a washed up mermaid.”

“Hey!” You’re both laughing, feeling the ease of each other’s company, when he’s carrying you back you both see your friends again, they’re both talking each of your ears off.

The boy you’ve been talking to on and off is with the group, but you avoid him. How can you even go near someone when Caleb will always have your heart like this? You’re sitting alone, listening to your music as the waves lap on the sure, pretty birds flying over you, when Caleb comes to sit next to you on the laid out beach towel. He’s dripping wet still, droplets undulating across his abdomen.

He leans on an elbow, laying on his side and studying you carefully, his eyes filled with something you can’t describe. “Now you’re quiet.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He brushes the damp strands of hair back, his other hand dangerously close to your thigh now, you shift closer, like his gravity is just pulling you towards him, breath caught in your throat. “That bathing suit… it looks so…”

He trails off, you blush a bit, pretending it’s the sun, as his hand hesitates, fingers tracing the air across your thigh, terrified to cross that line, especially in public. Thinking of anyone saying bad things about you would infuriate him, he could never let you handle something like it.

And what would they say?

Caleb didn’t care, not for him, but you’re too fucking important, the best friend he’s ever have, the closest to him. So his hand eases back, as you let that breath you’ve held go, he closes his mouth, not finishing his words. “It looks so…”

“Good, pip squeak.”

He smiles, sitting up now, you feel him again, pulling the fuck away from you. You bite back your frustration, looking out at the beach again and hugging your knees. You’re so beautiful like that, if Caleb could paint anything in his life it would be you right now, how the wind blows your hair, how your skin looks from the glow of the sun.

Why can’t he say it?

“Do you want me to count those airplanes tonight?” He teases, and you shake your head now, earning his frown. “No?”

“I’m good on my own,” your words kill him then, he can see you slipping further, despite his hope that today could be a reconciliation. But everything is too raw and exposed. “But thank you.”

“Yeah, all grown up I know.” He playfully ruffles your hair, playing his role - fuck he’s tired of it.

*****

It’s storming again, despite the beautiful sunny day, as you lay alone in your bed, shutting your eyes and picturing him, the memories of all those nights You’d come in his room, and he always would rub your hair, count those planes, as the storms would rage outside. You remember when you stopped being afraid of the storms, when they stopped bothering you.

But you still came to him.

Why wouldn’t you, when he feels like home?

You toss and turn, the blanket a tangled mess in your quiet room, as the storm gets louder, echoing with patters along the window, you hear the wind howling, the tree branches scratching the side of the house. The noises drive you fucking insane, you can’t sleep, especially with the thoughts swirling in your mind over and over, memories and fresh fantasies intertwining.

You finally throw your blankets off, feet touching the cold floor underneath, tentatively walking step by step, until you reach his room, hand hovering on the knob now. You turn it tentatively, hearing it click, peeking in the room now, seeing him sitting up in the bed, reading with the soft light next to him on. He’s startled when you walk in, shifting a bit.

“Pip squeak, what’re you up this late for?” He sets the book down, and you see he’s shirtless yet again, his silver tags resting against his breast bone, right between those flat nipples. You touch your own without thinking about it, fingers running over the cool metal, tilting your head as you watch him sit up.

“Sorry, the storm… it’s scaring me.” You’re walking over by his bed now, he sighs, looking away, fists clenching.

As if he can handle you in his bed at this point.

“You’re scared?”

“Yes um, maybe you could… let me lay here?” You’re right next to him now, he could reach out and wrap an arm around your hips, kiss up your tummy, feel your skin under his palm.

“Thought you were too grown up now,” Caleb’s words are dark, lightning illuminating his figure on the bed while he lays there and looks at you. The rain is pattering across the window, while you tremble when you see the look on his face, the heat in his eyes, you’re hugging yourself tightly. “Why come here now?”

“Never mind then, sorry I bothered you,” you turn and he’s on you before you get to the door, pressing it shut and gently gripping your wrist, exhaling. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I just…” He trails off, you feel his hard body against you, his fingers brushing your hair back softly, leaving goosebumps along your skin. “I thought you didn’t need me anymore.”

“That’s not it, not at all.” You hold it in, what you want to say, that you need him in different ways, ways that terrify you and make you question everything. Could your relationship ever really work, could you ever be together?

“Then what is it, all mad at me for days. Was it because I… touched you.”

It was because he stopped touching you.

You shake your head, not trusting the words coming out, Caleb tugs you to him, hugging you from behind then, while you shut your eyes, dying at how good he feels, so strong and warm. Your body reacts as much as your heart does, you’ve just missed him so much too, you feel it all as he presses a kiss on your head, it’s something he did at times, but it all feels so different now.

Before you could pretend better, shove it down more, but since he got back you feel like you can’t hold back. You’re standing there as the little popping sound of his sweet pecks hits your ears, the rain still hammering the window as the two of you stand quietly, just the sounds of your breathing filling the room with the back noise of the storms that still scare you.

“It wasn’t that, it’s just… Caleb, I’m still scared of storms,” you say then, and he turns you, warm hands covering your bare arms, sighing. “I learned to be alone but it doesn't mean I want to when you're here.”

“Oh honey,” he feels horrible then, he's been so cold the past couple days to you, to avoid the blatant need. Feeling horrible his control slipped for a moment, but you still want to come to him. “Do you need me?”

You nod quickly, you need him in so many ways, struggling to keep your composure as the need hits. Deep and hungry, forbidden, you can't even let yourself think about it lately. But you will take any of him you can, including being in his arms, stepping closer now, impossibly closer.

“Do you wanna lay in my bed, Pips? I'll rub your hair like you like,” he murmurs, smiling in that heartbreaking way he does. You nod and swallow nervously when he takes you by your wrist, bringing you over to his bed now. He lifts up the blanket for you, and you slip under it, he always does that, he’ll lay on top of them, maybe to be respectful.

You lift the blanket for him before he can lay down, and he pauses at it, before blushing in the dark, as he hesitates. “You’ll get cold.”

“I’m like a space heater,” he doesn’t think he can handle it, being pressed against you with at least the barrier, but he slips under it, leaning on his elbow on one of his plush pillows, brushing your hair back. Your heart hammers at the tender show of affection, his sweet smile. “You still need me I guess. Just a bit.”

“Of course I do,” you’re nuzzling his hand, pressing a kiss there for a moment, your eyes shutting a bit. “Do you ever need me, too?”

What a fucking question, he can hardly process it - he needs you like the fucking air he breathes. His only fault in all of his pilot training and school was his psych evals, because he couldn’t get you off his fucking mind. It was an obsession that was never going away, he didn’t need you to do anything but exist and he was ruined, never thinking anything could be more.

He thought he’d be okay with you moving on, he knew one day you’d date someone, you’re beautiful and young. People love you. He is in love with you, so why wouldn’t other people be? But the truth was he wanted to be selfish, he wanted to keep you to himself, forever, even though it’s not a possibility.

The talks at the pool alone, along with Gran… it just showed the way people perceive the two of you, if only he could just take you all far away, where no one knew you, not this old neighborhood where everyone knows you all so well, the one you two grew up in since the day you met.

“What’s on your mind?” Your words shake him from his thoughts, you’re looking at him with those eyes, the ones that always try to read him and fail.

“Nothing pips,” he’s always lying, he has to. How can he tell you what he really thinks? “Get some rest.”

“Could you um… hold me?” He’s exhaling now, he used to hold you when you were younger, but it’s gotten impossible. But he would do anything for you, so he puts on a brave fake fucking smile, nodding and holding you at an arms length. You scooch back, and he sucks in a breath, the curve of your ass against his cock now.

Fuck.

“Night pips,” he murmurs, arm wrapping your waist now, his thigh against your heat, god why do you have to feel so good? He’s tucking his cock up in the waistpants of his boxers, trying to keep his hips pulled back. He presses his lips against your temple, a hand slipping against your waist. “I’m sorry about the other day.”

“Don’t apologize please.” You shift a bit, brushing against his thigh and gasping at the sensation, you feel Caleb tense then. “Mnh.”

“Maybe… maybe I should… lay on the floor.” He manages, pressing his thigh harder, feeling your soaking cunt on his bare thigh. “Tell me I should.”

“No, I w-want you to hold me,” you’re rolling your hips, needy and desperate, as his hand grips you so tightly, you’re struggling to catch a breath at it, heart hammering when you roll them again. “S-sorry…”

“Don’t apologize either.” His words reassure you, when he lets you spread your thighs, rolling your hips more and more, he’s throbbing as you do. “Was it from that boy?”

“No, Caleb.” You finally answer it, the words releasing softly from your lips, he exhales at that, moaning now, tugging you closer.

“Do you need me to help you?” His hand slips slowly down your tummy, it trembles under his touch, as you look back at him with dilated eyes, biting your lower lip. “Ask me if you need it.”

“I need it, please, Caleb… it hurts.” He’s always taken care of you when you’re hurt, the words plus your cunt drooling on him are enough to almost make him bust against his waistband.

“Ask nice enough I’ll give you anything,,” he’s slipping his fingers lower, now he knows where your little clit is, he brushes it over your shorts. “Hurts here?”

“Y-yes,” you’re whining out so loud he has to cover your mouth, as the reality of what you two are doing hits, and your eyes meet. Your breaths are coming too quickly, when he slips your shorts to the side, finding you soaking wet. Your eyes roll back when he presses on your clit again.

“Shh, please,” he’s lost when he releases your mouth, wanting to see your pretty face, rolling in circles as you keep riding his thigh, gasping. “Faster, slower?”

“Perfect- mnh!” Your head falls back against him, hands gripping his forearms, feeling the muscles and tendons bulge and move as he works you, as you hear the embarrassing wetness squish as it pours.

“God you’re so wet,” he doesn’t think this could be normal, the way your clit twitches, the way your cunt is so wet as he dips a finger in your hole, pulling back his thigh then. “Do you need more?”

“I’ve never… Caleb…” your words are clear, you’re not any more experienced than he is. But he wants to seem capable, he wants to make you feel so fucking good, to make you comfortable. “I play with myself though.”

“You do?” His words are hoarse, you nod quickly, wriggling as his finger tip prods your little hole. “That’s slutty, pips.”

“Don’t you?” You look back at him, cheeks flushed, eyes so glittery when the lightning illuminates the room.

“You’re asking slutty questions too,” he’s curling a finger in your gummy walls, gripping him already, you’re gasping at it. “You like that, is that what you need?”

“More.” Your words are a hoarse whisper, Caleb’s more than eager to give you it, kissing your neck, curling up again at the spot that’s just a little spongy, the one that makes you quiver. “Yes, please.”

“You’re asking so sweetly now, you still need me huh?” You’re nodding, he needs this, you to need him, want him, it’s almost too much, he’s burying his head against your neck, inhaling your scent. “Is this just me helping you out?”

“What do… you want… it to-” There is a huge clap of lightning then, so loud the lights go out, a large boom of thunder.

“Shit,” he pulls back then, as he hears footsteps. “I need to check the breaker, Gran will freak out.”

“Of course.” You pull back, biting your lip again, cursing yourself for not being able to hold back, to control yourself, when you hear Gran’s door open across the hall, and footsteps, calling your names.

The two of you look at each other again, breaths quicker as he takes your hand, and you both realize how close you are to losing it. “I’ll be back.”

He’s grabbing sweats and slipping them on long slim legs, turning on his phone flashlight, as he and Gran softly talk, and you panic, eyeing the slick mess you’ve made down your inner thighs. You don’t just want Caleb to help you, you want him to be with you, but to say it, to do it?

It’s terrifying.

He’s back soon, the soft lights back on, shutting the door carefully and eyeing you, holding a blanket to your chest, right in his bed. Facing Gran when he’d just had his fingers in you was ridiculous, she surely never thought anything about the two of you in bed together, she knows you’re close. But the very nature of your relationship just wasn’t the same.

“I should go to my bed,” you say then, stepping out from the covers, walking by him when he stops you, and your eyes meet.

“I didn’t help you yet,” his words are far too husky, needy, as he steps you until your back is against his door. He locks it with a quiet click that resounds loudly in his bedroom, bending down to cup your cheek. “Don’t you hurt?”

“I can’t ask you to do that, I am sorry I… I shouldn’t…” He’s so close to kissing you, his lips hovering, straight nose brushing yours.

“You don’t want me to make you feel better, pips?”

“Of course I do- but… what’s it… change? For us?” Your words are heavy, your hands on his bare chest, eyeing the muscles there, feeling his heart race under your palm. “I shouldn’t ask that from you.”

“You think I don’t want to help?” You turn away then, hand on the knob, and he tenses, stopping yours with his own.

“I can’t ask it, we can’t… I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not. You’re just needy, you’re wet… you’re so hot…” he’s gripping your chin then, hand back between your thighs, you’re biting back a moan, arching for more of his touch. “I told you I’ll do anything for you, if you just ask me, if you just say what you need.”

His words are desperate, his breath heavy as you roll your hips, pressing for even more of him. “Anything I ask?”

“Anything,” you shut your eyes, exhaling. “I’ll always help you, I will always be here for you.”

You’re so in love you feel sick, thinking of all the ways you’ll never have him. “You’ll leave soon.”

“Yeah, I will, so use me while I’m here.” His words are too much now, you are coming undone as his other hand grips your tit, squishing it gently.

“I wanna cum, please, I’ve only cum by myself.” He moans at that, the thoughts of it just being him igniting his most possessive, toxic feelings, when he turns you back around, sinking to his knees. “C-Caleb?”

“Shh, have to be quiet or I can’t,” he’s slipping your shorts down, your breasts heave with every quick breath, cunt pulsing around nothing as he looks up at you, his soft brown hair falling over his brow. “I’ll make you cum over and over, until you’re satisfied completely, yeah?”

“Caleb um… what’re you…” He’s got your bare pussy in his face soon, moaning as he sees it, just how fucking beautiful it is, and you’re so nervous. “Is it um… you’re seeing all of me.”

“It’s beautiful, you’re perfect.” His words reassure you, when he tugs a thigh over his broad shoulder, looking up at you under his lashes.

“Have you… done this?” You manage to ask, and he pauses, inhaling your sweet cunt, god he’s tasted you already so many times, but from the source?

“Would that make you mad, pips, if I ate someone’s pussy?” You glare now, and he smirks just a bit, raising a brow and tilting his head. “Yeah? Why?”

“It wouldn’t! Of course not, I just meant… I just… it’s something I… Caleb, you’re staring at it.”

“It’s perfect, can’t help it.” He’s pulling your folds apart like he’s studying every part of your little hole, separating the puffy lips then letting them slip back together, glistening wetness dripping across his thumbs. “You’ve only shown me?”

“Yes,” he’s kissing your cunt then, a sweet pop of his lips, you almost scream, covering your mouth with a hand. “Mmm!”

“Shh,” he’s lapping his tongue up your slit, groaning softly as he drinks your nectar, so sweet and perfect against his tongue. He knows it’s wrong to have already tasted you, he knows he shouldn’t have stolen all those panties. Acting a perfect ‘step brother’ when all he wants to do is drink you. “I want you to tell me what you like.”

“I like… all of it…” He smiles a bit, lapping his tongue up again, flicking his tongue on your clit, it’s so good you almost bite your fucking tongue, hips pressing against his face for more. 

“Good girl, ya listenin’ huh?” You’re nodding, helpless as he starts focusing on your clit, as his fingertips brush the slick that's gathered, shoving two of them deep inside of you, you gasp at it, head slamming the door as his tongue works your clit in circles, until you're pulsing around them, drooling. “Aw, you're so messy honey.

He's taunting you as he sucks your clit into his hot mouth, curling his fingers right up, and you can't think of how wrong it is, you can't think of fucking anything but cumming for him. You're biting down on your knuckles as he works you, as you're so soaked your slutty cunt drips onto the hardwood floor as his fingers work you up and down, and the pressure builds.

You’re gripping his locks and tugging, as he loses himself, just diving in and licking every crevice, every inch of your pussy and relishing in it, in the taste of you, in how you feel. He loves every movement and motion of your body, sucking you up and drinking you, his tongue swirling in quick flicks while his fingers find that spot again and target it.

He’s got your head slamming the door harder, you’re lost, screaming weakly into your palm, feeling yourself lost to him, to all the sensations, grinding on his face soon, for him to pull back and moan. “That’s it, use me honey.”

You’re grinding quicker, as he keeps up the pace, honing in on every place that makes you gush, until you finally feel it, the release about to come, his touches are nothing like your own, they’re unlike anything. Your heart hammers in your chest, as the sounds get lewder, the squelching even louder in his room, mixed with his soft whines, as his free hand brushes his own cock.

He’s about to cum from licking you.

“Cum for me, now.” His voice is commanding suddenly, it’s not sweet Caleb, it’s the military officer's voice, and of course you cum, how can’t you?

You’re gushing so much it’s embarassing, the wetness making such a mess he’s struggling to catch it all, cunt pulsing around his thick fingers as you gasp and slam your hands tighter over your mouth. You’re lost, cumming so hard you’re blinded, and when he feels what he’s done, when he sees it, he’s done right with you, ready to have you cumming again and again.

He shocks you by yanking you to the floor, hovering over you now, fingers moving up and down, so much pressure you feel like you’re gonna pee, you’re trying to stop him then, but he’s too far obsessed, shoving your top down. He’s groaning quietly when he sees your perfect breasts, kissing down them, sucking one of your nipples in his hot mouth.

“Caleb, it’s too much,” he’s moving them up and down, hitting that spot in your slick walls over and over, your eyes rolling back, hips raising off the cool wood of the floor he’s thrown you on. “Mnh!”

“Again,” he orders it, putting his own hand over your mouth to muffle your screams as he exhales, feeling your muscles tighten around him again, so strong with the force they try to push him out, your wetness making it slipper. “Again, you can do it can’t you?”

You’re lost, cumming harder, and this time squirting all over Caleb’s hand, he whines out in wonder at it, bending down again, he shoves his fingers in your mouth, you suck them, up and down, the action filthy. He’s spreading your thighs, slurping you up again, hungry and desperate, while you’re tugging at his hair, muffling your moans with gritted teeth.

He’s relentless, he doesn’t stop after the next orgasm, no he’s waited too fucking long for this, for you. He’s drinking every bit like he’ll never get the chance again, until you’re tugging him harder, shaking, twitching. You can’t control your body anymore, it’s a trembling mess under his heavy weight when he finally leans up, easing his fingers out, running them up and down your slit.

His eyes are black, just a purple ring left now, his lips and chin coated and shimmering with you, lips hovering but he doesn’t slam them down, as if to preserve one shred of his sanity. He cups your face carefully, swallowing nervously and studying you in the night, his eyes darting back and forth across your face, as if committing it all to memory.

“Did I help you, honey?” You barely manage a nod, as he tugs you close, burying his face against your neck, your hands grip his waist, slipping up his back, feeling his breaths quicken as your nails press in just a bit. “Do you feel better, does it hurt?”

“I feel so… amazing.” You can’t hold back, kissing his throat, wondering just what the two of you have done. “I’m mad anyone got that.”

“You're so jealous, pips?” He teases, leaning up, shaking his head. “Anything I do with you is special.”

You blink back tears at that, making him frown contemplatively, while two tears slip from the outer corners of your eyes. “You’re special to me.”

“So are you, so special.” He kisses your forehead, sighing. “Come to bed.”

“Okay,” you’re taking his help to stand, he’s careful as he slips up your panties, caring and sweet, like he wasn’t just being filthy, like he still wasn’t coated in your cunt, no like he’s taking care of you. He picks you up, carefully carrying you to the bed, holding you against him.

It’s so beautiful you want to cry.

You can hardly gather what just happened, you can barely process any of your feelings, any of your emotions, while you look up at him in the night. “Sleep,” he’s stroking your hair, sweaty just a bit from the exertions, he can still taste you on his fucking tongue.

“Caleb, don't you want me to make you cum?”

He can’t take it, your sweet little voice, your eyes looking up at him like that. “What’d I say I like to do?”

You’re blushing now. “Please.”

“Yeeep. So shh, lay down, stop wriggling.” You do just that, snuggling up to him and yawning now.

“I don’t want you to go.” Your sleepy words set it all in, just what he’s doing with you, and what it could mean.

“Shh… one airplane, two airplanes,” his voice is a caress as he says the familiar words you remember from when you were younger. Your eyes get heavy, as he trembles internally, imagining the moment he has to let you go, it is foolish to think there can be more, and he’s selfish to have even drank you on that fucking door. “Three airplanes, four airplanes…”

“Mmm,” you snuggle, feeling the soothing touch and hearing his steady heart beat under your palm. His voice echoes, as the orgasms he’d just put you through are wearing you down, but so much is left unspoken. “Five airplanes.”

“You’re counting now?” He laughs, the sound so endearing your heart hurts, you nod and snuggle closer. “Six airplanes, seven airplanes, eight airplanes…”

He keeps going, as the sleep starts to take you, the bliss of the pleasure and all the pent up frustrations being released finally, it’s enough to take you out by plane number thirty. He’s still counting, even as he looks at your beautiful face in the night with the storm subsiding outside.

“You never make it to a hundred,” he kisses your head with a sweet little pop, tenderly running his fingers up and down your back. “I love you.

*****

Today was busy, spending time with Gran, the two of you keeping your distance, the act like you feel like family, when it’s as far from the fucking reality as anything could be anymore. He sneaks looks at you, your collarbone, the way your skirt slips up your thighs, the way your eyes glitter when they catch his. Your sweet, nervous smile, the way your lashes lower.

The two of you put on the act, you always have, why is it so much harder now, because you crossed the line?

You’re pacing your room later, knowing he’s leaving soon, and knowing you need every moment, every part of him. You keep pacing, trying to talk yourself out of it, he didn’t come to your room, you’re going to his again, are you pushing too much on him, being greedy?

You can’t take the thoughts anymore.

Caleb is laying there, eyes shut, remembering every moment so vividly, touching his hard cock under the blankets and crying out quietly, wishing he didn’t feel so fucking guilty, so terrible, this torture- the sin he feels. Carrying these feelings for so fucking long - god he loved you when he first laid eyes on you as a kid.

You trusted him implicitly, but all he can think of is putting babies inside you and locking you the fuck away. The neediness makes him stay away, but he’s hurting, his cock throbbing now. He’s sticky against his boxers, sighing as he tugs at them, when suddenly the door opens again.

“Pipsqueak…” Caleb tenses when you walk in his room, you’re wearing one of his shirts like to end him, and now he knows just how sweet your fucking pussy tastes, he’s pulling his hand off, thankful you couldn’t see..

“Let me make you feel good,” you whisper, shutting his door now, he’s shaking his head as you come to the bed slowly, hips swaying as you walk towards him, making him want to grab them. “Why not Caleb?”

He can’t take it, that’s why.

“Do you know what to do?” You shake your head. “Are these just lessons?”

“Is that what you want to call it?” He laughs without humor, brushing your hair back now. “Is that what we have to call it, to feel better about it?”

It’s silent then, he swallows nervously, not knowing what to answer, not knowing what to say. What about when he left, would you go back to that boy, or get a new one to date? Would they please you, and would you forget this? The panic sets in, when you’re touching his length over his sweats, and he’s biting back a moan, gripping your wrist.

“Do you feel bad? Did you feel bad when I drank you?” His words are devastating in their husky, raw feelings, you blush and lower your head now. “Can’t answer? Do you think anyone else could ever make you cum like that?”

“Caleb…” He’s done then, fury blinding him, squeezing your wrist so hard it’s bruising him.

“Get out before I lose it, before you won’t be a fucking virgin anymore, in any of your holes, huh?” You blink in surprise, lips parted, while he cups your face and exhales, shaking his head. “I can’t handle you near me, touching me.”

“What if I want it all?” He glares at you now, hand squeezing so hard it is making your arm tingle with pins and needles.

“You want me to take it, then leave you?”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Pips…”

“You’re hurting me, Caleb.” He pauses, releasing your wrist now, head resting against yours, breaths heavier. “Why wouldn’t I want you as my first? Even if I’m not yours.”

“How do you know that, how are you so fucking sure I’ve been with anyone?” He’s squeezing your face, looking at the lips he still hasn’t kissed. “You keep acting like I have.”

“How couldn’t you have? You’re so handsome, funny, smart… sexy… you’re everything anyone could want.”

“You think all that?” You blush, nodding.

“You’re the best guy I know, and of course you seem… um, talented at things.” You blush furiously now, looking down.

“You think you’ll be okay if I do that, and that’s it? Just experience?” You nod again, but he doesn’t believe you, not one fucking bit. “That’s special.”

“You’re special to me.”

“Fuck…” He kisses you then, for the first time in either of your lives, the feeling so electric you’re dizzy, he pulls back and his breathing is heavy, his eyes drugged.

He wants to finally say it - he’s in love with you.

But is it just the experience you want, is it just trusting him to show you? He’ll take any fucking piece of you there is, even if it’s physical for you, it’s enough to live off the memories of you. The words start and die in his throat as you kiss him back, tongue nervously filling his mouth, tiny and sweet as it flicks along his, he’s groaning, hands entangled in your hair.

He almost does it, almost fucks you, but he pulls back, saliva dripping between each of your mouths, as your eyes lock. If he fucks you no way he stops, no way he keeps quiet, no way he doesn’t put babies in you. No fucking way you don’t go move with him, stay with him forever - as if once would be enough for him!?

“I’m relocating to another country,” he says then, and the words settle, you sit back, eyes glassy as emotions hit. “I got a huge promotion. I have to take it, too, there’s not an option.”

“Another country!?” He looks away now. “You didn’t even tell me?”

“I’m telling you now,” he glares up at you, brows lowered. “You really wanna do this once and then I am that far away?”

“I… how far…”

“Far enough.” He brushes your hair back, sighing. “I wouldn’t be able to just do it once. When I start? I’ll never stop fucking you.”

“Caleb…” He’s kissing you again, and you’re torn, between desire, love, and now panic that he’ll be gone.

“You’ll be graduated, hmm,” he’s kissing you again, exhaling against your lips, eyes catching yours in the dark as his hand tightens at the nape of your neck. “You’ll forget me.”

“I’ll never forget you, how dare you think it.” You speak between your tears, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurts, shoving at him then.

“Of course you will, and I’d rather you not forget that too.” You stand then, taking a breath, shaking as he runs a hand through his hair.

“You didn’t tell me before, why?”

“I wanted this last week with you to be happy,” he shakes his head now. “I wanted things to be like they were before, when we were each other’s everything.”

“Things are different, what I want it’s…” You can hardly hold back, knowing he’s leaving is so hurtful, he was away a lot, but another country? When would you ever see him again? “How far?”

“Other side of the world,” his words break you further. “I am sure I can still fly out once a year, but is that what we’ll do? I’ll fuck your perfect cunt once a year,” he stands now, bending low over you. “And wonder who else has been inside it?”

You smack him then, he pauses, brushing his cheek as you glare. “And I’ll wonder who you’re with.”

He laughs again, it’s a dark sound, as he desperately grips your face. “You don’t even know me sometimes, do you?”

“You don’t let me Caleb, you’re always hiding! You’re always lying, omitting truths, never sharing how you feel. I think I’m losing my mind and you’re calm.”

“I’m calm!?”

“Always, infuriatingly.” You turn now, swiping your tears away. “I’m just embarrassed I asked it.”

“That’s not-”

“Good night.” You rush out and shut the door quietly, leaving him to palm the old wooden door, swallowing down his own tears.

Fuck he almost had you, he almost was inside your perfect pussy, the one that lingered on his tongue for the day, the one that he’s been dying to be in since he knew what it fucking was. But he turned you down, pissed you off so bad you smacked him, and held back completely - like he always fucking did.

That kiss was so intense he can’t even imagine what fucking you will be like, he can’t fathom it, and can’t fathom being your experience, being just that and leaving, not knowing who will have you. If he at least doesn’t ever feel it, he can shove it down like he used to, before he started getting pieces of you, the taste and hope of more, when it’s impossible.

You’ll finish your degree, you’ll buy a house and follow your dreams, and he’ll be a country away, constantly on missions, worried about you, and not even being able to look forward to coming home to you. What sort of fucking life was that, be without you or be with you and never fully have you?

His fist clenches as he turns back, yanking at his fucking hair, tortured by the need to run after you and the need to hide.

Is he selfish enough to do everything he wants? 

They're frustrating me again </3

At first, it was subtly sweet. The way he always wanted to know where you were, checking in constantly like he cared a little too much. The way he insisted on picking you up from work, from dinners, from places you were perfectly capable of leaving on your own.

But then it escalated. 

Questions turned into interrogations. Concerns turned into restrictions. Suddenly, your phone buzzed with his messages every time you were out, and your decisions were met with disapproving looks and lectures disguised as "worry."

And it only got worse because you had no Evol, no abilities to shield you from danger, no built-in safeguard if something went wrong. To him, that made you vulnerable, fragile and in need of someone like him. But seriously though, you have managed just fine before he ever came into your life.

At first, you tolerated it, convincing yourself it was just his way of showing love. You dismissed it as a habit from his job as a colonel, structured, disciplined, and always anticipating worst-case scenarios. You told yourself it was normal, that some people love fiercely, protectively and maybe that’s true.  

But love shouldn’t feel like surveillance. It shouldn’t feel like being second-guessed at every turn, like justifying your choices to someone who sees your independence as a threat instead of a strength. It shouldn’t feel like ripping your wings, like trading your freedom for someone else’s comfort.  

And the moment you realized that? You knew it was over.

–

The phone buzzed in your hand, ‘Caleb ♡’ flashing across the screen for the fifth time in a row. You hesitated, exhaling slowly before finally answering.

“You’re still ignoring me?” His voice came through the speaker, tight with frustration. No hello. No softness.

You rolled your eyes, shifting the suitcase beside you. “I’m not ignoring you, Caleb. I’m busy packing.”

“For that trip,” he said flatly.

“Yes. For that trip.”

A tense silence stretched between you. Then, with a humourless laugh, he said, “So you’re really going through with this?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, already exhausted. “Caleb, I’ve told you a hundred times—this is happening. It’s just me and the girls. It’s not a big deal.”

“But it is to me,” he snapped. “You’re leaving for an entire weekend, in Linkon City, with no one looking out for you. Do you know how dangerous that is? Especially with the Wanderers around.”

Your grip tightened on the phone. “Linkon City is perfectly safe, thanks to the Hunters, and I know how to take care of myself.”

“That’s not the point.” His voice dropped, low and insistent. “What if something happens to you? What if you need me and I’m not there?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “Caleb, something always ‘might’ happen. I could trip over my own feet walking down the street, and you’d still act like I need supervision.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is you thinking my freedom is something you have a right to control.”

Another silence. You could almost picture him now, jaw clenched, hands running through his hair in frustration. But you were past the point of softening your words to ease his temper.

“I love you,” he finally said, voice quieter now. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

Your heart clenched, but you forced yourself to stay firm. “You already did.”

Caleb drew in a breath like he was about to argue, to find the right words to pull you back, but you didn’t give him the chance. You ended the call before he could even try, letting the silence speak for itself.

She’s gone…she actually just hung up on me. Just like that?

She thinks she’s done with me? Cute. Adorable, even. She’s just confused right now. A phase. A temporary lapse in judgment. I mean, we were practically perfect together—okay, maybe not perfect, but close enough. We had a good thing. I’ll give her a few weeks or months to stew over it. She’ll come back. She just doesn’t know it yet.

She needs “freedom”? Sure. Great. Go ahead and get your little “freedom,” pipsqueak. Go on your trip with the girls and post your little Instagram stories with your cocktails and your cheesy ‘healing’ captions. I’ll pretend like I’m not paying attention to the comments or checking who’s liking every picture.

But the second she realizes that no one out there will worship the ground she walks on like I do? The second she sees that no other guy will remember every little detail about her—how she likes her tea, how she hums that one song when she’s doing the dishes but refuses to admit it’s her favourite, how she’s got a million tabs open on her browser but never actually reads anything?

She’ll come running back.

She’ll remember how good we were together. How great we were.

I will wait for you when you are ready. 

– 

You felt… liberated, to say the least. A weekend away with your girlfriends was just what you needed. You spent hours catching up, sharing stories, and laughing—something you hadn't realized you’d missed so much. When you told them about your breakup with Caleb, they were surprised but not entirely shocked. They knew you valued your independence too much to settle for anything less than respect, and Caleb's overbearing nature had always been a point of concern for them.

The weekend unfolded in a blissful blur of indulgence and carefree moments. You enjoyed fancy dinners, basked under the sun at the beach, and dipped your feet into the pool while losing yourself in a book. You sipped on refreshing mocktails, took silly pictures, and felt the weight of stress melt away.

At the beach, you and your friends lounged on the warm sand, indulging in playful eye-candy scouting, and a man with dusky purple hair and striking bluish-pink eyes caught your attention. He looked almost unreal, like something pulled from the pages of a fairytale. Ethereal. Enchanting. If mermaids walked on land, you were certain they’d look just like him.

Unbeknownst to you, Caleb took matters into his own hands. While you were away, he broke into your apartment—too bad your security wasn’t up to par. That’s exactly why you needed someone like him, right? His eyes roamed your personal space like it was land he wasn’t prepared to lose. He set up cameras carefully, one in the living room, another in your bedroom, and even one in the bathroom. To Caleb, letting you slip away wasn’t an option.

He’d give you the space you demanded, sure, but only on his terms. In his mind, you were still his regardless of what you thought. He convinced himself that it was his right to keep watch and to ensure your safety, with or without your consent.

–

When you returned to Skyhaven, it hit you—reality, that is. Back to your job, back to your life, and Caleb…well, Caleb wasn’t part of that anymore. You have ended things. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. You had expected him to bombard you with texts, but surprisingly, your phone was quiet. Too quiet.

You even posted a picture of yourself in that dress—the one that hugged your figure just right, the colours bright against your skin and the way the hibiscus in your hair caught the light. You were proud of how you looked, but when you checked your notifications, there was no comment, no like from him. A little part of you felt a pang, but you shook it off.

What you didn’t know was that Caleb had seen the picture, and it consumed him. He was furious, very furious that you dared to wear something so revealing, something that might catch the eye of someone else, without him there. If you were going to wear something like that, it should’ve been with him by your side, where he could keep an eye on you. He would’ve let you wear it, after all, he could fight anyone who dared to look too long, but without him around? It made his blood boil.

And yet, despite the frustration, his body betrayed him. The second he saw that picture, he was already half-hard. God, you guys had never even fucked. You had called it “too soon” and had wanted to take things slow, and fine—he respected that. Somewhat. But damn, you had no idea how badly you messed with him, how pent-up he always was around you.

His fist clenched as he freed himself from his sweatpants, his cock already straining. One hand gripping his phone, the other wrapped around his length, stroking slowly as he imagined it was you—your soft hands and your cunt wrapped around him instead. 

His breathing turned ragged as the images flooded his mind. He pictured you beneath him, stretched wide with your voice trembling as you begged him to go slow, to be gentle. Fuck, he wanted to come, but the frustration twisted inside him, mixing with his hunger. He needed more. He needed you.

Tossing his phone aside, he got up and strode to his dresser, yanking open the drawer. And there it was, the hidden treasure—delicate and lace-trimmed, the soft fabric nestled right where he left it. Your panties.

 He may or may not have swiped them when he was setting up the cameras in your apartment, but did that matter? That’s the least you could do for breaking up with him over the phone.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he brought them to his face, inhaling deeply with his eyes fluttering shut. The scent was faint, just traces of laundry detergent and fabric softener, but he wanted more. He wanted them used, soaked in your scent, dripping in proof of how much you needed him. His fingers tightened around the fabric as he pumped his cock faster, lost in the thought of ruining you, marking you, making sure you never even considered leaving him again.

"Caleb!" Your voice cracked, high and desperate. His cock twitched at the sound.

He could almost feel it—the way your walls clenched around him, trying to force him out while greedily pulling him back in.

"St–stop!"

He chuckled darkly, leaning down, his breath hot against your ear. "Stop?" he echoed mockingly. His hand gripped your thigh, pressing your legs apart despite the way you trembled beneath him. "You’re squeezing me so tight, pips. You don’t really want me to stop, do you?"

Your nails dug into his shoulders, useless resistance. "N-no… but—"

“That’s right,” he growled, thrusting deeper, drinking in the way you choked on your own breath. "You take me so well. Like you were made for this. Made for me."

He imagined your head tilting back, lips trembling, and body writhing against the sheets, too fucked-out to fight him anymore. Your voice, once filled with hesitation, melted into helpless little whimpers.

"Too—too much, Caleb…"

“Too much?” He kissed down your throat, his teeth scraping against your pulse. "But pipsqueak, I’m just getting started."

His strokes quickened, both in reality and the vivid fantasy he was spiralling deeper into. The panties in his grasp crumpled under the force of his grip, his knuckles turning white as he pressed the fabric against his nose, desperate to drown in the ghost of your presence.

He could see it so clearly—you spreading out beneath him, legs trembling and tears glistening in your eyes. Wrecked. Shattered.

“That’s my girl. You don’t need to think, just feel. Let me take care of you.”

His hips jerked, pleasure coiling tight, winding dangerously. He imagined the final moment—your body arching, your lips parting in a silent scream as he claimed you.

A guttural groan tore from his throat as his release overtook him, thick ropes of white spilling over his abs and chest. His body shuddered, fingers twitching, and his breath was unsteady.

But as the high ebbed, a bitter frustration gnawed at him.

It wasn’t enough.

Because it wasn’t you. Not yet.

step 1: show her that youre a 'changed man'

‘coincidentally’ run into her

dress well (make sure she notices) 

speak softly

give her the puppy eyes, shes always been weak for that

ask her if she wanna be friends 

smile, but not too much

A few months had passed since the breakup. Life moved forward, as it always did. You missed him sometimes, small moments of nostalgia creeping in when you passed by places you once shared. But you reminded yourself why you left. Missing someone didn’t mean you belonged with them.

Caleb, however, never truly left.

He had been watching. Through the flickering screens in his dimly lit room, through the quiet hum of surveillance, he had memorised every part of your life. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear while reading, the way you curled up on the couch with your favourite mug. He studied your routine like a scripture.

And now, it was time.

He knew your new favourite café—how you liked to sit by the window, how you always ordered the same drink. So when he "accidentally" ran into you, it would feel natural.

A harmless coincidence.

"Wow, I wasn’t expecting to see you here… You look good."

Your head snapped up at the familiar voice. “Oh… hey.” Your fingers instinctively tightened around your cup before you forced yourself to relax, putting your phone down. The awkwardness between you was obvious.

He took a step closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket with a casual posture. “I wasn’t sure if I should say hi. I didn’t want to bother you.”

You blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t the Caleb you remembered. He always carried himself with confidence, sometimes bordering on arrogance. But now… he seemed different. Softer.

“It’s fine,” you replied, clearing your throat. “It’s… been a while.”

“It has,” he agreed, the purple eyes you once adored scanned your face like he was memorising you all over again. “You look… happy.”

You shifted in your seat. “I am.”

A small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips. “That’s good. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

The words landed heavily, leaving a strange warmth in your chest—guilt? Sadness? You weren’t sure.

Before you could respond, he gestured toward the chair across from you. “Do you mind if I sit? Just for a minute. I don’t want to make things weird, I just—” He exhaled softly, shaking his head with a sheepish chuckle. “I don’t know. Seeing you here gave me whiplash.”

The hesitation in his voice, the way he seemed almost vulnerable. It made it hard to say no.

“…Yeah, okay. Just for a minute.”

He sat down, hands clasped together on the table, eyes never leaving yours.

“So,” he started, offering a small smile, “tell me, what’s new?”

"Nothing much, just work and stuff," you said, offering a shrug as you took another sip from your coffee. You felt a little uncomfortable, but you didn’t want to make it obvious. He was just sitting there, quietly watching you, like he was soaking in every detail of your response.

“Ah, yeah, I get that. Work can really take over sometimes,” he replied, nodding sympathetically. “I’ve been keeping busy too. Just… trying to focus on myself, y’know?” 

You nodded, unsure of where this conversation was going. “That’s good. It’s important to focus on yourself.”

A quiet moment passed, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking a lot about… things, y’know, since we last talked. I’ve had time to reflect, and I realised I probably could’ve done a lot better. With us.” His voice softened, almost vulnerable.

You felt a strange discomfort at his words, unsure how to respond. “I—I mean… we’re good now, right?” You paused, awkwardly fidgeting with the edge of your coffee cup. “It’s all in the past.”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. There was a sincerity in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. “Yeah, I know. I… I’ve been working on myself. I’ve changed, really. I just hope that…you’re doing okay.”

“I’m good. Really.” You forced a smile, trying to dismiss the flood of emotions that were slowly rising within you. “I’m happy. I’m in a good place.”

He nodded slowly, his lips curling into a small, almost bittersweet smile. “I’m glad. I just wanted you to know that I—” He paused, looking down at his hands, then back up at you. “I never stopped caring about you, y’know? I’ve always wanted what’s best for you.”

“Caleb…” you started, unsure how to respond, but your thoughts were jumbled. What was he saying? Was he genuinely apologising? 

“I know things ended badly, but I just… I wanted you to know that I’ve learned from all of it. From my mistakes. And I’m not asking for anything, but maybe, just maybe, we could start over as friends? Take things slow…?”

You bit your lip, feeling a sudden rush of conflicting emotions. Part of you wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he had changed, but the other part of you… was still wary. You didn’t want to repeat past mistakes.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, glancing down at your cup, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s all of a—”

“Just think about it,” he interjected gently, his tone almost pleading. “I’m not asking for much, just… a chance to show you that I’ve changed. That I’m different.”

You stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. For a moment, it felt like you were teetering on the edge of something you didn’t know if you were ready for. But Caleb, the version of him sitting across from you now, seemed almost like a stranger. Yet there was something familiar about his presence.

“I… I don’t know, Caleb,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need time.”

His face softened, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your composure as his words sank in. “Alright, I’ll think about it.”

Caleb let out a slow breath as if he had been holding it in, his lips curling into the softest smile. But it wasn’t just the smile—it was the way his eyes rounded slightly, a flicker of vulnerability creeping into his usually confident gaze.

“Really?” His voice was just a little too hopeful, like he wasn’t expecting you to even consider it. “You’ll think about it?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling like the bad guy for making him wait. “I didn’t say yes,” you reminded him quickly, gripping your cup a little tighter. “I just… need time like I said.”

He nodded eagerly, that soft, almost puppy-like expression still in place. “Of course. I get it. Take all the time you need.” His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he let out a breathy chuckle. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

And just like that, the tension in your chest eased—only slightly, but enough to make you feel like maybe, maybe you had been too hard on him.

Caleb watched as you hesitated, the smallest flicker of indecision in your eyes. It was barely there, but he caught it, and inside, he was grinning. You were already bending, already second-guessing.

He pushed back his chair, standing with an effortless grace. “I should probably get going,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I didn’t mean to take up so much of your evening.”

You blinked. “Oh. Yeah, of course.”

He hesitated for just a second longer, then flashed you one last smile—the perfect mix of warmth and quiet longing. “I’ll be around,” he said, his voice soft, before making his way to the door.

As he stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his skin, he let his expression shift. His smirk pulled at the corner of his lips, triumphant. You had no idea, did you?

His plan was falling into place perfectly.

Step 1: Successful.

step 2: make her doubt herself and weaken her boundaries

highlight her ‘flaws’ even though shes already perfect

emphasise her independence a lot

buy wine and cook sweet and sour chicken with rice

stock up on apples

After the unexpected run-in with Caleb, you didn’t expect things to go anywhere, at least not like this. But somehow, things started feeling easy again between you two, like the months apart had melted away in the span of a few casual conversations. He always had that ability, didn’t he? He made everything feel natural and effortless, even though you knew it shouldn’t.

It was part of his charm, after all—the reason you’d fallen for him in the first place.

The invitation was where it all started. 

“You have to let me cook for you,” he insisted, flashing that easy grin. “You always loved my cooking. Just one meal, no pressure.”

And somehow, you found yourself here again.

His penthouse hadn’t changed at all since the last time you were here—same sleek, modern design, the ambient lighting casting a soft glow over the dark furniture. The air smelled warm and familiar, a mix of spices and something distinctly Caleb. You sat at the dining table, watching him move around the kitchen like a busy housewife. The soft sizzle of sweet and sour chicken filled the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly steamed rice.

He plated the food with the same care he always did, setting it in front of you before finally taking a seat beside you instead of across from you like he used to. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

“Go on,” he urged, nudging your spoon toward you.

You picked it up hesitantly and took a bite. The flavours burst on your tongue—sweet, tangy, and perfectly balanced. It reminded you of nights when this used to be normal. When Caleb would cook, you’d sit beside him, talking about everything and nothing.

“Still the best cook I know,” you admitted, offering a small smile.

He chuckled, nudging his knee against yours under the table. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”

He took a bite of his own, watching you carefully as you ate. Then, after a pause, his expression softened.

“You look tired.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He gestured subtly toward you. “Your eyes. A little duller than usual. And you’ve been rubbing your temples since you got here.”

You forced a laugh, setting your spoon down. “I guess I’ve been busy.”

He hummed, swirling his drink in his hand. “You always push yourself too hard. You used to do the same thing when we were together, remember?”

You tensed slightly. “I’ll manage.”

“I know you will,” he said smoothly. “You always do. But that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”

You frowned, slightly offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to something softer—something that felt too close, too knowing. “You never let yourself slow down. Even when you’re exhausted, you just push through it.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “You used to get those headaches from working too much, and you’d act like it was nothing until I made you stop and rest.”

Your fingers curled slightly against the table.

“I used to love that about you,” he continued, voice warm, laced with nostalgia. “How stubborn you are. How much you take on without ever asking for help.”

“I don’t need help,” you said, a little too quickly.

His lips barely twitched, as if he’d expected that answer. “I know.” He leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

The warmth of the room suddenly felt heavier.

You forced another small laugh, reaching for your glass. “I’m fine, Caleb.”

He smiled, but there was something knowing in his eyes. “Of course.”

The conversation drifted to safer topics after that, but the weight of his words lingered. By the time you set your spoon down, you couldn’t shake the strange unease settling in your chest.

Maybe you were pushing yourself too hard. Maybe you weren’t as fine as you thought.

Maybe… Caleb wasn’t wrong.

He didn’t miss the way your spoon hovered slightly above your plate, how your eyes drifted just a little too long, lost in thought. The confident ease you had when you first arrived had faltered, just for a second, but it was enough.

You were thinking about what he said.

A quiet satisfaction curled in his chest, but he didn’t press. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle, nudging your knee again. “I didn’t mean to kill the mood,” he said lightly. “You got really quiet on me.”

You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. “Oh—sorry. I was just…thinking, I guess.”

His lips twitched. Perfect.

He tilted his head slightly, resting his chin against his hand. “Heavy thoughts?”

You hesitated, then shrugged, forcing a small smile. “Maybe…I have been overworking myself a little.”

That was all he needed.

His expression softened, the perfect mix of concern and understanding. “See? That’s all I meant. I worry that’s all.” He exhaled, leaning back slightly. “You give so much of yourself to everything you do, but who’s making sure you don’t burn out?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You had friends, of course. People who cared. But… no one really checked in on you like that. Not in the way Caleb always had.

You shook your head as if physically trying to push the thought away. “I’ll manage,” you repeated.

Caleb let a small, knowing smile creep onto his lips before setting his drink down. 

Not for long.

A beat of silence settled before he suddenly stood, stretching slightly. “Why don’t I cut us some apples?” he said, already moving toward the kitchen. “I bought some fresh ones this morning. You’ll love them.”

You blinked at the sudden shift in topic. “Oh—um, you don’t have to.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “I want to.” His lips curved as he reached for a knife. “Besides, they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, right?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re such a goof.”

Caleb smirked but didn’t respond as he started slicing. The rhythmic thunk of the blade against the cutting board filled the space, and you watched as he didn’t just cut the apples into simple wedges, he carved them into small bunny shapes.

Your brows lifted. “Are you seriously making bunny apples right now?”

He smirked, carefully peeling back the “ears” of one of the slices. “Obviously. What, you think I’d just give you a boring apple slice?”

You leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite yourself. “Since when do you know how to do that?”

Caleb shot you a knowing look as he set another bunny slice onto the plate. “I have my secrets.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He chuckled, finally returning to his seat beside you with the plate, setting it down between you both. The little apple bunnies were lined up neatly, their tiny “ears” perked up as if they were waiting to be eaten.

You stared at them, then at him. “I hate that this is actually kinda impressive.”

He grinned, picking one up for himself. “I accept your reluctant admiration.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips as you picked up an apple bunny and took a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and frustratingly perfect.

“See?” Caleb murmured, watching you with quiet satisfaction. “Worth the effort, right?”

You swallowed, shaking your head. “You’re so weird.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teased, nudging his knee against yours again. “Still eating my expertly crafted bunny apples.”

You huffed but didn’t argue. The playful exchange had lightened the air between you, momentarily softening your earlier hesitations.

And Caleb, watching the way your guard lowered just a little more, couldn’t help but smile.

Step 2? Already working.

step 3: make her depend on you

catch her lacking

secretly send the gym voucher in her mail

act natural 

comfort her when she vents

touch her and stay close to her 

It had been a week since Caleb’s words lodged themselves in your mind like an unwelcome guest. You give so much and don’t feel appreciated enough. You had brushed it off at the time, but the thought had lingered, creeping back in at moments you least expected.

That was probably why you were here now, in a gym of all places, desperate to burn off the frustration bubbling inside you, to drown out the noise in your head while your feet pounded against the treadmill.

Still, the fact that you ended up here felt like a weird coincidence. A few days ago, you received a gym voucher in the mail—an exclusive trial membership with an almost suspiciously good discount. You weren’t even sure how it ended up in your mailbox. You had never been the gym type, and you certainly hadn’t signed up for anything like this. But it was affordable, and after the week you had, it felt like a sign from the universe. (It wasn’t. It was Caleb)

Work had been exhausting. Again. Your boss barely acknowledged your input, and one particular smug bastard had conveniently taken full credit for your idea, flashing that self-satisfied grin like he’d done all the work.

The more you thought about it, the angrier you got. Your fingers hovered over the treadmill’s controls before you cranked up the speed. If only you could just run him over with a car and—

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

The familiar voice cut through the gym’s ambient noise, and for a second, your fingers twitched against the treadmill’s handles.

You turned your head, already bracing yourself and oh my god.

Caleb stood beside you, effortlessly leaning against the treadmill next to yours, a towel slung lazily around his neck, a water bottle in one hand. The athletic shorts highlighted the muscles in his legs, and his white workout shirt clung to his chest in a way that made you way too aware of how well he filled it out. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin told you he had been here for a while.

You forced yourself to look away. “Yeah, well… needed to clear my head.” You coughed, willing your pulse to settle.

He raised an eyebrow as he stepped onto the treadmill beside you, setting his pace to a casual jog. “Didn’t realize you went to the gym.”

You let out a short breath, still jogging. “Is that an insult?”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Not at all. Just… surprised.” His eyes flicked toward your treadmill screen, tracking your speed. “Didn’t peg you as the intense type.”

You scoffed, wiping a stray strand of hair from your face. “Well, maybe you’re not the only one who’s changed.”

He hummed, his expression unreadable. “Maybe.”

He didn’t need to say more. The seed was already planted.

Caleb kept pace beside you, his breathing even and movements effortless. It was infuriating how easily he made it look like he wasn’t even trying. Meanwhile, you were actively fighting the urge to focus on the burning in your legs, determined not to let him see you struggle.

“So,” he started, voice smooth and casual, “bad day at work?”

You exhaled sharply. “Something like that.”

“Let me guess,” he mused, glancing at you. “Your boss ignored your input again, and some asshole took credit for your idea?”

Your steps faltered just slightly before you caught yourself. “How—”

Caleb let out a chuckle. “You always get this look when you’re pissed about work. It’s subtle, but I’ve seen it before.”

You frowned, not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Right. Forgot you were a human lie detector or whatever.”

“Not a lie detector,” he corrected, his smirk deepening. “Just really good at reading you.”

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Caleb had always known how to read you, sometimes even before you could fully process your own emotions. He had a way of catching onto things, of noticing the smallest shifts in your mood. It used to be comforting. Now, it felt a little dangerous.

You swallowed, fixing your gaze ahead. “Well, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Of course,” he said easily. “You’re strong. Always have been.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, throwing off your rhythm for half a second. You recovered quickly, but not before Caleb noticed.

His smirk softened. “But even strong people get tired.”

Your grip tightened on the treadmill handles. Damn it. You hated how easily his words seeped under your skin, how they poked at the very thing you’d been trying to suppress all day.

“So what?” you said, forcing a lightness into your tone. “You think I need a pep talk?”

Caleb’s eyes never left you. “I think you need a reminder that you don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

Your breath hitched. 

For a moment, you didn’t respond, focusing on the rhythmic pounding of your feet against the treadmill. It was easier than acknowledging the warmth creeping up your spine, the way his words sat heavy in your chest.

This was exactly what you didn’t need.

The problem with Caleb was that he made things sound so simple. He made it so easy to forget why you left, why you needed space. He said the right things, knew which buttons to press, and worst of all, he still made you feel.

And that? That was a risk you weren’t sure you could afford.

You let out a breath, slowing your pace slightly. “Well, thanks for the unsolicited wisdom, Dr. Phil.”

Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “Anytime.”

A silence settled between you, not quite uncomfortable but charged with something you refuse to acknowledge.

Caleb then stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders. “Y’know, since you’re new here, I could show you around. Make sure you don’t, I don’t know, drop a weight on your foot or something.”

You shot him a dry look. “Wow, so much faith in me.”

“Just looking out for you,” he said, that damn smirk back in place. “Like I always have.”

And there it was again—that reminder. That thread of familiarity, of us, woven so seamlessly into his words.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

And Caleb saw it, felt it.

He wasn’t in a rush. This was all part of the game.

So when you finally sighed and mumbled, “Fine. But no unsolicited advice,” he just grinned.

Step 3 was right on track.

– 

You come back from the gym feeling drained and your muscles aching. Caleb had taken it upon himself to train you after the tour, just the basics, he said, nothing too serious, he said. But the way his hands lingered, the way his voice dropped lower every time he corrected your form, sent a slow-burning heat through you that had nothing to do with exercise.

"You’re tensing up too much. Relax…there you go."

You dragged a hand through your hair, exhaling. It was just adrenaline. 

But when you closed your eyes, all you could think about was the way his fingers skimmed your sides, the quiet hum of his approval when you finally got the movement right. The way his eyes had looked at you.

"Good girl. Just like that."

Fuck it.

Now, alone in your bedroom, you collapsed onto your bed, chest rising and falling, but the tension in your body hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deep, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

You dragged your gym shirt over your head, tossing it aside, but the heat clinging to your skin didn’t dissipate. Your body still burned with something you refused to name, something that pulsed between your thighs with every replayed memory of his touch.

Your hand trailed up, fingers skimming over your sports bra and squeezing the swell of your breast. A small sigh escaped you as your other hand slid lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. The moment your fingers brushed against your clit, a soft gasp left your lips.

Your body was already so sensitive, so needy, and the more you teased yourself, the worse it got. Every stroke sent another wave of heat pooling in your belly, and in your mind, it wasn’t your own fingers—it was his.

You could almost hear him. That low, amused chuckle, the way his breath would fan against your ear as he murmured, "Look at you, already so desperate for me."

You kicked off your shorts and underwear, your movements impatient, your body aching for more. Reaching for a pillow, you slid it between your thighs, pressing down as you began to move, grinding against it, and each roll of your hips sending sharp pleasure through you.

Your back arched as you picked up the pace, riding the pillow as if it were his cock, panting softly as you clutched at your breasts, pinching your nipples. Your mind painted the image so vividly, Caleb beneath you, his hands gripping your hips, watching you fall apart on top of him.

"That’s it, baby. Just like that."

A needy whimper escaped your lips as you buried your face into the sheets, fingers tugging at your hardened nipples, pretending it was his mouth teasing you, his tongue flicking and sucking until you were squirming.

Meanwhile, across Skyhaven.

Caleb ran a towel through his damp hair as he stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around him. The gym session had gone even better than he planned. He could see it, the way your breath hitched, the way your body tensed under his hands. You were already slipping, already wavering. He also made a mental note about that bastard at your workplace, promising himself he’d handle him soon. But for now, he needed to clear his head.

With a sigh, he tossed the towel over his shoulder, water droplets rolling down his chest as he made his way through the penthouse. He hadn’t even planned on stopping by his office, just a quick glance at the screens, a habit more than anything.

But then he saw it.

His feet stilled at the doorway, his gaze locking onto the upper-right monitor. His office, lined with walls of screens, glowed softly in the dim lighting. Each feed displayed different angles of your apartment, and on one particular screen made his breath hitch.

There you were, back in your bedroom, stripped down, thighs straddling a pillow as you rocked against it, your brows furrowed in desperate pleasure.

Caleb's grip on the towel tightened, his body instantly reacting.

"Caleb…"

His restraint snapped.

His hand palmed over the towel, groaning low in his throat. Fuck. You were thinking about him. Even when he wasn’t touching you, even when he was taking his time, you still belonged to him.

Looks like he could skip Step 4. It was time for the final move.

final step: coaxing her back

You wanted to slap yourself. Who in their right mind gets off thinking about their ex?

Yet, no matter how much you tried to push the thought away, Caleb had begun to crawl into every corner of your mind. It was like a spell had been cast, wrapping around you and pulling you under.

The night had started with rain, thick sheets of it pouring down as you walked home, the soft patter against your umbrella the only sound accompanying you. You kicked at the puddles absently, trying to focus on anything other than the memories clawing their way back to the surface.

Then, headlights cut through the downpour. A sleek black Lamborghini Lanzador slowed beside you, its engine a deep and familiar purr. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Caleb behind the wheel—one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting against his temple as he watched you with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“You seriously weren’t going to call me for a ride?” His voice was warm and teasing.

You hesitated. “I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think,” he echoed, shaking his head before unlocking the door. “Get in before you drown, pipsqueak.”

You scowled, shutting your umbrella with a sharp snap before getting in. “I hate it when you call me that.”

He only smirked.

The door clicked shut behind you, and before you even finished buckling your seatbelt, Caleb pulled back onto the road. The rain drummed softly against the windows, the warmth inside the car doing little to ease the tension winding tight in your chest.

“Seriously, stop calling me that,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Caleb glanced at you, the corners of his lips twitching. “What? Pipsqueak?”

Your jaw clenched. “Yes, that.”

He chuckled, effortlessly changing gears. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because it’s condescending,” you shot back. “Like I’m some kid.”

He smirked. “I don’t think you’re a kid.”

“Then why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Because it gets under your skin,” he admitted without hesitation. “And because you make the cutest face when you’re annoyed.”

You glared. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but… you had nothing. He wasn’t wrong. You were here. Despite every reason you had to keep your distance, despite all the time and space and unspoken things lingering between you, you still got into his car.

Caleb must have sensed the shift in your silence because his smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, something almost hesitant.

“I mean it, though,” he said, his voice softer. “I don’t call you that to belittle you.”

You turned your head, studying his face, searching for the usual mischief—but there was none.

“Then why?” you asked, wary.

His fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel before he exhaled. “Because it reminds me of before.”

Your stomach twisted.

Before.

Your frustration boiled over, heat rising to your cheeks. Without thinking, you reached for the door handle, fingers wrapping around it with the full intention of getting out—moving car be damned.

Caleb’s sharp gaze flicked to you instantly. “Don’t even think about it.”

You shot him a look, jaw tight. “Then stop the car.”

He didn’t. Instead, he pressed a button on the console, and with a soft click, the doors locked. 

You froze, snapping your head toward him. “Are you serious?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes back on the road. “Dead serious.”

Your jaw clenched. “Let me out.”

“Not when we’re going 60 on a wet road.”

You huffed, shifting in your seat, nails digging into your palms. “Unbelievable.”

Caleb sighed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

The rest of the drive passed in tense silence.

Then, instead of pulling up to your place, Caleb eased the car to a stop in front of a café. You blinked, frowning as you looked out the window. The familiar glow of the storefront sign illuminated the street, reflecting off the slick pavement.

Your fingers tightened around the door handle before you turned to him.

“Why are we here?”

Caleb leaned back, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “What do you mean?”

You shot him a look. “You picked me up in the rain. I thought you were taking me home.”

His smirk returned. “I was. Then I figured we could use a detour.”

“A detour?” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Caleb, it’s late. And I’m tired.”

His smirk didn’t waver, but something softened in his gaze. “I know. But it’s been a while since we did this.”

You hesitated. The café was familiar—your spot, our spot, once. You hadn’t been back since everything ended.

“You could’ve just taken me home,” you murmured.

“I could have,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But you would’ve shut the door in my face the second we got there.”

Your jaw tightened. “…You don’t know that.”

He arched his brow. “I do.”

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the truth of it settled uncomfortably in your chest. He did know you. Even after everything. And worse, you knew he was probably right.

Caleb studied you for a beat before his expression softened further. “The coffee’s on me,” he added lightly. “You can even get any pastry you like.”

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle by the time Caleb shut off the engine.

You stared at the café through the windshield, its warm glow spilling onto the wet pavement.

This was a mistake.

You should’ve said no. Should’ve insisted he take you home, unbuckled your seatbelt, and walked away without looking back.

Yet, you sat there, gripping your sleeve, hesitating.

Caleb sighed, then suddenly leaned over, reaching past you.

You tensed. “What are you—”

The click of your door unlocking cut you off, and before you could react, Caleb was stepping out into the rain. Your brows furrowed. Was he just going to walk around and open the door for you?

But then he lifted his hand.

The air around you shifted, and a barely visible barrier shimmered to life above the car. The rain that had been pouring relentlessly now slid off an invisible shield, leaving you completely untouched.

You blinked before scoffing. “Must be nice having an Evol.”

Caleb smirked, opening your door. “Jealous?”

“A little,” you admitted, stepping out carefully, the space between you suddenly feeling too small. “Would’ve saved me from carrying an umbrella everywhere.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Or from getting caught in the rain in the first place.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t comment. The sidewalk was slick, puddles reflecting the glow of streetlights. The air smelled like damp pavement and coffee, the warmth of the café just a few steps away.

When you guys reached the entrance, Caleb lowered his hand, and the shield dissolved like it had never been there. He pulled open the door and gestured for you to step inside.

You hesitated for only a second before walking past him, the scent of coffee and nostalgia wrapping around you like a ghost.

 “Guess not much has changed.”

Your throat tightened. “No.”

The barista, Lily, behind the counter, looked up, recognition flashing across her face. She hadn’t seen you in months—not since everything ended—but she still remembered.

“Hey,” she greeted with a small smile. “It’s been a while.”

Caleb smirked. “Yeah. Thought I’d bring her back.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist, but you ignored it, turning your attention to the menu overhead, as if you didn’t already know what you wanted.

Caleb leaned in slightly. “Still take it the same way?”

You shot him a look. “Why do you care?”

His lips twitched. “Humor me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah.”

Caleb turned to the barista. “Two of those, and she’ll also take…” He looked at you expectantly.

You sighed. “A blueberry scone.”

He smirked. “She’ll take a blueberry scone.”

The barista rang up the order, and before you could reach for your wallet, Caleb was already sliding his card into the reader.

You narrowed your eyes. “I could’ve paid.”

“I know.” He grabbed the receipt. “But I said it was on me.”

You huffed but didn’t push further, taking the coffee when he handed it to you.

The café wasn’t crowded, just a few people scattered at tables, lost in their own conversations. It would’ve been so easy to pretend this was just another night, just another casual outing—

But it wasn’t.

Caleb nudged your arm, pulling you from your thoughts. “Come on.”

He led you to a table in the corner. Your table.

The moment you sat down, an uneasy weight settled in your chest. You traced the rim of your coffee cup, the steam curling between you. Across from you, Caleb leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lazily against the table.

“You’re quiet,” he noted.

You met his gaze. “I have nothing to say.”

His lips twitched. “That’s a first.”

You rolled your eyes and took a sip of your coffee, letting the warmth ground you. But it didn’t stop the thoughts circling your mind.

Why did he bring you here?

Why now?

Why does it still feel easy with him?

“You’re thinking too much.”

Your fingers stilled around your coffee cup. “And you’re still assuming you know what I’m thinking.”

He smirked. “I don’t assume. I know.”

You scoffed, leaning back against your chair. “Enlighten me, then.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you the way he always had—like he was peeling back layers, reading between every breath, every hesitation. “You’re trying to figure out why we’re here. Why I didn’t just take you home.”

Your grip on the cup tightened.

Caleb took a sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You exhaled sharply, placing your cup down a little too firmly. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sit there all smug like you still know me.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do I not?”

You hesitated.

He was baiting you, as he always did. And the worst part? He was right. He did know you. Knew you well enough to bring you here, to order your drink exactly the way you liked it, to pick up on your hesitation before you even voiced it.

And yet, that only frustrated you more.

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “You should’ve just taken me home.”

Caleb hummed, taking another sip of his coffee before setting it down. “I know.” He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. “But I wanted to talk to you first.”

Your stomach twisted.

There it was.

The thing you had been waiting for—the reason you were here.

You swallowed. “About what?”

His gaze softened just slightly, the amusement in his eyes giving way to something quieter.

“You.” His voice was steady, deliberate. “Me.”

Your fingers curled around your cup. Careful.

Caleb didn’t look away. “Whatever this is—whatever it’s always been.”

Your breath hitched. You let out a quiet scoff, breaking eye contact. “There’s nothing anymore.”

He was silent for a moment, just watching you. Then, as if weighing his words, he exhaled. “Do you really believe that?”

You didn’t answer right away.

“I have to,” you finally said, voice quieter now.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Then why are you here?”

You stiffened. “You brought me here.”

He shook his head once. “You could’ve said no.”

Your gaze snapped to his. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

His lips curved slightly, though there was no amusement behind them. “You always have a choice.”

The weight of his words settled between you, thick and suffocating. The café buzzed with quiet chatter around you, but none of it reached your ears.

Finally, you inhaled sharply. “What do you want from me, Caleb?”

His fingers tapped absently against his cup as if considering his answer. But when he finally spoke, it was quiet. Certain.

“I want you to come back.”

Your breath stalled.

A dry laugh escaped you. “Back? Back to what, exactly?”

He didn’t hesitate. “To me.”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “You can’t just say that like it’s simple.”

“I never said it was simple,” he admitted. “But it’s the truth.”

You looked away, pulse hammering in your throat. “It’s too late.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Is it?”

You hated the way he said it—like he already knew the answer. Like he could see right through every flimsy excuse you were trying to hold onto.

Your fingers tightened around your cup. “You don’t get to show up and expect everything to go back to the way it was.”

His voice was steady. “That’s not what I expect.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Then what do you expect?”

A pause.

“I expect you to be honest with yourself.”

You hated the way your stomach twisted at his words. The way something deep inside you lurched forward despite every wall you had built.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “This is a mistake.”

Caleb held your gaze. “Maybe. But it’s ours to make.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You could feel it—the pull, the weight of something inevitable pressing down on you. Every logical part of you screamed to shut this down.

But it was already too late, wasn’t it?

Your grip on the cup loosened, your resolve crumbling piece by piece. Then, finally, exhaustedly, you sighed.

“…Fine.”

Caleb didn’t rush it.

He let the silence settle, let the weight of your surrender sink in. The moment you said “Fine,” he knew it was over—you had already lost, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Leaning back in his chair, he took his time, watching you with that same knowing look, fingers drumming lazily against his coffee cup. You were trying so hard to act unaffected, eyes locked on the table, but your grip on the ceramic was tense.

You were waiting—for what, exactly? The regret? The anger? The second thoughts?

None of it came.

Caleb exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. You always made this harder than it needed to be.

Without another word, he pushed back his chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Your shoulders tensed as he stood, rounding the table with slow, deliberate steps.

Not stopping. Not hesitating.

He moved in, closing the space between you, his presence overwhelming as he braced one hand on the back of your chair, the other resting against the table. His body caged you in, shielding you from the rest of the café, from the world beyond this moment.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

Trapped.

His scent washed over you, pulling you under like a riptide. The heat of him, the sheer certainty in his movements, sent your pulse into chaos.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous.

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“That you’re staying.”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to push him away. To fight.

But you didn’t.

Your lips parted, barely forming his name. “Caleb—”

That was all he needed.

His fingers brushed along your jaw before tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was slow and deliberate, but there was nothing soft about it. His grip was firm, possessive.

Like he was claiming you.

“You don’t regret this,” he murmured, the words barely a whisper, right before his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful.

It was deep, demanding—a possession.

Caleb kissed you like he was proving something, like he was erasing every ounce of distance you had tried to put between you. His lips moved against yours with precision, drawing you in and breaking down every last barrier you had left.

Then his tongue slid past your lips, coaxing, teasing, taking.

The taste of coffee and something purely him flooded your senses, dizzying and intoxicating. He was relentless, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, drawing out a soft gasp that he swallowed like he owned it.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you feel it to remind you that there was no escaping this, no running from him or this pull.

And you—God, you kissed him back.

It was your undoing.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, gripping it tight, like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. His other hand slid to the nape of your neck, holding you there, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

The café, the hushed conversations, the rest of the world—gone.

There was no fight left in you. No walls.

Only him. Only Caleb.

When he finally pulled back, lips barely brushing against yours, his breath was uneven, his voice thick with something raw, unspoken.

“Knew you wouldn’t leave.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips parted, breath stolen.

And then he saw it.

That flicker in your expression—not defiance, not reluctance.

Surrender.

Your grip on his hoodie loosened slightly, but you didn’t push him away. Your lashes fluttered, your gaze flickering to his lips for just a second too long, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Caleb’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. His thumb traced along your jaw, a silent I won.

Because he had.

You cling to him, burying your nose in his shoulder. He smells like work, leather and metal and gasoline. Sweat, too, but that you don't mind. It's something that's Caleb's. You like his smell. When you pull back from him he's smiling wide, eyes soft as he looks down at you. 

“Hi, pips. Didya miss me?” 

“Missed you enough not to ask why you look like haven't slept in three days,” you reply lightly. You poke his cheek with a finger. “Did you miss me?” 

“Always do, pretty girl.” Caleb readjusts his bag, and you tug on his arm. 

“Then let's go,” you say, and Caleb lets you lead the way. 

“I'm happy you came to pick me up, baby, but next time you can just have me come straight to your door, okay?” Caleb steps behind you, around you, moving himself to the part of the sidewalk closest to the street. His hands are on you when he does, gently, steering you on your arm, your lower back. 

“But this way I get to spend more time with you.” 

There's never enough of it. Time. You realised that, after Caleb died. Wished to turn it back, flip the hourglass, just another day, another minute, just one more second with Caleb. 

Somehow you got your wish. You intend to make the most of it. 

Caleb laughs and ruffles your hair. “Okay, smooth talker.” 

This part is easy.  

You're always ecstatic to see him, these first couple of hours. The joy is so fierce and intense you don't care about anything else; you're just happy Caleb is here, and that he's with you. You greedily drink in his affection, grab hold of anything he'll give to you, because you know that it's precious. Grains of sand in the hourglass. 

You chat while you walk. You do most of the talking, as usual; Caleb can never say more about his work than ‘fine’ or ‘okay’ or ‘busy’. You try to accept this, even when it hurts. Even when the anger burns; even when it makes you want to shake him until the secrets fall out of his pockets. 

“What do you wanna eat today? Should we stop by the store?” 

You shake your head. “Dinner's waiting for you.” 

Caleb is surprised; he smiles, bemused, and raises a brow. “Did you order in for us? Or did you make somethin’ and burn it again?” 

"No,” you jab at his ribs with your elbow. “I cooked for you. And that was just the one time, you meanie.” 

“For me?” Caleb is pleased. He pulls you close for a moment, arm swung around your shoulder, and kisses the top of your head. The warmth of it trickles all the way down to your toes. “Thank you, sweet girl. What'd I do to deserve that, huh?” 

“Don't say thank you yet. Maybe you won't like it.” 

“I like everything you do, baby.” 

If you could, you'd eat those words instead of dinner. Pluck them right from the air and let them dissolve on your tongue, then swallow. Hoping you taste Caleb's voice in your throat. 

Yeah, this part is easy.  

It's good—it's how things are meant to be. It's not without effort: you have to pretend that Caleb's eyes haven't changed, that his complexion hasn't become paler, more drawn. You have to pretend not to see that the edges of him have sharpened. This Caleb is harder. Quieter. His quick, easy smile has lost about ten percent of its previous shine. It is a loss you grieve very much, but— 

you're well acquainted with grief, now. 

For the first couple of hours, you're always very good about ignoring all of this. 

You walk Caleb all the way to your apartment, and line your shoes up next to his in the hallway. His sneakers are huge and well-loved, logo old and faded on the sides. He always buys a same pair of new ones, then wears them out until he can't use them anymore. 

You should spend more money on yourself, you tell him when he buys you flowers, heels, a watch, a nice coffee machine. Caleb never listens to you, just smiles. 

I just like spoilin’ my girl, that's all.  

You've begun to watch your words more closely when you talk about things you like. 

“You even set the table? What's goin’ on here?” Caleb narrows his eyes at you playfully when you enter your home. “It's not my birthday for a while yet, pips.” 

“Don't be silly.” You move to the stove and turn it on low so the pans already assembled there can start warming up. Caleb did this for you for years, day in, day out. Breakfasts and lunches and dinners, snacks from the corner store. He used his pocket money to get two of everything you liked. 

You ate it together on the pavement just outside your home. 

“Sir? Your seat is ready,” you say, and pull out his chair with a bow. Caleb sits down with a chuckle, and you serve him food. Things he likes, lots of it. Rice and fish and sour fermented things. Fried vegetables, crispy and still-warm. 

“You've finally gotten good at this, huh? No burned edges this time,” he teases. 

“Like you didn't snatch up the burnt ones before I could eat them.” You push more food on Caleb's plate. He's too thin, these days. It makes you wonder if he remembers to eat when he doesn't do it with you. 

Caleb insists on doing the dishes after, and this you allow, though you help him dry and put things away. 

“I got you dessert, too. Do you want it while we watch a movie?” 

Caleb looks at you, hands covered in bubbles. “Why're you bein’ so nice to me today, huh? Did you do something bad again?” 

You huff. “Fine. No dessert for you, then.” 

Caleb splashes you with soapy water in retaliation, and you dodge, laughing. You lean your head against his shoulder, just for a moment. It's nice. You're punishing yourself. 

“I just want you to have nice things.” 

Caleb shifts, pressing his weight into you until you move away again. “I already got you, pretty girl. I don't need anythin’ else.” 

You turn your back to him, hang up your towel to dry. You keep your voice level. “What about a girlfriend?” 

The faucet runs, then stops. “You know I'm not dating anyone. Not planning to, either.” 

“I'm not pretending to be your girlfriend at work again,” you warn him. It was awful. Nothing like back when Caleb went to DAA. His colleagues were nice, but you felt like you were burning alive with Caleb holding your hand, fingers interlaced, talking to some of the guys he worked with. Kissing you on the cheek when you left. 

It was so nice. It was the worst kind of punishment he could have given you. 

“Why not? You're so good at it.” 

Like anything was difficult with Caleb. You didn't even need to do anything; just stand there, next to him, looking at him like you were in love. It required no effort on your part. 

“I don't like lying,” you say simply. “What do you wanna watch tonight? You can pick.” 

Caleb looks at you with a serious expression. For a moment you think he'll continue about the girlfriend stuff, but then he shakes his head. “Actually, I wanted to take you somewhere tonight. You not too tired?” 

“Depends. Where are we going?” 

Your breath comes in white little puffs, clouds that trickle up to the night sky. It's very clear out tonight; the moon is at three-quarters, so it's not too dark, not even here at the outskirts of Linkon. 

Caleb hands you a blanket from his car, then zips up your jacket all the way to your chin. 

“’S cold out, baby.” 

You marvel at all the things he pulls out of the back. A thermos with hot chocolate, a heating pad, camping chairs that unfold with one shake. And that's not counting all the stuff he usually has in there: first aid kits, fixing tools, flashlights, rechargeable batteries. Gum and water and sanitary pads and towels. Your favourite chapstick, a sweater for when you get cold.  

Apocalypse Caleb, you called him when you first found out. He laughed. 

“What if I'd said I wanted to stay in? Look at all this,” you say. “You prepared so much.” 

Caleb shrugs a little. “Then we would've stayed in.” He tests the camping chair, pushing it securely into the ground. “Here you go, pips, go sit down.” 

You do as he says, tucking the blanket over your lap. Your nose is cold, but the rest of you is very warm. Caleb insisted you put on more clothes before you went. 

You let your head fall back to look up at the stars. They blink back at you; little dazzling lights, far far up ahead. So far out of reach. Just like Caleb. 

The first couple of weeks after he came back you felt like you were in a stupor. Dazed. You'd forgotten how to walk and talk and breathe the way you normally do. You didn't know how to look at your brother anymore, the person you loved most in the world. You felt like you were burning out of your skin being in the same room as him. You felt like you were dying when you weren't. 

“Earth to pipsqueak.” Caleb's finger pokes your cheek. “You got a deep thinkin’ look on your face. What's on your mind?” 

You shift, turning your face to him. He's sat down right next to you; the arm of his camping chairs right up against yours. Absentmindedly, you fiddle with the little net at the end that lets you put cups in there. 

“I was thinking about when I saw you again for the first time.” 

Caleb smiles a little, but it's not a very happy smile. “Not a fun day, huh.” 

“It was the best day.”  

You cried so much you couldn't open your eyes anymore. Blindly, you clung to Caleb, refusing to let go. When he had to leave you for a minute to sort out his Colonel duties you had a full-blown panic attack. 

He had to rush to your side to work you through it, warm hand rubbing your back, telling you listen to his breathing. Just focus on me, pips. On me, okay? I'm right here.  

This is the tricky part. 

You love Caleb very much. You're so, so happy he's here.  

You're so, so furious. 

Some days you think that this anger is the only thing that sustains you. 

“Are you still upset with me?” 

Your big brother never had to ask how you were feeling. He always already knew, even when you didn't want him to.  

There's lots of things you don't know about me now.  

You look back up at the sky. “What will you do if I say yes?” 

Caleb takes your hand, rubbing warm fingers over your cold ones. “I'd ask you to tell me how I can make it better.” 

I want you to turn back time. I want you to let me go inside first. I want to die in your place. I want you to bury me.  

“You already make everything better.” 

Caleb makes a small noise, like he's in pain. You squeeze his fingers, and he squeezes back. 

“I wish...” he trails off, then sighs. “I wish you were angrier with me.” 

You laugh a little. Wisps curl up from your mouth; cold air is sucked back inside. It tastes clean on your tongue. “If I was any angrier I'd explode.” 

“So you are angry with me.” Caleb's voice is very soft. “Why haven't you shown me? You can yell at me if you want. Or hit me. I don't mind.” 

“No.” You look at him again. His eyes are dark. Everything is, out here, in the middle of the night. The only light comes from the stars. “That's your punishment. You have to stay with me for the rest of your life, and you only get to have nice things. I'll never hit you. I'll never curse at you. You'll let me take care of you whenever I want, and you'll never get to see me angry again.” 

The only thing that could hurt him more is removing yourself from him, and you can't do that. This will have to do. You want him to suffer. You want him to be punished, every day, for dying, for leaving, for not seeking you out again. 

You’re a bad person. Maybe it's yourself you're so angry with, all the time. 

Caleb lets out a deep breath beside you. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm really sorry.” 

You don't care. You'd love him even if he weren't. 

Caleb takes your hand, presses a kiss to your palm. “If that's what you want, I'll do it.” 

“There's one more thing,” you say. Your curl your fingers over his cheek, stroke along his jaw. “I'm not pretending to be your girlfriend anymore. You can tell your colleagues we broke up.” 

Caleb's breath hitches. “Because you don't like lying?” 

It hurts, when Caleb lies to you. It hurts because you love him so much, even with all his lies. 

“Yes. Also, what if you meet someone you want to date? Or maybe I'll go on one.” 

You've never even been kissed. There was always Caleb, always only him, and then there was school, and somehow no one ever even seemed to be interested in you anyway. Then Hunter exams, work, death. Only recently have you begun to consider that while you may forever be cursed to want what you can't have the most, maybe you should give the experience a try with someone else.  

Even if it's just to see what it's like. Even if it's just so you can fantasize about Caleb's hands touching you better. 

Caleb is still next to you. He does that sometimes, where his whole body stops. But underneath everything is moving, buzzing, like there's an animal in a cage wanting to get free. A plane stuck in forever takeoff. 

“I'm not going to date anyone. Who are you going on dates with?” He asks quietly. 

You shrug a little. You kick your feet, scuffing dirt on your toes. “No one yet.” 

“Is there somewhere you wanna go?” Caleb presses. “Or something you want to do? I'll do it with you. I'll take you anywhere you want.” 

The anger fills you. You're so happy he's here, your Caleb. He wants so badly to never hurt you, but his presence is one big hurt. It's a kind of pain you crave, can never have enough of. But it crushes you. Every day again. 

You look up and see a star blink at you and then disappear. There's another, but this time it blinks red. A plane flying overnight. 

“I've never kissed anyone,” you say, still looking up. “Tara was shocked when I told her. If I can't find someone on my own she said she'd help me.” 

“Baby.” Caled sounds desperate. He's holding your hand very tightly, so you look at him. “You don't ever have to kiss anyone if you don't want to. Or—” Caleb exhales. He looks tense, like he's upset but doesn't want to show it. “Or you can do it with me.” 

You frown. If he's going to sound so reluctant saying it he shouldn't say it at all. 

“But I do want to,” you mumble. “And I wanna do it with someone who wants it too. I don't want it to be pretend.” 

“Then it can just be practice. How's that sound, pip? You can practice with me as much as you want. See if you like it, and if you don't, then it doesn't count.” 

You're conflicted. 

On the one hand, you want to take everything Caleb gives you. And this is one of the things you want most, have been wanting most, since you were about fifteen and started to understand that the way you felt about your brother wasn't like how most people felt about their siblings. 

I'm not your brother, Caleb's voice says in your head. I'm tired of playing house.  

It's an offer that's too good to refuse. But— 

You're very angry with him. And you worry that if he gives you this you'll let some of it slip through; after everything you just said to him about punishment it'd be an embarrassment to your integrity if you just gave it up.  

Unlike Caleb, you're not a liar. Some things that are true you just keep to yourself. 

“What do you think?” 

Caleb is smiling his warm big brother smile. You relax instantly; at this point, it's Pavlovian. You see Caleb, and you know you're safe. Nothing will happen to you as long as you're with him. 

Caleb senses that you're about to give in, because he adds, “We can even do it now, if you want to. You want to, baby? Come sit on my lap, and I'll kiss you.” 

You throw off your blanket. Stand up. Take one step, and sink down on his lap. Caleb's arms wrap around you immediately, holding you tight against him. His hands squeeze you through your jacket. Very faintly, you feel his heartbeat. It's fast. 

“I don't want you to force yourself,” you say. But you're already here. If he makes you leave now, you’ll cry yourself to sleep tonight. 

“I never force myself with you, pretty girl.” Caleb's calloused fingers stroke your cheek. He pulls on your chin so you face him properly. 

Very, very gently, his lips press against yours. They're soft—even softer than you thought they'd be, and you've spent a lot of time thinking about Caleb's lips. Your pulse is rabbit-quick, heart threatening to grow wings and fly out of your chest. 

You breathe against Caleb. The cold air prickles in your nose, but Caleb is very warm. He always has been. Your sun. Your summer in a bottle. He moves his lips against yours, and you copy him. Curious, you poke the tip of your tongue against his lower lip.  

Caleb groans. He opens his mouth, then, and presses you against him tighter. He slides his own tongue against yours, and you taste hot cocoa. The pudding you got him for dessert. Your head feels light, fuzzy, like you're way up in the clouds next to all those stars. Your heart thunders in your ears. 

When you pull away you realise you're panting; Caleb is, too. He's hard underneath you. 

Suddenly you're overcome with what you've just done. Whose dick is hard under your legs just from kissing you. You duck your head into Caleb's shoulder so he can't see your face and he lets you, running his big hands soothingly over your back. 

“How was that, pips?” he asks. His voice is hoarse. “Did you like practicin’ with me?” 

“I don't know,” you say muffled into his neck. 

“You feelin’ a little shy? Want me to take you home?” 

“I don't know.” 

Caleb laughs a little, then sighs. It's a happy sigh. He squeezes you against him tightly, then stands up holding you in his arms. “My little girl is so cute I could eat her up,” he says fondly. “C'mon. Let's go back.” 

You don't protest. You feel like you're burning up again. Caleb tucks you into your seat, clicks on your seatbelt, and loads all the stuff he brought back into the back. The car engine rumbles to life under your feet, and then you're gliding back into the city.  

Caleb's hand is on your leg while he drives. Just below the knee, fingers squeezing down occasionally. You wish he'd move it lower. You wish he'd stop the car and kiss you again. You wish he'd fuck you on the backseat. 

The radio is on low, and Caleb hums along to the song. You don't feel angry so much anymore now; you're flushed, flustered, quiet. 

You touch your hand to your lips and watch the world outside the window slip away in the dark. 

“Up you go now.” 

“Hmm?” you ask sleepily. “Caleb?” 

“Yes, baby. I'm right here.” 

There's the sound of a car door closing, and air rushes past you. You're floating, no, flying—it's Caleb, carrying you. Your body moves with the sway of his feet, boots going thump thump thump along the hallway to your apartment door. You rub at your eyes. 

“I'm sorry I fell asleep.” 

He looks down at you and smiles. “Don't be. You were feelin’ all tired, weren't you? Now you can go back to sleep in your bed.” 

You don't want to go back to sleep. If you have to be in bed you want Caleb there with you, kissing you more. Even if it means you won't be able to look him in the eye tomorrow. 

“I'm not sleepy anymore now.” You press your finger against the lock, and the door clicks open. Caleb steps inside, toes off his boots, then continues into the living room to set you down on the couch. He kneels to take off your shoes. 

“I can do it,” you say, nudging at his hands. “Caleb—” 

“I know. But let me do it for you.” 

You sink back into the cushions and watch him for a moment. “I've decided,” you tell him. 

Caleb looks up at you. He's finished with your shoes. His hand is wrapped around your ankle, and strokes up, along your calf, over your knee. “Decided on what?” 

“I want to practice more.” Your cheeks burn when you say it. It's dark inside, just low light from a table lamp behind you, but you can see Caleb much better compared to when you were out stargazing. 

It means he can see you much better, too. 

Caleb's hand squeezes your leg, moves a little higher. His eyes look bright. Eager. Angry. “Yeah? You sure you're not too tired?”  

You nod, and zip off your jacket. You're suddenly very warm—the extra layers Caleb insisted you wear for your little trip stick to your skin, sweaty and too-tight. Caleb, still kneeling, helps you with your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the couch. When you get stuck in your sweater he helps you with that, too. 

He chuckles when you grab his zipper and bend closer to pull off his jacket all the way. He's wearing a fleece sweater underneath, and that has to go, too. You pull on it impatiently, and once it's off, tug on Caleb's shoulders. Come closer, your hands say. I want you closer.  

You're angry again. 

You think Caleb might be, too, because he doesn't kiss you so gently this time. He's wound tight, a wire ready to spring, and licks into your open mouth like he'll die if he doesn't. The kiss is harder, messier, spit and teeth, Caleb half-crawling, half-crouching over you and pressing you into the cushions. His knee is in between your thighs, dangerously close to your wet hot core, the part of you that's burning brightest. Burning for him. For his touch. 

Your hands roam over his chest, dig into his hair, pull on his necklace. The metal is warm from his skin, and the chain digs its teeth into your fingers. Caleb moans when you pull on it, pull him closer to you. 

Caleb's hands are in your hair, too, cradling your skull, moving you below his hungry mouth. You make sounds, too, little hitching breaths, whines that he swallows whole. Your body is hot. You want him so, so badly. 

You've always wanted him. Always chased him. Curled up at his side, hanging off his arms, perched on his shoulders. 

Look, Caleb, I'm flying!  

He'd make you fly for real one day, Caleb promised. Once he's a pilot, he can take you anywhere. See anything. Even way beyond the clouds. 

You start to cry. 

Caleb jerks back as if shocked, big hands coming to rest on your cheeks. His eyes flit over your face, brows pinched. “Oh, pips, baby, what's wrong? What's wrong?” He hugs you close and rocks you, just like he did when you were little. “Did I hurt you? I'm sorry.” 

You hurt me all the time. You hiccup against his shoulder, tremble when he pets your hair. Try to breathe, chest heaving, blood rushing fast. 

“Hey, talk to me. What's got you so upset, huh?” 

You're so angry. You're so angry you can't talk for a moment, mouth nothing-words against Caleb's shirt. “Can't—” you hiccup again. “Can't tell you.” 

“Gonna make me guess? I'm reaaal good at it.” Caleb shifts to sit on the couch, lifting you on his lap. You bury your head in his shoulder, and he tucks your hair behind your ear before stroking it again. 

“Guess number one: you didn't like the kissing.” 

You shake your head. You liked the kissing very much. 

“Hmm... Guess number two: you're mad at me. Am I right?” 

Yes. No. Kind of. Not really. You're upset Caleb can't give you what you want. You're angry at yourself for kissing him anyway. You knew this would happen, so why why why did you do it?  

Because you love him so much. Because you've never wanted anyone but him. You want so badly for this to be real, and it can't be. You're the worst kind of person, greedy and cruel, because even after you got what you wanted more than anything else in the world—Caleb, alive, different, changed, but not dead, not in the ground, not blown to pieces—you still want more. 

Caleb takes your silence as a yes, and he kisses your head. “See? I told you I'm real good. Now how can I fix it, baby? Why are you upset at me?” 

“What if—” your voice comes out scratchy. You sniffle, start again. “What if I wanted to do other things? Not just kissing. Would you practice with me then too?” 

Caleb is silent for a moment before answering. “I told you, pips. Whatever you wanna do, I'll do it with you.” 

You push up suddenly, twisting so you can look at him. Your nails dig into his chest; your vision is blurry with tears. “I hate it when you do this. When you act like this. I'm so angry at you, all the time. You lie to me, you hurt me, and it doesn't even—doesn't even matter, because I—” the tears fall again, heavy and wet, “because I love you so much. I just let you. I just hurt.” 

A sob wracks your body, and you fall back against Caleb, shaking. His arms come around you and squeeze you so tight it's painful. 

“Oh, pip.” Caleb almost sounds like he's crying, too. “Baby. I don't want you to hurt. I don't want anything to hurt you, even me. Least of all me.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “Can you tell me what it is I'm doing that's making you so angry? You sure it's not ‘cause we kissed?” 

You shake your head. 

“Then why? What am I actin’ like, pretty girl? Tell me and I'll fix it.” 

“Like—like it doesn't matter. Like you'd do whatever, and none of it really matters. Like I'm just using you.” 

Caleb noses against your forehead. “Everything I do with you matters, baby. And I like it when you use for me stuff you want.” 

“I don't want it like that,” you say quietly. “If you don't feel the same way I do, I don't want it.” 

That's a half-lie. You want it. You take it all, Caleb's touches, the kisses he drops on your head, the hand he holds yours with in a crowd, the groceries he buys for you, the time he makes for you, his calls, his texts, his warmth, everything. 

But all of those things fall under safe territory. Things that can be explained away into the familiarity of the act, because Caleb's always taken care of you. Kissing and dating and sex is something else, something that you can't bear to lie to yourself about. To have Caleb lie to you about. 

Caleb is very quiet. He's hard under you again, something neither of you acknowledge.  

“Then how do you feel, pips?” he asks finally. You draw up your knees and curl your hands in your lap. 

You knew this question was coming. This is what you were afraid of, letting him so close, letting him touch your want, your anger, your fucked-up desire. Some of it spilled out. He asks questions you can never answer, except now you did. 

“I can't tell you.” 

“Do you want me to guess again?” You hear the smile in Caleb's voice. He likes playing with you. He likes when you make him work for it, whatever it is.  

“It's a secret. You can't guess it.” 

“Then do you wanna trade?” Caleb says softly in your ear. “I'll give you my secret, and you give me yours.” 

Caleb has so many secrets now. So many things he hasn't told you, so many things you don't even know to ask about. You promised each other you'd never keep anything from each other, years ago. But Caleb broke that promise, and now there's a whole wall of things left unsaid dividing you. 

Of course you want to know. 

“Then you go first. And it has to be a good secret. I won't tell you if you try to trick me.” 

Caleb hums and leans back against the couch, gently wiping at your cheeks. “My secret's that I really liked kissin’ you, pip. I was so happy you let me, ‘cause I've been thinking about doing that for a long time.” 

Caleb's thumb is still stroking over your cheek, even though you're pretty sure there's no more tears left to clean up. As expected, his secret isn't as heavy as yours, but the words pierce through you regardless. 

He's thought about it for a long time. What's a long time? A month? A week? A lonely year in deepspace? 

“I liked it too,” you say in a small voice. 

Caleb's eyes crinkle into little crescent moons. He's smiling wide. “I'm so happy to hear that, baby. I want you to feel good. I want to make you feel good.” 

Then make me feel good, is on the tip of your tongue. You can't say it. You need to think about how to respond, how to match Caleb's secret with your own in a way that won't repulse him forever. 

“Is there anything else you've thought about for a long time?” 

Caleb gazes at you with dark eyes. They're beautiful, framed by long dark lashes that kiss his cheek when they flutter closed. He's not closing them now, though; he's looking at you with a strange, serious expression. 

“Yeah.” 

When he doesn't elaborate, you push him. “Like what?” 

You earn a tap on your nose for that. “Now who's trying to trick who, huh? It's your turn.” 

You press your hands against Caleb's chest and look down at them while you speak. The words come slowly. Carefully. 

“I guess that... my secret is the same as yours. I've thought about it for a long time, too.” 

Caleb's heartbeat flutters under your palms. He echoes your question back at you: “And other things?” 

You're burning again, a hot little flame that starts low in your stomach and blazes through your neck, your cheeks, your ears. Red all over. 

You keep your eyes away from Caleb's, afraid of what he might say, and don't answer. 

“You asked me, right? If I'd do other things too?” Caleb's voice is very close. His breath is warm on your cheek. “What other things, pip? What have you been thinking about doing with me?” 

Your heart trips over itself. He's going to find out. He's going to know. He'll know and he'll be disgusted by you, he'll pull away from you, he'll finally be alive again and you still managed to ruin it all—  

Caleb presses his lips to your jaw, once, then twice, then nudges you with his nose, his hands, to kiss you on the lips. “You can tell me,” he murmurs. “It's just me, pips. Only me here.” 

He kisses you again, coaxing you out of your little shell. And you come crawling, because it's his voice that's calling your name. Caleb's hands slide over your arms, your waist, stop to squeeze at your hips. He lifts you, briefly, so he can grab your leg to straddle him. 

You're so wet you're afraid he'll feel it, afraid he'll feel a wet little spot just like you're feeling his cock strain against his pants under you. When you break the kiss a thread of saliva keeps you connected. Without noticing one of your hands has wound itself in Caleb's hair, and you slide it lower to cup his cheek. His skin is warm and tanned. The freckles that grow darker in summer dance under your fingertips, and you map them with your eyes, putting together constellations on his cheeks. You always wished you'd get freckles, too, but unlike Caleb you just burned. 

Even now, whenever you smell sunscreen you think Caleb. If you close your eyes you can feel his hands rubbing it on your cheeks, your arms, every part of you. Like a shield, like armour. 

But even with all those layers— 

“Still don't wanna tell me?” Caleb asks. His voice is rough and low, husked at the edges. You're this close to kicking him out so you can finger yourself while you still taste him on your lips, trying to fill the aching emptiness everything he does ignites in you. 

—you're always burning. 

“Tell me what you want. I'll give it you.” 

“I want—” 

You're just a person. Human. Weak with wants and needs. Everything has a limit, even you. Even your desires. 

“I want you to touch me,” you whisper. 

Caleb makes a low sound in the back of his throat. His dick twitches in his pants, and when you dare to look at his eyes you see they're blown so wide there's barely anything left of his usual violet. 

“Where, baby? Where do you want me?” 

You shake your head, whine. Caleb chuckles breathlessly. 

“You're not makin’ it easy for me, princess. Is it here?” He moves his hand from your hip to your thigh, squeezing. “Or here?” His other hand travels up, all the way to the back of your neck. 

“I can't. You'll hate it,” you manage to force out. “It'll ruin everything. And then you'll leave, and I can't—I can't lose you again—” 

You thought you were done with crying, but tears threaten to spill again. Caleb shushes you. “I'm not goin’ anywhere. I'll never you leave, pip, I promise. No matter what you say to me. No matter how angry you are, or how much you cry. I'm always here.” 

Can you believe him? Can you trust him?  

And if not Caleb, who's left? 

“I want to touch you,” he whispers. “All over. You just tell me where. I want it.” 

You close your eyes. You take the hand on your thigh, and bring over, up, right over where your jeans zip closed. You're catching fire. 

“Right here, huh?” Caleb says. There's a tremble in his voice. “Do you wanna take off your pants when I do?” 

Eyes still closed, you nod once.  

Immediately, Caleb's moving, hoisting you up with both his Evol and his own strength. Your eyes fly open in surprise, and you see he's taking you to your bedroom. For all his hurry you're laid on the bed oh so gently, and then his fingers are working open button—zipper—shimmy down— 

And a thumb hooks around your underwear. Caleb's breathing fast, eyes glued on the wet spot right in the centre of it. He strokes his thumb over it, and your hips jerk in surprise and arousal. 

“Can I—” Caleb groans and presses his forehead against your naked thigh for a moment. When he looks up at you again your breath catches over the raw need on his face. “Can I touch with just my hands? Or can I use my mouth?” 

The heat is making you short-circuit. “But—I—wait, I haven't showered,” you stutter. 

Caleb presses his nose against your core, inhaling deeply. His fingers dig into your legs so hard it'll bruise, and he moans. You think you might pass out before he actually does anything. 

“Can I?” he asks again, though this time it sounds more like he's begging. He's already pulling your underwear off, and you're too distracted to notice he stuffs it in his back pocket instead of throwing it on the floor. 

“I—okay,” you whisper, because Caleb so very rarely asks for anything. Because you want to give him everything. Because you're so unbelievably wet that you'll die if he doesn't touch you right now, hands, tongue, whatever he wants. 

As soon as you give him the okay he leans in. You gasp when he licks up a broad stripe over your cunt, pressing his tongue flat against it, groaning like it's him who's feeling good. 

“Caleb—” You whimper when he does it again, and then again, and then he's eating you like he's been starving for days. He fucks you with his tongue, he sucks on your clit, and when he adds his fingers—long fingers, big and strong, big enough to curl against your weakest spot—your head falls back on the bed with a whine. The more sounds you make, the more eagerly he laps at you, kisses you, bites at the soft flesh of your thighs. 

Dazedly, you wonder if this is meant to feel this good. You can't stop clenching down on him, trying to suck him deeper inside. You're going to come, and you're going to come fast, and is this even real or a dream inside your head? 

“Shi—it,” Caleb groans. “You're so pretty, baby. So fuckin’ pretty. Knew you would be, too. Fuck.” 

“Caleb,” you pant. “Caleb, I'll—” 

He moans in response, tongue working you again, the sound of his fingers moving inside you wet and obscene. The pleasure builds, crests, then rushes over you like a wave. Your whole body tenses, one big strain, caught up in the current. Broken moans leave you on the comedown, body shuddering like a leaf caught in the wind. 

You twitch away from Caleb, who hasn't stopped lapping at you, and then melt, boneless, into the sheets. While you catch your breath you see Caleb rise, licking his lips. He sucks his fingers—his fingers, the ones that were just inside of you—clean with a lidded gaze.  

Even now, after just having come on his tongue, you feel a warm twinge in your lower stomach. 

“Was that nice, pretty girl? Did it feel good?” 

You nod. It was more than nice. Caleb just ruined your vibrator for you, and you fear you’re going to have to spend a pretty penny to get anything that'll come close to the way he just made you feel. 

When you push yourself up on your elbows it occurs to you that Caleb's still fully dressed, and you're still wearing your shirt. You haven't even taken off your socks. The red dotted pattern winks at you from the edge of the mattress. 

You suddenly feel shy. What are you supposed to say now? Will Caleb go home, leave like this was business as usual? Your dimly lit bedroom is cosy and warm, but you doubt you'll be able to fall asleep tonight. Not after this. 

Fortunately Caleb saves you from having to say anything. Smiling, he crawls up the bed, hovering over you to kiss you again. You taste traces of yourself on his lips; you realise this is the very first time that you do. It's weird. A little bitter, a little musky, but— 

It's not bad. Not if Caleb's the one making you taste it. 

When he gathers you in his arms, maneuvering you side by side, your face tucked under his chin, you hug him back. If you cling to him tightly enough maybe he won't leave. 

“Was that what you wanted, baby?” Caleb murmurs into the crown of your head. 

“How are you so good at that?” you whisper back.

Caleb laughs and squeezes you closer. His cock is rock-hard and poking you insistently in your stomach, even through his pants. “Am I? I'm glad you think so. It's my first time givin’ it a spin.” 

Huh? 

Shock overtakes embarrassment, and you pull back to look at him. 

Huh? 

“What?” 

Caleb cocks an eyebrow. “What ‘what’?” 

“Have you ever had sex?” you blurt out. 

The corners of Caleb's mouth twitch upwards. “Nope.” 

“But why?” The endless love letters, the confessions, the whispers, the stares. Everyone loves Caleb, no matter where he goes, and you've come to accept it simply as fact a long time ago. You understand, because you love him too. Even if the jealousy makes your stomach feel sick with it sometimes. 

“’Cause I never wanted anyone else. I told you, didn't I? I want to touch you. You just tell me where.” 

Anyone else? 

Anyone else?  

You sit and gape at him. Caleb chuckles and kisses the hand that's curled against his chest. “I can see the steam comin’ out your ears, baby.” He sighs, and the smile fades on his lips. He looks back at you with his serious eyes again. “Well, what about you? Have you?” 

“No,” you say meekly. “There was—no.” 

Caleb relaxes, and his smile returns. “Good.” 

“Caleb.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you...” you hesitate. Pause. Rethink what you want to say. “You didn't mind? Touching me?” It doesn't gross you out? Disgust you? Make you hate me, make you leave, make you not want to be around me anymore?  

Caleb kisses your hand again. “I loved it, baby. Even more than I thought I would. I'd do it every day if you let me.” 

Every day—  

You shake your head. Focus. “If I tell you another secret, will you tell me another one of yours again?” 

“There's more secrets?” Caleb frowns a little, but he brushes over your cheek gently. “Yeah, pips. I'll tell you if you tell me.” 

He hasn't run screaming yet. He said he wanted to touch you, that he's wanted to kiss you. You don't dare to look too closely at what it might mean. What lies at the end of devotion? Does it have an end, with Caleb? 

I've been thinking about doing that for a long time.  

“I wanted you to touch me,” you say carefully. “But I also want to—to touch you. Not for practice. Just because it's you.” You peek at Caleb through your lashes. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes glitter like stars. 

“Where, beautiful? Where do you wanna touch me?” 

Your voice is very quiet when you answer. “Anywhere that makes you feel good.” 

Caleb's eyes flutter closed for a second. When he opens them again he looks serious, but it's not serious angry Caleb. It's serious thinking Caleb, one who's arriving at the end of a very long equation. 

“For a long time?” 

You duck your head. “Maybe. Now give me your secret.” 

Caleb sits up abruptly and pushes into your space. You fall back in surprise, back hitting the mattress, as he leans over you. His pretty purple eyes are dark again, intense, storm-in-a-bottle. Clouds gathering for rain. 

“I want you to touch me. I've wanted you to touch me since forever. I want to fill you in every way I can, with my hands, my mouth, and my cock, and I want you to look at only me.” 

Your mouth drops open, air coming shallow and fast. 

“It's never been pretend for me. I don't want anyone else touching you, ever. Only me.” 

You swallow. “But—what—what if it doesn't work out? Things will be different. And I don't want to lose—to lose you.” Not again; never again. 

Caleb lowers his head to press a kiss against your pulse, just below your jaw. "You'll never lose me, pip. I promise.” When you stay quiet he lifts his head to look you in the eye. It's a little frightening, the intensity of his gaze. The weight of his want. “I promise. Is that the only thing you're worried about? Losin’ me? Think I won't like you anymore after I've been inside you?” 

You're worried about a million things. About not measuring up, about falling out, about being so angry with him and loving him so, so much at the same time. About drifting apart, again. 

Caleb takes your hand and guides it to his groin, presses it against his cock. He lets out a little hiss. “Feel that, beautiful? Feel how much I want you? It's always been like that. When we were livin’ together—I jerked off three times a day, I wanted you so bad. I felt like I was going crazy. I—” Caleb exhales, drops his head on your shoulder. “I stole your used panties. I sniffed your gym clothes. I was so fuckin’ desperate.” 

Caleb's words send a zap of lightning between your legs. Your whole body is aflame and breaking out in a sweat; it's a little hard to focus on anything but Caleb's dick twitching against your fingers, his hot breath on your skin, and I stole your used panties. I wanted you so bad. Feel how much I want you?  

It's always been like that.  

You tug at his shirt. “Take off your clothes,” you demand. 

A tentative smile breaks through on Caleb's face. Without a word he obeys, sitting back up on his haunches and peeling off his longsleeves. There's a compression tank under it, and this too is dropped on the side of the bed. 

But you're impatient, now, and your fingers reach his belt before he can. You tug the leather free, fumble with the belt loops, then go for his zipper. Caleb's hips rock against you, once, like he can't help it, and he watches your hands with a shaky sigh. 

He helps you tug his jeans down, and then his underwear, and then, and then— 

Your mouth feels dry when his cock slaps against his stomach, finally freed. It looks red, angry, leaking with precum. You want to touch it, so you do, pushing yourself upright while Caleb kneels before you: one careful, curious finger stroking alongside the shaft. 

Caleb shudders. 

“How can I make you feel good?” you ask earnestly. “Show me.” 

Silently, Caleb takes your hand and wraps it around his cock. Your fingertips just barely manage to touch, not-quite closing around him. He places his much bigger hand over yours and shows you, squeezing at the base, twisting upwards, gently at the tip and down again. He's panting; the flush on his cheeks has spread all the way down to his neck, over his chest, his lovely freckled skin. Scarred and bruised. So perfectly his. 

When you grow bolder and start moving your hand on your own, upping the pace, Caleb lets out a strangled moan, throwing his head back as his hips jerk forward helplessly. “Oh, fuck,” he groans. “Pip, baby, angel, that feels so good. Feel so good around me. I'm gonna—ah, gonna cum soon if you keep going.” 

“Do you want to?” you ask. You look up at him, your big brother, your protector, your heart. Your pain and the cure. 

Caleb laughs, breathless and eager. “I wanna cum anywhere you let me.” 

That's not good enough. You slow your hand and stop while holding him at the base. Caleb squeezes his eyes shut, brow scrunching up. 

“But I want to know what you want,” you say. A little petulant, a little bossy, because Caleb's always spoiled you, indulged you, and you told him, didn't you? This was punishment. He'll let you take care of him whenever you wanted. He's only allowed to have nice things. To feel good. To get everything he wants. 

Caleb's eyes open again. “Inside you,” he rasps. “Inside your pussy.” 

Another wave of heat makes you let go of him, scooting back on the bed. Caleb watches, entranced, as you lie back and hold out your hands to him. 

“Okay,” you say simply. 

There's a moment where Caleb looks like he's frozen in time; disbelieving, desperate, helpless. 

Then he moves. 

He crawls over you and kisses you again. He's trembling a little, and you think you are too. You jolt when you feel his fingers against your clit again, still sensitive, raw, everything so new. 

He dips them inside, nose pressed against your neck and inhaling deeply, stroking once, two, three times, curling them until your nails dig into his shoulders. When he removes them he spits in his palm; then holds it out to you, under your chin. 

“Spit,” he commands. 

You spit. 

He slicks himself up with your combined saliva, your arousal, his sweat, and then his tip is pushing against you, into you—  

“Fffuck,” Caleb groans. “Relax, pip. Relax for me. Shit, you're perfect. So tight.” 

You're trying to do as he says, but your whole body has turned into one big nerve, and at the root is the little place that Caleb's entering now, deeper and deeper, hot wet thick warm tight. 

His jaw is clenched, and even in the low light you see the sweat shining on his brow. He's so careful with you, pushing himself further in so very slowly. Pausing when you gasp or tighten around him reflexively.  

Once he bottoms out, pelvis flush with yours, he exhales. 

“Caleb,” you croak. You're so full.  

A bead of sweat drips down his nose, and your Caleb smiles. “Yeah, baby. You're doin’ so good. Feel how far in I am?” 

You can feel him in your throat. Your lungs. Your heart, completely.  

“I love you,” you tell him, voice patchy, and watch his eyes glisten. His lips press on yours, hard, full of relief.  

You tell Caleb you love him every time you say goodbye. It's a little bit of a compulsion. You have to say it, need to say it, because what if? What if you don't get the chance to again? What if this loop of time is broken, again? 

But it's different, now. 

“I love you, too, pretty girl. Always have.” Caleb rolls his hips into yours, and you gasp. He does it again, a little harder and a little faster, and keeps doing it until you're whimpering under him, your legs locked around his hips and your arms scrabbling for purchase on the wide, muscular planes of his back. 

He cradles your skull and tucks it against his neck, large fingers splaying wide over your head. His shoulders are broad, overtaking everything you see. Everything you feel. 

Caleb's other hand shoves itself between your two bodies to rub your clit, and when Caleb shifts, angles his hips, and fucks you—  

Stars explode behind your eyes. A loud moan swings loose from your chest, unable to stay inside, because it feels so, so good, and then Caleb keeps hitting that spot, keeps making more noises spill from your lips, just like they do from his, until the core of you is wound tight again. 

Caleb kisses you messily, panting in your mouth and groaning low whenever you squeeze down on him. 

“Come on my cock,” he rasps. “Come on my cock, pip, let me feel you, just like that, c’mon—” 

You're helpless before his command. You do as he says while clinging to him tight, shaking, and a few tears slip out from the sheer intensity. Caleb leans down and licks them up, tongue hot and wet on your skin.  

He works you through the wave, just barely, before he loses his rhythm. He hits you deeper, now, harder, clenching his teeth, pressing biting kisses on your neck. The only thing you can do is hold onto him. 

“Gonna—gonna come, angel, gonna come inside you, fuck, I'm gonna fill you up. Take it, you're gonna— take it—” 

Caleb's hips jerk one, two more times, and then he spills inside of you with a heady groan. It shocks you, the heat of it, and you moan with him on his comedown. Caleb rocks inside you a few more times, trying to fuck his cum into you deeper, and then— 

He melts. Right on top of you, heavy as can be, and the air is pressed out of your lungs with a soft oof.  

Before you can complain, though, he turns, rolling you onto your side. You do your best not to knee him in the stomach while you reposition your legs, because Caleb won't let go of you even a little. 

He buries his face in your neck, hair tickling your cheek, and you stroke your fingers through his short dark strands. “What do you think?” you tease him. “Do I need practice after all?” 

Caleb squeezes your sides; you can feel him smiling against you. “Depends. Am I the one you're practicin’ with?” 

You laugh. Caleb's cock is still inside you, and you feel it twitch at the sound. “Nope. I told you, I only want it for real.” 

Caleb loosens his grip on you just enough to look you in the eyes. His hair is messy, and his cheeks are still flushed. Sweat clings to his temples. He looks so beautiful it's like he's not from this world. 

“Then we'll do it for real. As long as it's me, pips. Will you promise me?” 

Caleb's holding his pinky, and you take it in yours. “And if I want other things? Not just—kissing or touching?” 

The tips of your ears are warm again. 

“Then we'll do those too.” 

You lower your eyes, focusing on a freckle near his lovely mouth. You have to say it now. After this you can't go back to the way things were. 

“Like dating. For real. Not... not just so you can turn down confessions.” 

“Oh, pip.” Caleb pulls you close again, a tight, warm hug, and your eyes flutter closed at the proximity. Silly, the way you’re still connected but him embracing you makes you feel warm and safe all over again. “I'd turn those down either way, you know. Even if you didn't wanna help me.” 

You give his chest a weak slap. “Answer the question.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Caleb does his funny soldier voice, and suddenly you just can't take him seriously anymore. Dummy. Dork. Crazy. Still inside you, still hard, and he gives you a salute when you ask him very seriously if he wants to be your boyfriend. 

You throw your head back in exasperation. You're trying very hard not to laugh. “I'm serious!”  

Caleb chuckles softly and gently pulls you back so he can kiss you. “Good. Me too.” 

“No, you're not,” you accuse him. “Stop goofing around and answer me. Or I'll think everything you said was a lie.” 

Caleb's gaze softens. “I meant it, pip. I'm very serious about you. About us. If you want me to date you, be your boyfriend, anything, you already have me. I wouldn't lie to you about that.”  

You purse your lips, considering. “I guess if you're my boyfriend I could make sure you're fulfilling your punishment.” When Caleb cocks an eyebrow, you huff. “Did you forget already? I said you have to stay with me for the rest of your life. You only get to have nice things, and you'll let me take care of you.” 

“...And you wouldn't get angry at me. I remember,” Caleb says softly. He brushes his lips over your cheek. “I'll take anything you wanna give me. Even if I wish that you'd be angry at me.” 

That wall of secrets separates you again. You've lost so much time grieving. 

Caleb, too. You see the pain in his eyes, the change in his face. He's still yours. He's always been yours, and nothing can take that away from you. 

But you and him, you've been through a lot. Scared to show each other the scars—afraid of what the aftermath might change. 

“Then stop hiding yourself from me,” you say. “Maybe I'll be angry at you, then.” 

“Have you... do you wish I was still the old Caleb?” 

Caleb's voice is unsure, vulnerable in a way that you've heard very few times in your life. It's anxious Caleb. And just now you had silly Caleb, and there's angry Caleb, and serious Caleb, all these different sides of him, gleaming in the light like facets of a pretty stone. 

All different, all the same. 

You smile. You rest your head on Caleb's chest, feel his strong heart pump the blood around in his body. You're sweaty, messy, and the sheets need changing. Tears and drool and cum. Blood and spit and hurt. Love and pain. Anger, so much of it, and someday it will need a name. A place to sit and live. 

For now, though— 

(For always, though—)