benang merah

caleb knows you a bit too well. he knows the time you tend to feel most restless, the days you skip meals without noticing, the precise expression you make when something irritates you—not enough to complain, just enough to remember.

he knows because he’s watched, because he’s listened, because he’s arranged himself around the negative space of your life until the outline became clear.

you never call it attraction.

you just tell yourself, caleb would know, when a choice presents itself.

and every time you do, he gets close enough to see how little room you leave for anyone else.

you’re seated at the long oak table by the east windows at the school's library, the one that catches light only in the afternoon. and caleb knows this because he has noticed the pattern. he adjusts his steps to arrive when you’re already settled, coat folded on the chair beside you, book open but untouched for the last several minutes.

you don’t look up when he stops at the edge of the table.

“hey,”

you glance up then, and your eyes pass over him with the same neutral recognition you give the shelves, the lamps, the exit signs.

“hi,” you say.

caleb smiles anyway, he always does as a golden boy. it’s a good tool. it opens space.

“studying?” he asks, already knowing the answer. the textbook’s spine is creased in the same place it always is. page 214. you never dog-ear; you use a receipt as a bookmark. today it’s from a café two blocks away. he clocks the date without thinking.

“trying, it’s quieter here.”

it is. the library smells faintly of dust and pages. he likes places that cooperate. “mind if i sit?” he asks, even as his hand is already on the chair across from you.

you shrug. “go ahead.”

permission granted without weight. it settles in his chest, warm and sure. he sits, careful not to scrape the floor. he places his bag down precisely, knees aligned with the table leg.

you return to your book, as your attention moves away from him so completely it’s almost surgical. caleb watches the way your fingers rest against the margin.

“i ran into your friend earlier,” he says casually. “he asked about you.”

your page turns. “yea?”

“yeah, said he hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

you hum, noncommittal. “i’ve been busy.”

caleb nods like this explains everything. it does, in its way. busy is useful. busy thins things out. busy creates gaps. “if you need help with anything, you know. notes, rides, food runs.”

you finally look at him again. “i know.”

that’s all. no gratitude, no warmth. the words land and stop. caleb feels a small, private satisfaction anyway. knowing is enough. awareness precedes dependence.

as you read, his attention drifts—not away from you, never that, but inward, where his thoughts arrange themselves neatly. he imagines this table without the extra chair. imagines you alone, every day, because there’s no one else left to ask. imagines your routines tightening until they circle him naturally, like a well-designed system.

he wonders, idly, how long it would take before you stopped noticing his presence entirely, before he became part of the architecture.

“what are you working on?”

you tilt the book so he can see the title. “research methods.”

“fun,” he says, dry. “want help?”

“nope.”

caleb’s smile doesn’t flicker. he likes your no’s. they make everything else feel earned. “okay, i’ll just… be here.” he doesn’t need to say why, he's already bringing out a book he will pretend to work on infront of you.

your sleeve slips down as you adjust your posture. he notices the line of skin at your wrist, the faint indentation where your watch usually sits. today it’s missing. he doesn’t linger on it the way a lover would. he catalogs it, the way one notes a missing screw in a machine that otherwise runs perfectly.

you shift again, crossing your legs.

he thinks about your home, sparsely furnished and everything placed for efficiency. he’s been there enough times to know where the spare key is hidden, though he’s never used it. no need. patience sharpens the edges of things.

“you eating later?” he pretends to bury his eyes onto the book.

“probably, haven’t decided.”

“i can bring something by,” he offers. “save you the trouble.”

you consider this for half a second. not him—just the logistics. “sure, that’d help.”

help. the word warms him more than affection ever could.

“text me what you want,” he smiles.

you nod, already gone again, mind back in the book. caleb watches your breathing slow into a steady rhythm. he imagines it continuing like this, uninterrupted, because he removes anything that might disturb it; noise and mess and people who take up space they don’t deserve.

someone just laughs too loudly at a table across the room and caleb’s jaw already tightens almost imperceptibly. he releases it just as quickly though, because not now. this place is orderly. it will correct itself.

he stands after a while, smooth and unhurried. “i’ll let you work,”

“okay,” you reply, without looking up.

he pauses, just long enough to be seen if you were paying attention. you aren’t. that’s fine. he leaves with a smile anyway.

~

you text him at 6:17 p.m.

[name]:

burger’s fine the one from elm street ! get one for yourself too, i’ll pay you when you get here. :)

caleb reads it once, then again.

elm street is six blocks out of the way, but the rain has already started, loud and impatient against the pavement, the kind that turns the city into a smear of motion and noise. he checks the forecast anyway, out of habit, as if it might surprise him.

as expected, heavy rain, gusts, and limited visibility.

“okay,” he types back. “be there soon.”

he doesn’t hesitate. hesitation would imply negotiation, and there isn’t one. you asked. that’s the beginning and the end of it.

he leaves the school building with his jacket buttoned wrong, and he notices only after he’s already halfway down the steps. the umbrella he grabs from his bagpack is the flimsy one, the one that bends inward when the wind gets merciless. it doesn’t matter.

the city looks different when it’s wet. surfaces shine, edges blur. caleb likes it. it simplifies people.

as he walks, he thinks about the way you phrased it. "get one for yourself too." not an invitation, but an instruction that saves you the trouble of refusing later. considerate in the way you’re always considerate, without sentiment.

he imagines arriving back at the library, rain-soaked, bag held carefully away from his body so the paperwrapper won’t soften. imagines you looking up from your books with that neutral expression, eyes flicking briefly to the bag before moving back to his face. you’ll say “thanks!” you always do and say it like that.

the rain thickens, as his shoes darken at the seams. water slips down the back of his collar, cold and precise. he adjusts his grip on the umbrella, angling it forward, though the wind keeps catching it, tugging like a spoiled child.

halfway across the main road, a bus roars past too close. caleb registers it in parts: the sound, the pressure, the sudden arc of brown water lifting off the curb.

suddenly, mud splashes up his side, violent and abrupt, streaking across the white of his uniform. it blooms like a bruise.

he looks down at it. "ah..."

there’s a moment—small, contained—where he considers turning back to change and arrive clean. the thought dissolves almost immediately though.

you didn’t ask for clean.

so he continues walking.

at the burger place, the line is too long. people drip onto the tile floor, smelling like wet fabric and impatience. caleb stands still, posture perfect despite the water gathering at the hem of his sleeves and dripping down his hair locks. he doesn’t shake it off.

when it’s his turn, he orders without looking at the menu. “i'll have two double cheese burgers please,” he smiles, remniscient of a wet golden retriever. “no onions on one.”

the cashier nods, bored. caleb pays without thinking, you’ll reimburse him later. or you won’t. either way, the exchange has already served its purpose.

he waits, hands folded loosely in front of him. his reflection in the stainless steel is distorted—mud-streaked, hair darkened by rain, lilac eyes steady. he looks like someone who has been through something minor and inconvenient. he likes that too.

the bag is warm when he takes it. he adjusts his hold, cradling it instinctively to keep the heat in. the rain greets him again with renewed enthusiasm. but the umbrella finally gives a sharp, pathetic bend, one of its ribs snapping inward.

caleb doesn’t curse, he simply angles it differently and keeps going.

he imagines you eating, he imagines watching from across the table, tail wagging, saying nothing.

by the time he reaches the school gates, the rain has soaked through everything. his uniform clings uncomfortably and mud has dried in uneven streaks. he looks down at the bag once more, checks for leaks. it’s intact.

he’s adjusting his grip on the paper bag—still warm—when he sees you.

you’re coming down the steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, posture loose in that way that means you’re done for the day. beside you is a man caleb recognizes only vaguely: a face he’s seen in passing, a name he’s heard once or twice and didn’t bother to keep. not important enough to catalog. not until now.

who is he?

the man laughs at something you say. caleb doesn’t hear it, but he can see it in the shape of your mouth, the small tilt of your head. then, with an almost rehearsed politeness, the man lifts his umbrella and angles it over you.

you hesitate just for a beat. caleb feels it like a skipped stair as his pace slows.

then you step closer and accept. “thanks,”

you start walking, not toward him, but away.

caleb stops.

it’s not dramatic, his feet simply don’t take the next step. he watches the two of you merge into the flow of pedestrians, his eyes following the pattern of your strides, and even the umbrella tilting slightly to keep rain off your shoulder.

and then, his phone vibrates.

he already knows what it will say.

[name]:

sorry, caleb. i’m heading home with a friend you can cancel the burger.

he reads it once, then again.

the bag is still warm in his hand, grease has begun to soften the paper at the corners. he thinks, briefly and absurdly, that he should eat it while it’s still hot. food shouldn’t be wasted.

his eyes lift again, finding you easily. the umbrella dips as you step off the curb, the man adjusting it clumsily. caleb notes the poor angle, the way rain still hits your sleeve. amateur.

his thumbs move.

[caleb] okay :)

the smiley face feels right...

he doesn’t feel angry. anger would require surprise, and this doesn’t have that quality. this is just information. a variable briefly introduced, nothing more.

but caleb tries his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.

he tucks his phone away and starts walking again, pace unhurried. he doesn’t follow too closely. that would be rude. he stays far enough back that he could be anyone—another student, another figure moving through rain with somewhere to be.

he watches the way you lean slightly inward under the umbrella. the way the man angles himself protectively without quite knowing how. caleb almost smiles. it’s clumsy.

he thinks, not unkindly, that you’ll be damp by the time you get home. the man’s umbrella is too small for two. you’ll probably forget to hang your jacket to dry.

he crosses the street when you do, but not at the same light. he stays on the opposite sidewalk, reflection fractured in shop windows.

for a fleeting moment, something almost playful stirs in him. a faint amusement at how neat it all is, how unaware you are of the shape forming around you.

you think the burger is canceled.

you think the evening has simply rearranged itself.

caleb adjusts his pace, keeping you in sight as the street bends.

he has time.

the man beside you laughs again. that stupid, easy smile. almost cute.

it makes caleb’s jaw tighten just enough to feel pleasure. almost, he thinks, but not quite. caleb lets the rain slick street guide his steps, following quietly, calculating.

and by the time the two of you reach your porch, by the time you finally went inside to leave your little friend alone, when he turns to an alleyway that cuts through to a side street, caleb is ready. the timing is precise—he lunges the instant the man is slightly ahead, stepping into the narrow corridor as if it belongs only to him.

the man doesn’t understand immediately, feeling caleb’s strong hands find his throat without warning. strength measured and restraint practiced. the alley swallows his sounds, struggling against the ground, coughing and gasping.

“what—what the hell—?” your friend chokes out, wide-eyed.

caleb says nothing, he just watches the movement of the man’s chest, watches the panic flare. he imagines your terrified face if you were here. it steels him.

the man fights back, strong enough to shove him off for a moment. "what's wrong with you–?" a punch lands, catching caleb's mouth. a quick, sharp pain. he tastes a bit of blood but doesn’t falter.

instead, he pivots, countering immediately. the punches become a rhythm, measured but a bit out of place. he doesn’t lose himself in anger; every movement designed to correct, to remove obstacles.

finally, he finds what he needs: a large, irregular stone at the edge of the alley. it’s heavy.

he swings.

the sharp edge of the form slams against the man's hard temple, and instantly he falls against the concrete once more. "fuck you—!" and he's cut off by caleb's yet another swing.

again, "ghh!" and again, and again, blood starts to paint caleb's cheek, and again, "augh!" each time imagining only the one whose presence justifies the act. the man's face is already pooled with nothing but red, eyes unalive, unblinking.

at last, unconsciousness. caleb pants, chest and shoulders rising. he drops the stone, and the alley is now silent except for the pattering rain.

he looks down.

the man isn’t moving now. caleb doesn’t crouch immediately. he knows better than to rush the end of things. stillness has a texture to it; he waits until it’s certain. until the body has decided what it is.

only then does he kneel.

your name drifts through his mind, more like a constant hum. and his mouth aches faintly, he tastes it with his tongue and tastes copper. how inconvenient. caleb exhales once, steadying himself, and reaches for the man’s collar.

“sorry,” he pulls the shirt up and over the man’s head with careful efficiency. fabric tears a little at the seam. he folds the cloth and uses it to wipe his mouth, his knuckles, then the edge of his jaw. he presses firmly but not roughly. there’s no reason to bruise himself further.

he works methodically, cleaning until his skin looks like his again. the shirt darkens with use, absorbing what shouldn’t be seen. when he’s done, he wraps it around the man’s hands, then his face—gentle, almost considerate. modesty should still be a habit...

he checks his reflection in a darkened window at the end of the alley.

a little pale, eyes bright, face bruised from your friend's punch, with a few of his damp fringes sticking to his forehead.

as for the rest—he’s already thought it through. the alley opens into a service road, there’s a construction site two blocks down, poorly fenced and poorly lit.

he grips the man beneath the arms and drags him a short distance, adjusting when necessary. it’s heavier than he’d like, but manageable.

all the while, he imagines you at home. maybe you’re already inside, shoes kicked off neatly by the door. maybe you’ve forgotten about the burger entirely. you tend to do that—release things once they’re no longer relevant.

he likes that about you.

caleb checks the time on his phone.

too late, by most standards. late enough that reasonable people would call it a night, late enough that the rain—still falling, thin and persistent—has driven everyone sensible indoors. the screen glows briefly against his damp palm before he slips the phone away.

he buys the burger again, because he accidentally stepped on the one he bought earlier while he was disposing the remnants of an added body count. the cashier doesn’t recognize him; caleb looks different now, hair still wet, backpack sagging and misshapen from rain and weight. his umbrella is gone somewhere behind him in the city, forgotten and surrendered.

the paper bag is warm when he steps back outside. he walks the rest of the way without shelter, rain darkening his clothes further, water threading down his neck, soaking the strap of his backpack until it clings unpleasantly to his shoulder.

he doesn’t rush.

by the time he reaches your house, he looks like he’s been through a disaster, with shoes leaving faint, damp prints on your porch.

he rings the doorbell once. he's known your address because of your recent study session with your blockmates together, or did he really?

inside, he hears movement. and then the door opens.

you freeze, just slightly.

your eyes take him in without asking permission: the state of him, the wet hair pushed back from his forehead, the way rain has sharpened the lines of his face instead of softening them. he looks worn-down and absurdly composed all at once. still… him.

“caleb?” you say, incredibly confused. “what—”

he lifts the bag gently between you, like an offering. “you wanted a burger,” he smiles, voice low. “figured you might still be hungry.”

you stare at the bag, then at him. “i—didn't you read my text?”

“mm, i know.”

that only confuses you more...

rain drips from his sleeve onto your doorstep. you don’t move out of the way. you’re still processing—his presence, the timing, the contradiction. he watches it all with quiet attentiveness, cataloging the way your expression shifts, the way your hand lifts halfway and stops.

“you’re very soaked,” you say finally. there’s a faint edge of distress now, practical in nature. “why are you—”

he doesn’t answer. he steps closer instead, just enough that the warmth from inside your home brushes against his skin. his knees feel suddenly unreliable, like they’ve been holding a line longer than intended.

you reach for the bag, fingers closing around the warm paper. “caleb, this is—”

that’s when he lets go.

not dramatically, not all at once. his weight simply tips forward, the last of his restraint slipping quietly away. his head brushes past your cheek, and then he’s there—collapsed against you, shoulder to shoulder, heavier than you expected.

“caleb—?” you gasp, startled, instinctively catching him. “what’s wrong?”

his head rests briefly against your shoulder, damp hair brushing your collarbone. for a second—just one—he allows himself to feel the simple fact of you holding him up.

“sorry,” he murmurs, faint and sincere. “guess i pushed it a bit, pip.”

your arms tense, unsure where to go, what to do. you’re not thinking about his feelings. you’re thinking about the mess he’s tracking in instead, the absurdity of a burger pressed between you.

“you’re… you’re bleeding?” you say, noticing his mouth, the faint mark he didn’t quite erase.

“it’s... nothing,” he answers, already closing his eyes, before completely fainting.

~

consciousness returns to caleb slowly, like a tide that doesn’t announce itself.

first, there’s softness beneath him. but it's not the rigid give of a couch or the utilitarian flatness of a mattress he knows.

he blinks.

the ceiling comes into focus—plain, faintly shadowed by light from the street filtering through curtains. his eyes drift, cataloging before understanding. the faint scent in the room isn’t detergent or rain. it’s you. something he’s only ever encountered in fragments before.

he exhales.

his body registers itself next. same clothes are still on. damp, but not against fabric—there’s a towel beneath him, folded carefully, placed with intention so the bed wouldn’t absorb what he brought in from outside.

he turns his head.

you’re sitting beside the bed in a simple chair with a small basin on the floor near your feet. you’re wringing out a towel between your hands, it’s much tinier than the one beneath him.

for him.

you don’t look at him immediately. “you’re finally awake,”

“hello,” his voice is rougher than he expects. he swallows.

you stand and step closer, bringing the towel with you. he watches the way you fold it once before lifting it to his face. gentle pressure at the corner of his mouth, cool against the bruise.

“what happened?” you ask. “did you get into a fight?”

caleb considers the truth—not the whole of it, just the outline. he measures how much weight the word can carry without collapsing the structure you’re both standing on. “…yeah, i did.”

it’s enough.

you frown slightly. not in disappointment—more like concern redirected inward, calculating what that means. whether it needs follow-up, whether it explains the state you found him in. “you should be more careful,” you say, absently, as you dab at his lip again.

“i'm sorry,” he murmurs, because that’s what fits there.

your focus doesn’t waver as you clean the edge of the bruise, fingers brushing his skin with unthinking precision.

he feels it everywhere. his body reacts before his mind can smooth it over. heat creeps up his neck, and his ears feel too warm. he’s acutely aware of the way he’s lying in your bed, the way you’re standing so close, the way your attention is fixed on him without reverence or fear.

you’re not tending to him because you care about his inner life. you’re doing it because it’s necessary, that’s what makes it unbearable.

his fingers twitch once against the sheets, then still. he doesn’t want to move. movement might fracture this moment, and he wants it intact.

“does it hurt?” you finally look at him properly.

“no, not really, pips.”

you hum softly, accepting the answer without probing. you finish with the towel and step back, setting it aside. he immediately feels the distance.

his chest feels light and jittery, alive in a way that’s almost inconvenient. he’s exactly where he wants to be.

you come back with a shirt folded over your arm.

it’s yours—oversized even on you. you hold it out to him, eyes already drifting toward the door as if the exchange is finished the moment it begins. “this should fit, you should change. your clothes are still damp.”

caleb pushes himself up on his elbows, the movement slower than necessary. he takes the shirt, fingers brushing the fabric, “okay,”

you turn, already halfway out of the room, when his hand closes around your wrist. the contact alone is enough to stop you, unexpected weight anchoring you in place.

you look back at him.

caleb’s expression is... careful and faintly apologetic, vulnerable in a way that’s been curated rather than stumbled into. his grip remains gentle, almost tentative, as if he’s waiting to see whether you’ll pull away.

“hey,” he says softly. “can you—wait a second?”

your brow furrows. “what?”

he exhales, a small sound, and shifts just enough to wince, deliberately. “i think i pulled something,” he frowns at himself. “my torso feels… really sore. 's hard to move.”

you glance at him, unconvinced. your eyes flick—not to his face, but to his arms. his biceps, still defined even slack.

“you?” you tilt your head. “with those arms? you’ll survive.”

caleb huffs a quiet laugh, corner of his mouth lifting. “big guys feel pain too, you know.”

it’s almost playful. but you frown, unimpressed.

he looks up at you then, properly, lashes lowered, expression softening into something deliberately pitiful. a practiced helplessness, remniscient of a puppy. the kind that works on people who want to believe in it.

you don’t.

your wrist remains in his hand, and you sigh.

“fine,” you reach for the edge of his jacket. “don’t be dramatic.”

caleb’s breath catches—not visibly, not enough that you’d comment on it—but he feels it all the same. you undo the buttons with brisk efficiency, tug the fabric free from his shoulders. the jacket slips off and lands folded on the chair.

next is the polo. your fingers brush his side as you lift it over his head. the contact is brief, incidental, but it lights something sharp and electric under his skin. he keeps his eyes on the wall behind you, jaw tight, as if looking at you directly might undo him.

the undershirt comes last.

you pause, just barely. “arms up,” and he does.

fabric slides upward, peeling away inch by inch. his torso is bare now, marked only by faint tension and the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. caleb feels it then—the space between you narrowing, the quiet thickening. he wonders, absurdly, if you feel it too.

you do.

you just don’t let it show.

your gaze flicks down despite yourself, a glance you probably didn’t intend to give, catching on the lines of his abdomen, his abs, before snapping back up.

he gulps.

you clear your throat and step back, folding the damp clothes with unnecessary firmness. “there, you’re fine. next time, don’t overdo it.”

he doesn’t answer. he just looks at you with a softened, open expression that hovers somewhere between need and embarrassment, like he’s been caught wanting something he knows better than to ask for.

you notice. “…what?” you say, exasperated. “don’t tell me you need help putting the shirt on too?”

his head shakes immediately. “no—no, i’m good,” he says, voice a little too quick. “just—uh. sore. i can manage.”

he reaches for the shirt you brought, grateful for the barrier, and pulls it over his head. it hangs loose on him, fabric skimming his torso instead of clinging. yours, unmistakably. caleb smooths it down, grounding himself in the feel of it.

you watch for a moment, “do you need to change your bottoms too? i can look for something.”

“it’s okay, i’m fine.”

you accept that easily. too easily. you nod once, already halfway turned away when he says your name.

you stop and look back at him again, one brow lifting in mild question. patient, but faintly expectant—like you’re bracing for something inconvenient.

caleb swallows. “hey,” he rubs the back of his neck, shoulders slightly hunched now that the moment has caught up to him. “thank you, for taking care 'f me. and for the shirt. and—” he gestures vaguely, encompassing the room. “for everything.”

his smile comes easy, the familiar one. boyish and a little cheeky.

you look at him for a beat. then your mouth curves, just a little. “you’re welcome, try not to get into fights every time it rains.”

caleb laughs, a soft huff of a sound. “no promises.”

something in his chest loosens—then tightens again, because the smile you gave him wasn’t deep, it was real. you didn’t owe it to him, and that’s exactly why it lands.

he feels it settle in his bones.

for one reckless, vivid second, he wants to close the distance between you. to grab you, lift you, press his mouth to yours and feel the thought stop being hypothetical.

the image flashes bright and dangerous, so immediate it nearly makes him dizzy.

he doesn’t move. instead, he looks at you.

really looks—letting the feeling burn quietly behind his eyes while his face stays harmless. the boy-next-door facade fits him well. people trust it. you trust it.

the words "i like you" hover at the back of his throat. they feel insufficient, premature, and clumsy. saying them now would be like knocking on a door that isn’t meant to be opened yet.

so he doesn’t say anything at all.

~

two weeks pass.

caleb measures them anyway. he starts to show up more. when you leave class, when you’re deciding where to eat, when you’re reaching for something you didn’t realize you needed help with until he’s already offering it.

his timing is always impeccable. too impeccable, if anyone were paying attention.

you don’t comment on it.

you remain as you always are: calm, receptive in a practical way. you accept what’s useful. you decline what isn’t.

and caleb watches for a change that never comes— there's no softening, no emotional echoes. and still, he persists.

“isn't this the place you like?” he says one afternoon, when he insisted on walking you home, gesturing toward a small café you’ve never mentioned aloud. “they don’t over-sweeten their drinks.”

you blink at him. “yeah, how’d you know?”

he smiles, “guess.”

it keeps happening. the music he puts on when you’re in the car—songs you never said you liked, only listened to once when you thought you were alone. the way he orders food exactly how you prefer it, down to exclusions you’ve never bothered correcting in other people. the books he recommends, always landing a little too close to your taste.

“we’re quite similar,” he answers once, when you raise an eyebrow at yet another coincidence.

“i guess,” you reply, unconcerned.

and then, one friday night, the house is already overflowing when caleb arrives at the party he's been invited into.

people call his name the moment he steps inside, bunch of hands clap his shoulders. someone presses a drink into his palm without asking, and a girl he barely remembers leans in, laughing too close, eyes bright with expectation. "you've finally arrived!"

he grins, of course he does.

it’s the right response. it keeps things easy.

but he doesn’t move far from the wall near the living room, where the shadows soften the edges of things. he plants himself there, with eyes drifting instinctively toward the front door every few seconds.

he heard you were coming.

one of the seniors mentioned it casually—oh, yeah, she said she might drop by later—and that alone had tipped the scale. caleb hadn’t planned on staying long tonight, but you give shape to things.

so he waits.

the music grows louder with the bass vibrating through the floor, through his ribs. people dance, shout, spill drinks. a girl brushes his arm and smiles like it means something. he smiles back automatically, then looks past her head.

not you.

his brow tightens, just a little.

where are you?

he checks the time on his phone with just a glance. it's still early. you’re not late yet. you’re just… not here.

caleb tells himself this is fine. you don’t owe the night anything. you don’t owe him anything.

still, he keeps watching the door.

laughter erupts somewhere behind him. one of his friends grabs his wrist, tries to pull him into the center of the room. “come on,” they shout over the music. “don’t be boring.”

caleb laughs, lets himself be tugged a step forward, then gently disentangles.

“in a bit,” he winks. “i’m good here.”

he returns to the corner like it’s gravity, like the space is meant to hold him. from here, he can see everything. the staircase. the kitchen. the front door. he catalogs faces as they come and go, dismissing them almost instantly.

not you.

not you.

not you.

the longer it goes on, the harder it is to keep the smile in place. his frown deepens without him noticing, an expression out of sync with the rest of the room. around him, people are laughing, carefree, loud with borrowed joy.

caleb feels oddly detached from it all.

he imagines you arriving later—quietly, maybe, scanning the room once before committing. he imagines spotting you immediately, the way he always does. imagines the subtle recalibration of the night the moment you’re present.

suddenly, someone hooks an arm around his neck and laughs straight into his ear. “do it,” his friend yells, already half-dancing. “come on. you always do it.”

caleb exhales through a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “no,” he shakes his head. “i’m not in the mood.”

“you’re never ‘in the mood,’” another voice cuts in. “that’s why it’s funny.”

hands push at his back, nudging him forward. the music surges, bass heavy enough to feel like a second pulse. caleb resists for a moment longer out of habit, it’s easier to give in than to explain why he’s been standing still for nearly an hour, eyes fixed on the front door like he’s waiting for something to break.

“fine,” he lifts both hands in mock surrender. “one minute, alright?”

and they cheer like they’ve won something, so he lets himself be pulled into the center of the room, where the lights are brighter and the air is warmer, thick with sweat and perfume and noise.

someone presses a bottle into his hand—water, thankfully—and before he can think better of it, the crowd starts chanting his name.

caleb laughs, genuinely this time. it bubbles up despite himself, because distraction is useful. he moves with the rhythm easily, and he tips the bottle over his head and lets the water spill freely, soaking his hair, streaking down his face and neck, plastering his white shirt to his torso.

the reaction is immediate. the scene causes screams to cut through the music, the attention is loud and uncomplicated and flattering in the most shallow way.

caleb grins, spins once, lifts the bottle again and spills the last of it down his chest.

for a brief, reckless stretch of seconds, it’s fun. genuinely. the kind of fun that asks nothing of him beyond being seen.

and then—

he sees you.

you’re standing just off to the side, near the edge of the room where the lights dim and the crowd thins, watching.

your eyes meet his.

and then, everything else falls away.

the music dulls like it’s been wrapped in cloth. the shouting fades to a low, distant roar. caleb’s smile falters, muscles forgetting what they were doing. his heart even stutters, then pounds so hard it makes him lightheaded.

you’re wearing a dress.

it shouldn’t matter but it does. it falls against you effortlessly, like it was always meant to.

you were watching him and the realization burns. he feels suddenly exposed, absurdly aware of his wet shirt, his damp hair, the heat still radiating off him from movement and attention. the contrast between the spectacle he’s making and the quiet way you’re seeing him makes his chest tighten painfully.

his body stops moving entirely.

then you look away.

just like that.

you turn, slipping through the bodies with the same unhurried ease you always have, as if nothing significant has occurred. as if you haven’t just rearranged him from the inside out. you don’t even glance back.

caleb almost jolts.

his breath comes shallow, his hand tightening reflexively around the empty bottle before he drops it to the floor.

someone calls his name again, laughing, reaching for him.

but he pulls free.

“hey, where’re you going?”

he doesn’t answer.

he pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning desperately for the curve of your shoulder, the fall of your hair.

the room feels wrong now—it's too loud, too bright, and too crowded. his heart won’t slow down. his thoughts fracture, scattering around a single, urgent point.

don’t leave yet.

he moves faster, following the path you took, letting instinct override everything else.

he has to see you again.

the crowd thins as he moves toward the back of the house, the noise loosening its grip the closer he gets to the open doors. and there you are, seated near the pool, slightly apart from the chaos.

people are clustered around you—laughing loudly, perhaps tipsy with limbs slung carelessly over deck chairs. someone jumps into the water fully clothed. another spills a drink and doesn’t care. you sit at the edge of it all, cup in hand, smiling.

caleb slows.

are you drinking?

the question hits him harder than it should. he watches the way you lift the cup, the way your fingers curl around it.

your expression doesn’t give anything away. you don’t look loose, or dulled, or different. you look exactly like yourself.

good.

then someone notices him.

“oh shit,” a girl laughs, nudging the person beside her. “it’s caleb.”

heads turn, and the circle opens.

“get over here,” someone calls, waving him closer. “why’re you hiding?”

you look up then.

and your eyes meet his again, briefly. no surprise this time, just recognition. like spotting a familiar object in a room you already understand.

caleb steps forward, heart steadying as he joins the group. his shirt is still damp, clinging in places, loose in others. he feels the cool night air against his skin in a way that makes him acutely aware of his body.

one of them whistles. “damn. the wet look works on you.”

“yeah,” another voice adds. “he really was overdoing it back there... don't do that unless you want them to keep fawning over you.”

caleb laughs, soft and easy, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. “i'll keep that in mind.”

the conversation shifts quickly—school gossip, someone’s messy breakup, a professor everyone hates, and rumors about who hooked up with who. caleb listens just enough to respond when expected, nodding, smiling, reacting at the right moments.

but his attention keeps drifting.

of course to you.

he steals glances when he thinks no one’s watching. the way your smile flickers when someone says something amusing. the way you tilt your head as you listen, engaged—but not invested.

you speak occasionally, concise and measured, then fall quiet again.

you never look at him.

it’s not avoidance, it’s indifference, pure and unadorned.

you don’t glance his way. you don’t seek him out. you don’t acknowledge the way he’s angled slightly toward you, attention bent in your direction like a compass needle that refuses to behave.

he smiles at a joke someone makes, laughs when it’s appropriate, but all the while his eyes keep betraying him—slipping back to you, again and again.

someone laughs too loudly and says, “okay, but seriously—let's talk about crushes.”

a chorus of groans and cheers follows. couples are named, denied, and confirmed. someone admits to texting their ex. someone else pretends not to care.

then the attention tilts toward you. “what about you?” a guy asks, leaning back on his hands. “you seeing anyone?”

you shake your head lightly. “no.”

“but do you want to? like—are you planning to get into a relationship anytime soon?”

caleb’s spine straightens without him realizing it. the noise around him fades just enough for your answer to matter too much.

you hum, thoughtful. “i don’t know.. maybe.”

“that’s not an answer,” someone teases.

“okay, then—do you have a crush?”

there’s a beat.

you say, “perhaps i do.”

caleb’s heart stutters. it’s not cinematic. it’s the quiet, visceral sensation of something missing a step and never quite landing where it should. his breath catches. his fingers curl slightly at his side.

you have a crush...?

his mind races ahead of itself, cataloging faces, voices, hands that might have lingered too close to you. anyone who has laughed with you too easily. anyone who has walked you home. anyone who has dared to—

“who?” someone asks immediately. “spill it!”

you smile to yourself first.

then you lift your gaze.

to him.

you just look at caleb, eyes unreadable, holding his for a second too long to be accidental.

his system short-circuits, eyes widening a fraction before he can stop them.

the world sharpens and blurs at the same time. he forgets how to sit like a normal person, how to smile on cue, how to breathe without effort.

you look away, and then you sway.

it happens too fast.

your shoulders dip as your hand comes up to your head like you’re trying to catch it before it falls. your cup tilts, liquid spilling a bit darkly down the front of your clothes, splashing onto the concrete.

“whoa—hey—”

“are you okay?”

caleb registers the number only distantly—someone muttering, half-impressed, half-alarmed, “she’s had like… nine shots, right?”—as if it’s trivia, not explanation.

you’re drunk, more than he thought, more than you should be.

your cup slips from your fingers entirely this time, clattering uselessly as you press your palm to your temple, frowning faintly like the sensation is inconvenient rather than alarming.

“she’s fine,” someone says, uncertain.

caleb is the one who speaks next.

“hey,” he lifts his hands in a calming gesture. “let’s not make it a whole thing. she just needs to lie down for a bit. don’t kill the vibe.” it sounds generous, almost thoughtful.

no one argues right away.

caleb steps closer, and his arm slides behind your back, steadying you before anyone else can decide to do it. “i’ve got her,” he adds, already committing to the role.

someone snorts. “look at you.”

“didn’t know you were like that, caleb.”

he laughs, soft and unbothered, and bends without ceremony. one arm under your knees, the other at your back. you make a small, incoherent sound as he lifts you, surprised by the sudden absence of the ground.

you’re lighter than he imagined.

your body settles against his chest instinctively, head tipping toward his shoulder. your fingers clutch weakly at his damp shirt, more reflex than intention.

the group watches and a few eyes narrow, a few smiles turn teasing instead of amused.

“taking her upstairs already? bold.”

caleb glances over his shoulder, grin easy and boyish. “just gonna let her sleep it off, it's best to bring her back when she’s not about to pass out.”

it’s said with such natural confidence that it closes the subject. the attention drifts back to the pool, the drinks, the noise. suspicion dissolves into disinterest.

good, he thinks.

he turns toward the stairs, indulging in the quiet thrill of it—the way your weight presses into him, warm and unresisting. your head bumps lightly against his collarbone as he climbs, words slipping out of you in fragments.

“hey,” he murmurs, amused. “easy.”

you don’t answer. your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, lashes dark against your cheeks. each step creaks underfoot. the party noise fades behind him, replaced by the dull hush of the upper floor.

“you really overdid it, you know that?” he says lightly, as if you can still comprehend him. “nine shots... impressive, irresponsible, i’m a little proud.”

your head tilts toward his voice. he imagines you listening, he imagines you understanding. “don’t worry though,” he adds, adjusting his grip, “i’ve got you.”

he carries you down the hall, savoring the simplicity of it—the way the night has finally narrowed to just the two of you. and he doesn’t hurry at all.

he fumbles for the door with his shoulder, nudging it open inch by inch while keeping his hold on you steady.

then he steps inside and eases the door shut behind him, the click sounds louder than it should.

“okay, here we are.”

the bed creaks softly as he lowers you onto it, careful, impossibly careful, like you might bruise from the wrong kind of attention. he adjusts you so your head meets the pillow, one hand lingering at your side longer than necessary before he pulls back.

for a second, you’re still.

then you stir.

your eyes flutter open, brows knitting together in faint protest. you push yourself up on your elbows, unsteady but stubborn. “i’m okay,” you mumble, words slurring into each other. “i’m fine. i can—”

“nope. lie down. you’re not fine—you’re drunk.” caleb presses his palm to your shoulder, just enough pressure to guide you back down. "you took care of me last time, now it's my turn."

you let out a small sound of complaint as you sink back into the mattress. your head rolls to the side, hair spilling messily across the pillow.

god.

he exhales slowly through his nose, grounding himself. you look unreal like this—softened by exhaustion with defenses dulled, mouth parted slightly as if mid-thought you forgot to finish. it would be so easy.

he doesn’t move closer.

he won’t.

“you really went all in tonight,” he says lightly, trying to keep the warmth in his voice from tipping into something else. “overachiever.”

you respond with a string of quiet nonsense, syllables bumping into each other without direction. something about the music. something about being tired. something that might be his name—or might not.

he smiles despite himself. “yeah,” he murmurs, indulging you. “i know. totally makes sense.”

he reaches out, fingers hovering for a heartbeat before he lets himself touch you at all. just your hair. just that. he tucks a loose strand back from your face, knuckles grazing your temple by accident.

you sigh, content, eyes slipping shut again.

that sound hits him low and dangerous.

“there you go,” he whispers, almost absurdly gentle. “just sleep, okay? i’ve got you.”

you mumble again, softer this time, words dissolving before they can mean anything. he answers anyway, nodding, “mmhmm. yeah. i know.”

his hand lingers at the edge of your hair, then withdraws, curling into a fist at his side as if to physically hold himself in place. his chest feels too full, too tight, emotion pressing up against restraint until it almost trembles.

he loves you in a way that feels unmanageable.

suddenly, a knock sounded.

three quick raps against the door, cutting straight through the quiet he’d carved out for the two of you.

caleb’s expression changes instantly.

the softness drains from his face, replaced by something colder—an irritation that settles deep and heavy in his chest. his jaw tightens. how dare anyone interrupt this. how dare they intrude on a moment that finally feels contained.

he exhales through his nose and stands.

“one second,”

when he opens the door, there’s a guy standing there—someone from the party, flushed and curious, holding a red cup like an excuse. “oh,” the guy says, blinking. “caleb?”

“what,” caleb replies, already halfway to a glare.

the guy hesitates. glances past him, tries—and fails—to see into the room. “uh, nothing. never mind.” he shrugs, backs away with a sheepish laugh, and disappears down the hall.

caleb doesn’t watch him go. he shuts the door immediately and turns the lock with a firm, deliberate twist. the sound of it clicking into place settles something in him.

only then does he turn back around.

you’re still on the bed, exactly where he left you. sometime in the last minute, you must’ve shifted—your dress has ridden up slightly, fabric caught higher on your thighs than before.

it’s nothing.

caleb inhales through his mouth, slow and careful, like he’s bracing against a wave.

his gaze fixes for a second too long before he forces it away, muscles in his arms flexing as he resists the instinct to reach, to adjust, to touch.

not like this.

he swallows, grounding himself with the simple facts: you’re drunk. you trusted him. you’re asleep because you feel safe, and that matters more than anything else.

still, his restraint creaks under the weight of how close he is, how easy it would be to blur lines he’s spent so long perfecting. “get it together,” his eyes return to your face instead, but the yearning doesn’t leave. it never does.

sighing, he runs a hand through his messy hair, his eyes refocusing on your sleeping form once more. you really do look cute like that…

at that moment, you shift in your sleep—the covers around you sliding down your torso as you flip to your other side. immediately, caleb's gaze focuses in on your squished-together cleavage, and his cheeks redden. how could you wear such a dress like that? shouldn't you be weary in a party?

his eyes begin to rake over your soft skin—settling on the curve of your neck, as he imagines how pretty you’d look covered in his hickies. a dull ache settles in his gut, and while he knows he should stop, he continues to let his mind wander.

he imagines your breasts in his hands, and the quiet little sounds you’d make as he touched you—unable to help yourself. he’s sure your skin is very soft, and he wants to caress every inch of it, until he knows of each mole, scar, or otherwise.

shit, he thinks to himself, hand moving down to palm at his crotch. he’s hard thanks to his roaming imagination, but as much as he wants to touch you, that would be really wrong... right?

caleb swallows harshly, and despite himself, his hand reaches down to grab the edge of your covers. slowly, he peels them down your sleeping form—not too surprised that you don’t awake. one of your friends had joked about your sleeping habits—one being that once you got to sleep, it was very hard to wake you during the first few hours.

he hates that he gets aroused at the idea of touching you while you’re unaware. but…it would be so easy. so easy to just slip your tank top down your shoulders…listening to you quietly moan while he sucks on your tits—his fingers finding their way beneath your shorts…

before he can think twice, he finds himself lowering onto the bed beside you. gently, he grips your shoulder and rolls you onto your back, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when you don’t stir.

surely, he'd be going to hell for this...

reaching out, he cups your breast though your shirt—the flesh squishing beneath his fingertips. he feels your nipple harden—pressing up against the flat of his palm—and a quiet chuckle sneaks past his lips. even in your sleep, your body can’t deny its desires, huh?

gaining a little courage, caleb slips the straps of your dress off of your shoulders—additional inches of skin becoming exposed to his hungry eyes. and despite wanting to rip it off of you—he works slowly—peeling the fabric down inch by inch until finally, your breasts are fully accessible.

abruptly, he leans over—flattening his tongue against one of your nipples and giving an experimental lick. at the sensation, your breathing hitches slightly, but you don’t awaken. it makes him grin, hand reaching out to claim the other mound as his mouth continues working at the present one.

despite being asleep, it’s clear that your body has sensed a change. quiet whines begin to build in your throat—eyebrows furrowing on your forehead. however, the sounds only urge caleb to proceed.

his tongue continues swirling around your taut nipple—teeth gently nipping at the bud on occasion, and the whines that leave you in response has his cock straining against his underwear. without ceasing, his eyes drag down your torso, pausing at the crotch of your shorts. he can see your thighs clenching ever so slightly.

“pipsqueak....” he mumbles to himself, his hot breath fanning against you. “do you want something to happen between us? that the reason why you're wearing this dress?”

caleb sucks your tit into his mouth a bit more harder, and you mewl beneath him. you stir slightly, your limbs stretching against the sheets, but caleb is too distracted to care. if you wake up, then you wake up. however, until then, he has no intention of stopping.

his chest fills with a warmth so complete it almost hurts. this—this—is how it was always supposed to be.

then—

the fantasy fractures.

caleb blinks, sharply, like waking from a dream.

he’s still there, standing near the door.

the bed is still between you, and the light hasn’t changed, and the door is still locked. you’re still asleep, unaware of him in every way that matters. his hands are empty, hanging stiffly at his sides.

nothing happened.

the absence is... jarring. his mouth feels wrong, like it’s remembering pressure that was never there. his heart pounds too fast, as if it’s been fooled into thinking something has already been claimed.

he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “jesus,”

he straightens, forcing his weight back onto his heels, reestablishing distance like it’s a rule he has to keep reminding himself of. “you’re unbelievable,”

the thought that he could be cruel—that cruel—settles heavy in his chest. not because he fears crossing the line, but because he knows how badly he wants to pretend it’s already gone.

it settles low and insistent, a pressure that makes his stomach knot and his breath go shallow. caleb stays where he is for a moment too long, staring at the line of your body beneath borrowed sheets, at the quiet trust written into the way you sleep.

he turns away abruptly, like the sight of you has burned him. his steps are quiet as he crosses the room, the bathroom door is right there, just across the bed. close enough to feel like an escape route he’s been pretending not to see.

and in there he goes to work on himself.

one hand braces against the porcelain, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. the other reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around the thick, throbbing length of his cock. he could feel every vein, every ridge, every sensitive nerve ending crying out for stimulation. and slowly, torturously, he began to stroke himself, his fingers gliding up and down his aching flesh with a sensual rhythm.

he leans forward slightly, forehead almost touching the mirror, shoulders rising and falling. "ah, fuck,"

the chain around his neck swings faintly. and without thinking, he lifts it and bites down on the dog tag, metal cold against his teeth. the familiar weight gives him something to clench around, something to muffle the sounds that threatens to break loose from his chest.

caleb's breath began to come faster, his chest heaving with the exertion of his strokes as he tried to lose himself in the fantasy, in the imagined scenario of you unwittingly inspiring his lust. his grip tightened, fist pumping faster along his thick shaft.

"fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted dazedly, his hips starting to rock into his touch. wonder what you'd do if you knew it was you he was thinking about, you he was imagining as he touched himself like this? would you be shocked? aroused? disgusted?

he swallowed back the groan that threatened to spill from his lips, biting down hard on the metal of his dog tag instead.

his strokes grew even more urgent, more desperate, his fist a blur as it flew over his cock. "nmnnghh...!" he could feel the pressure building, the need coiling tighter and tighter in his core.

"i'm.. so...close," his eyes squeezed shut, his other hand gripping hard around the sink's edge until the pleasure bordered on pain, and finally, finally, he came with a silent, shuddering groan that wracked his frame.

thick ropes of cum erupted from his cock, splattering across his hand and dripping down onto the floor. his body jerked and spasmed, his hips bucking wildly as he rode out the waves of his intense release. and still, he bit back the sounds of his rapture, his face contorted in a silent scream of ecstasy.

he rests his back against the cool tile, letting the wall take his weight.

his head tips back just enough to expose his throat, breath shuddering as he tries—again—to find its rhythm. in through the nose. out through parted lips. slow it down. contain it.

his jaw loosens, and the dog tag slips free from between his teeth and falls back against his chest.

caleb closes his eyes.

for a moment, all he can feel is the aftermath—his hand slides up to press flat against the door beside him, steadying himself as if the room might tilt.

if he's this lost in just masturbating to the thought of you, what more if he finally gets to be inside you?

god.

it unsettles him how easy it is, how effortlessly you undo him without ever touching him, without even knowing.

just the thought of you reduces him to this quiet wreck trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. he lets out a soft, humorless laugh under his breath.

“you have no idea,”

he opens his eyes and stares at nothing, replaying you with surgical clarity: the curve of your mouth when you smile without thinking. the way your voice stays even, never bending toward him the way his bends toward you every time.

the simple fact of your presence, enough to tip him off balance...

~

you wake up with your head split clean down the middle, light pressing too hard against your eyes, your mouth feels really dry and sour with regret. the room is unfamiliar—stripped of the party’s noise like it never existed. the bed beneath you isn’t yours, either.

your phone is on the nightstand, charged, and your shoes are lined up by the door.

someone sure took care of you.

the memory comes back in pieces.

caleb...

you sit up slowly, head throbbing, and scan the room. he isn’t here. no messages or anything like that - just the quiet evidence of his presence, already cleaned away. you don’t feel panicked. you don’t feel grateful either. mostly, you feel mildly inconvenienced by the gap in your memory.

monday morning arrives then.

by the time you make it to campus, the social hall hums with weekday life—voices layered over each other, chairs scraping, the smell of coffee and crowd. you sit with your friends at one of the long tables, hands wrapped around a paper cup, listening as they dissect friday night like it’s a shared dream.

“i don’t remember half of it,” someone laughs.

“you disappeared,” another points out, looking at you. “we thought you left.”

“maybe i did,” you say, rubbing your temple. across you, a table away, someone is asleep.

hood pulled low, arms crossed on the table, head turned away just enough that you can’t make out his face. his posture is unbothered, like he belongs anywhere he decides to stay. something about the shape of him tugs at your attention—familiar, but not urgent enough to investigate.

your friend keeps talking.

“hey,” she says suddenly, lowering her voice. “have you seen jaden lately?”

you blink. “no, i haven't,”

“he hasn’t been around,” another adds. “like—at all. hasn’t replied to anyone. it’s been, what, almost three weeks?”

three weeks?

you frown faintly, thinking. jaden’s name slides through your head and bumps into the memory of rain soaking through your clothes as you’d laughed under a borrowed umbrella, him walking you home, and the wet pavements.

that was the last time, wasn’t it?

“maybe he’s busy,” you say, because it’s the easiest explanation. “or sick.”

someone shrugs. the conversation drifts on, attention pulled elsewhere, already bored of absence.

you take another sip of coffee and glance, without really meaning to, at the sleeping figure across your table.

the hoodie shifts slightly, and his hand moves, just enough to suggest awareness.

you look away.

“maybe we should check on jaden,” you say, stirring your drink absently. “like… go to his apartment later or something. just to make sure he’s alive.”

a few people nod. someone says, “yeah, do that. i'm starting to get worried of him.”

then someone laughs, sharp and sudden. “oh my god, wait—speaking of friday.”

you hum in response, distracted.

“the crush thing,” she continues. “by the pool.”

“you remember that?” another voice chimes in, grinning at you. “when we asked who your crush was?”

you pause.

“you totally looked at someone, like very obviously.”

“yeah,” someone else adds. “you looked right at—”

you cut in. “it wasn’t obvious.” your tone is flat, mildly corrective.

“come on,” they insist. “who was it?”

there’s a stretch of silence that feels longer than it is.

“i don’t really talk about that stuff,” you say.

they groan and continue to push.

“okay, but hypothetically.”

“just say it.”

“we already know.”

you sigh. and finally, you give them what they want. “what about it if i like caleb?”

the words land without flourish. there's no smile, no nervous laugh. your voice stays even, almost bored with the confession. you continue, as if clarifying a logistical detail. “he’s my type.”

that’s it.

“oh my god,” someone laughs, leaning closer. “you know what people say about caleb, right?”

you hum noncommittally, already half-detached as the teasing starts to pile up. “apparently he lives at the gym.”

“yeah, have you seen his back?”

“you should check his socials,” another adds, grinning. “it’s honestly unfair.”

you roll your eyes, slow and deliberate. “i’m not doing homework on a guy,” you mildly scoff. “if i wanted to look, i would.”

that earns a chorus of groans and mock disappointment. someone nudges your shoulder, someone else mutters that you’re impossible. you let it wash over you, because rumors don’t interest you and bodies don’t impress you enough to warrant effort. caleb remains, in your mind, exactly what he’s always been.

the bell rings.

chairs scrape back, conversations fracture mid-sentence, and people scatter toward their respective buildings. you stand, sling your bag over your shoulder, and follow the flow without looking back.

you don’t see the way the figure at the other table stirs the moment your footsteps fade. the slow lift of his head. the way his body uncoils like he’s been awake far longer than anyone suspects.

caleb slides the hoodie back from his hair.

his face is faintly flushed, color blooming high along his cheekbones. his eyes—a little too wide—track the empty space you left behind. a hand comes up, absentminded, to rake through his hair, leaving it artfully disheveled in a way that looks unintentional and isn’t.

for a second, he just sits there. then he exhales, something breathless and disbelieving, mouth curving into a smile that’s soft and stunned all at once.

you like him.

caleb slowly stands, shoulders rolling back as he slips fully into himself again. by the time he moves to join the current of students, he’s wide awake now.

~

after class, the sky has settled into that dull, undecided gray that makes everything feel suspended.

jaden’s building is older than the rest nearby—three floors, narrow stairwell, paint chipped thin from years of use. you climb to the third floor with a growing sense of unease, phone already in your hand.

you stop in front of his door to knock.

nothing.

you dial his number as you wait, pressing the phone to your ear, listening to it ring unanswered. you knock again, louder this time. still nothing.

minutes bleed together. ten. twenty. almost thirty.

you’re just starting to consider calling someone—anyone—when you hear footsteps behind you.

“hey,” a voice says, familiar enough to make you turn immediately. “you.”

you look over your shoulder.

and it’s... caleb?

he’s dressed down—black compression shirt clinging cleanly to his torso, sleeves hugging muscle without effort. a black cap shadows his eyes, brim low and casual. he’s carrying two grocery bags, one in each hand.

he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows lifting just a little.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, the concern in your voice overriding any social preamble.

he tilts his head, then nods toward the door you’ve been knocking on. “i was gonna ask you the same thing.”

you glance back at jaden’s door, then at caleb. “i’m checking on a friend. he hasn’t answered anyone in weeks.”

caleb follows your gaze, his expression shifts into a thoughtful one. “oh, well, i live here.”

you blink. “here?”

he gestures vaguely down the hall, then back toward the door beside you. “yeah, third floor.”

the words settle slowly.

“…wait, you and jaden—”

“are neighbors,” caleb finishes easily.

the hallway feels smaller all of a sudden, quieter, like the air has been rearranged around the information.

you didn’t know that.

you didn’t know a lot of things, apparently.

caleb shifts the grocery bags in his hands, plastic rustling softly. “he’s not answering?”

“no... i’ve been here for a while.”

he hums, considering, eyes flicking once more to the door. “that’s weird,” he says calmly. and somehow, the way he says it makes you feel like it isn’t.

he glances at your phone, then at the door again, as if checking the same conclusion you already reached. “have you eaten?” he asks, casual, like it just occurred to him.

you shake your head. “not really.”

there’s a brief pause—barely there—before he nods once. “then while we wait,” he says, shifting the grocery bags in his hands, “you can come to my place, was about to make dinner anyway.”

you hesitate.

it’s instinctive, the kind of pause you don’t consciously justify. this wasn’t part of the plan. you were supposed to knock, worry, maybe leave a message taped to a door. not follow someone into their apartment.

caleb doesn’t rush you. he just waits, patient, like he already knows how this will go.

“…okay,”

his place is a few doors away.

inside, the apartment closes around you with a quiet thud. the interior is stark in a way that feels intentional: concrete tones, sharp lines, furniture chosen for function rather than comfort. it’s quite clean, but not welcoming.

gloomy, you think, without quite meaning it as a criticism.

caleb sets the grocery bags down on the counter and reaches up to pull off his cap. he ruffles his hair once, resetting himself now that you’re here. then he looks at you.

“i’ll cook steak, how's that?”

you blink, processing, then nod. “sure.”

you move toward the kitchen island and take a seat on one of the tall chairs, legs dangling slightly as you settle in. the surface is cool beneath your palms. from here, you can see everything—his movements, the quiet efficiency with which he unpacks the groceries.

he moves like this is normal.

like this is planned.

he knows you’re watching.

not because you’re obvious about it—you aren’t—but because caleb has always been painfully attuned to the way your attention moves.

his back faces you as he cooks. the pan hisses softly, oil blooming into heat. he rolls his shoulders once, sleeves of the compression shirt hugging muscle like it was designed to be admired. he doesn’t turn around. he lets you look.

then you stop.

you reach for your phone instead. caleb catches the faint shift in your posture in the reflection of the blackened microwave door.

he's a bit sad you've stopped looking at him. nonetheless, he salts the steak with care, flips it, listens.

your friend’s voice echoes in your head—check his social media—and you do.

caleb doesn’t post. you already knew that. there's no grid, no carefully curated persona. just a profile picture and silence.

except—there's a story posted an hour ago.

your thumb taps before you can reconsider.

it’s a mirror shot with gym lighting, and his back to the glass, shirt pulled just enough to expose the clean, brutal lines of muscle and spine, skin sheened with sweat. the kind of photo that isn’t trying to be sexy—and is, because of it.

you feel heat rush up your neck.

caleb smiles to himself.

he turns then, quiet as a thought, and you don’t hear him approach. you’re still staring at your phone when his shadow falls over you, close enough that you can smell him.

“you were really drunk last friday,” he says mildly.

you jolt.

“i—” you lock your phone, flustered and mortified. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to—”

your words tangle, and caleb watches them fall apart with fond patience. “did i…,” you hesitate, cheeks warm now for a different reason. “did i say anything weird? or did anything inappropriate?”

that gets him.

he stills. the pan sizzles behind him, forgotten for half a beat too long. his gaze drops to your face—almost tender in how carefully he studies your worry.

inappropriate.

the word is almost funny.

he thinks of your weight against him, your breath, the way you trusted him without ever saying so.

caleb pauses just long enough to make the silence mean something. then he smiles. slowly.

he reaches out before you can interpret it, taps your cheek twice with his palm, light as a promise. “what if,” he murmurs, “i’m the one who did something inappropriate?”

he straightens before you can respond, turns back to the stove like he hasn’t just tipped the room off its axis.

but his ears are burning.

you stay quiet.

he exhales first. “i’m kidding, you didn’t do anything inappropriate. nothing happened.” he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he turns back to the stove, gives the steak one last glance, lets the heat kiss it just right. control, caleb reminds himself.

restraint looks good on him. it always has.

when he plates the food, he does it neatly, he sets it down in front of you with a soft clink, the meat resting perfectly with juices glistening. he watches your eyes widen despite yourself.

you dig in almost immediately, hunger winning over caution. caleb leans against the counter, digging in as well, arms folding loosely as he watches you eat like it matters. like you trust what he’s given you.

“this is really good,” you say around a bite, unguarded.

his smile comes easy at that. “thank you, sweetheart.”

then you pause.

he notices before you do.

your gaze flicks to his mouth, brows knitting just slightly. caleb tilts his head curiously—and that’s when you reach out.

your finger brushes his lip. just once, absent-minded, intimate in a way that isn’t trying to be. “you’ve got something,”

caleb stills.

his heart slams so hard it almost hurts.

for half a second, the world narrows to the press of your fingertip, the faint heat of you, the obscene tenderness of the gesture. he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. doesn’t dare.

then he laughs—under his breath—as if that might save him. “careful,” he says, eyes dropping to his plate. “you act like that with guys, you’re gonna get yourself a boyfriend real fast.”

you scoff immediately. “no i won’t.”

caleb hums, amused, and then—without thinking, without filtering the thought as he usually does—he adds, “you didn’t seem to mind when you were with jaden. laughing and leaning into him under that umbrella.”

you blink.

“how did you—?”

caleb blinks back.

shit.

the realization hits him a fraction too late, sharp and sudden. he straightens just a bit. he hadn’t meant to say it like that. he hadn’t meant to say it at all.

he laughs again, a little louder this time. “people talk, you know how it is.” he watches you closely as he says it, watches to see if you believe him. “jaden’s a good guy, from what i hear.”

you take another bite of steak, slower now. “you sure hear a lot.”

he smiles at that, “only what’s worth hearing.”

there it is—that faint edge beneath the joke. it pricks at you, subtle but present. you glance up at him, the way his eyes stay on you a second too long before flicking away.

“he hasn’t been answering anyone,” you say. “it’s weird.”

“mm.” caleb hums, “he’s like that sometimes, right? just disappears.”

“not like this.” you pause, watching his reaction. “it’s been weeks.”

caleb tilts his head considering. “people change though.”

the way he says it makes your fingers curl faintly against the plate. you let out a breathy laugh, half-joking. “you sound like you don’t like him.”

he chuckles, “i don’t dislike him. i just don’t think he’s very… reliable.”

“and you know that how?”

caleb finally meets your gaze head-on. there’s warmth there—always—but it’s concentrated now, focused in a way that makes your stomach tighten. “i pay attention,”

you should brush it off. you almost do. instead, you find yourself leaning back in the chair. “you notice a lot about me too,”

“you’re not hard to notice.”

that should be flattering.

and yet, you swallow. “you knew what burger i liked, you knew i hadn’t eaten today, you knew about jaden and the umbrella.”

caleb lets out a quiet laugh, like you’ve amused him. “are those crimes now?”

“no…just interesting.”

for the first time since you sat down, caleb moves closer. “you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, “me paying attention?”

“i don’t know,”

his eyes soften at that, something almost tender flickering through them. but beneath it—you catch something else. possession, maybe. or anticipation. “that’s okay, you don’t have to know yet.”

you look away first, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest. part of you wants to push. to ask how he knows so much. why it feels like he’s always one step ahead of your questions.

you finish the last bite slower than the rest, more aware now of the quiet between movements. caleb notices, but he doesn’t comment. he simply reaches for your plate when you’re done.

“i’ll wash these later,” he says, setting both plates in the sink. he turns back to you, leaning his hip lightly against the counter, and his gaze lingers on you in a way that feels… assessing. “do you still want to stay? i was going to take a half bath.”

you shake your head. “i should get going.”

“then i’ll walk you out,” he says, “after i rinse off.”

“you don’t have to—”

“it’s fine.” his tone is warm, agreeable. non-negotiable in a way that doesn’t raise its voice. “just a few minutes.”

you hesitate, then nod. “alright...”

that’s all it takes. he turns away from you and heads toward the bathroom, rolling his shoulders as he goes, already loosening the tension from his body. you watch him disappear past the doorway—the broad line of his back, the confident ease of his steps—until the door clicks shut behind him.

you tell yourself you’re only looking because waiting feels awkward, because standing still makes you too aware of the running water down the hall, of the fact that caleb is alone behind a locked door, rinsing heat and effort from his skin while you remain in his space.

you step off the chair quietly.

from caleb’s perspective—though he’s not here to see it—you move the way you always do when you’re thinking, eyes tracing rather than darting, and the apartment opens up to you in fragments.

a book on the side table. not just any book—one you mentioned once, offhandedly, weeks ago. you never said you owned it. only that you liked the ending. there it is anyway, dog-eared at the same chapter you’d quoted.

a spare mug in the cabinet, chipped in a familiar place. the same brand you keep at home.

even the way the furniture is arranged feels tailored to someone who dislikes clutter, who hates feeling boxed in.

to you.

your curiosity sharpens into something colder.

so you move farther in. the sound of the shower continues steadily, a soft rush through the wall, distant but present. caleb is taking his time. he always does when he thinks he has it.

you stop short at the center table.

there’s a necklace there. a small, familiar pendant that you’ve seen disappear beneath shirts more times than you can count.

jaden’s.

your breath catches, like your body forgot how to finish the inhale. your fingers hover above it, then pull back as if the metal might burn you.

why is this here?

your mind scrambles for explanations that don’t quite land. borrowing? coincidence? something you’re missing? but the weight in your chest doesn’t lift. it sinks deeper, spreading nauseatingly.

behind you, the hallway seems longer now. caleb’s bedroom door is closed. and it shouldn’t matter. it’s none of your business. you’ve already crossed some invisible line just by being here, by looking.

and yet, the shower keeps running.

you swallow. it's just a peek, you think.

you move down the hallway like you’re trespassing inside a thought that isn’t yours.

every step is quiet, your attention split between the closed bedroom door ahead of you and the bathroom behind—where the shower still runs. the sound should reassure you. instead, it presses against your nerves, reminding you that caleb is here.

the air feels cooler in the corridor, much denser. you stop in front of his bedroom door. your heart thuds loud enough that you’re certain it must be audible, a traitorous rhythm in your ears as you lift your hand. your fingers hover, trembling just slightly, before curling around the doorknob.

just a peek, you tell yourself again. just enough to quiet the unease.

you don’t get the chance to.

before you can turn, a large hand comes down against the doorframe beside your head, close enough that you feel the vibration of it more than you hear it.

you gasp and spin, losing your balance for half a second before instinct catches up.

caleb is there, just stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless, skin still damp, droplets tracing slow paths down his chest and disappearing beneath the waistband of loose black pants. his hair is darkened from the water, and a small towel hangs around his neck to catch its dampness.

from caleb’s perspective, the sight of you like this—caught mid-reach and eyes wide—is almost unbearable. not because it’s shocking, because it’s intimate. because it feels like he’s walked in on a truth you were trying not to admit to yourself.

he smiles, like this is exactly where he expected to find you.

“what’re you doing?” he asks gently.

his voice is calm. too calm. it contrasts painfully with the way your pulse spikes, the way heat floods your face. you open your mouth to answer, but the words don’t cooperate. they tangle, stall, dissolve before they can become excuses.

“i— i was just—” you stop, frustrated, swallowing hard.

caleb doesn’t interrupt, nor does he move his hand. he leans slightly closer instead, not enough to touch you, but enough that you’re acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him. his eyes stay on your face, patient, intent, and unblinking.

take your time, he thinks.

finally, you straighten, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to meet his gaze head-on. “…you’re unsettling me, caleb.”

for a split second, something flickers behind his eyes—surprise, maybe. then something warmer, almost pleased.

“unsettling?” he repeats softly, like the word interests him. he tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin feel too tight. “i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but you wandered pretty far in.”

you don’t step back.

that, more than anything, is what caleb notices first.

your pulse is loud—he can see it, jumping at your throat—but your spine stays straight. your expression settles into something almost flat, as if fear has to pass through several filters before it’s allowed to show. it intrigues him.

you draw in a breath. “you...watch me too much,” caleb doesn’t interrupt, he lets you go on. “you know things you shouldn’t, like- like my habits, my preferences. and jaden. i don’t tell you everything, so explain how you know.”

all caleb could think about is how beautiful you are right now.

the way you confront him without dramatics, the way you don’t ask why, only how. the way you keep your distance emotionally even now, even cornered in a hallway with his arm blocking the door.

he catches every word and every place where you could have softened and chose not to.

“i pay attention,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, more honest than it should be.

"really? crossing the line is... paying attention?"

"no line has ever mattered to me when it comes to you."

you scoff, faint and humorless. “that’s not an answer.”

he smiles wider, the kind of smile people trust. “it is, just not the one you’re expecting.” he shifts his weight, finally lowering his arm from the doorframe—he wants you to feel like you’ve regained ground. “you’re observant too, you just don’t like what this one implies.”

you search his face, clearly trying to decide whether he’s deflecting or confessing. he lets you. he’s good at this—knows exactly how much to give. “i don’t mean to make you uneasy,” he says softly. “but when you care about someone, you remember things. that doesn’t make it sinister.”

care?

he watches how the word lands. how you don’t react the way most people would. just a narrowing of your eyes, analytical.

“you’re twisting it,” you say. “i didn’t say you cared.”

“you didn’t have to.” he tilts his head, “if you want me to stop doing something, tell me what it is. don’t guess at my intentions. you’ll only scare yourself.”

it’s subtle, he reframes your fear as imagination, your instincts as overthinking. and it makes you hesitate just for a second.

you’re scared, yes—but you’re also curious. and that curiosity is the crack he’s been waiting for. “i don’t like feeling like i don’t know where i stand,”

caleb nods, as if that’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “then stay right here, i won’t move you.”

you don’t realize it yet—but the moment you chose to confront him instead of leaving, he’d already won something. and caleb, patient as ever, is more than happy to let you believe this was your move.

you stand there, barely breathing, and caleb notices every subtle shift in your posture. he takes it all in, cataloging it quietly, a predator and a poet at once.

“i think it’s time,” he murmurs, almost a caress. “time you understood… everything.”

you don’t respond. you can’t. your chest has tightened so suddenly that every breath feels precious.

he leans slightly, just enough for the shadow of him to fall across your face. “everything about me. everything i've needed. everything i've… wanted.”

his words aren’t rushed. they’re seductive in the quietest, deadliest way—and you’re just speechless, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“you don’t know how you’re supposed to feel, do you?” he says, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. his thumb brushes lightly against your jaw, ghosting a line that makes your pulse jump. “don’t worry...most people don’t.”

there’s a pause, just long enough for your own heartbeat to fill your ears.

maybe the problem isn't me, caleb thinks. maybe... it's you.

“do you want to hear a secret?” he asks, voice dropping lower.

you just stare at him, flabbergasted, breath hitching.

“good,” he murmurs, interpreting your silence as consent. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

before your brain can even catch up, he moves. his hand cups your chin with an ease that leaves you no choice but to tilt your head up, and the other braces against the door behind you.

"mm-!" his lips press against yours, the heat from his chest pressing fully into yours, and your knees threaten to buckle.

he doesn’t pull away, not when you’re beautifully breathless, not when your hands twitch, uncertain where to place them. he leans in just enough that every inch of him presses into your senses.

“you’re mine,” he whispers against your lips, and it’s not a threat. it’s a promise, and you can’t think, can’t respond, can’t even fully comprehend how tight your body has gone under the weight of it.

from his perspective, every second is perfection: your hesitation, your surprise, the flush rising on your cheeks, the way you’re pinned yet unresisting. he leans in just a fraction more, teeth grazing the soft curve of your lower lip as he deepens the kiss, and he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.

he whispers again, “i’ve wanted you for so long,” and it vibrates against your skin, against the fragile line of your lips, as if every word is carefully designed to consume you.

you close your eyes, heart hammering in your chest, caught between disbelief and the strange, undeniable comfort of being consumed by him.

“you feel…” he murmurs against your lips, a vibration you feel more than hear, “so good. so... goddamn.. good.”

his teeth graze your lower lip just enough to make you shiver. he moves down your jawline, tracing it with the same precise attention he uses when memorizing the curves of your body, mapping each line with reverent obsession.

your pulse spikes, your skin feels too hot, too alive. and his hand slides gently around your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you against him. the other rises slowly, threading into your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head so the column of your throat is exposed. he inhales it, lips grazing, tasting, a feather-light press that leaves you breathless.

he whispers again, “you’re mine… mine to notice, mine to keep…”

caleb's damp hair clings to his forehead, strands falling slightly over his eyes. the faint sheen on his skin catches the light from the hallway, highlighting the taut planes of muscle beneath the skin—his shoulders, chest, arms.

he moves down to your collarbone, lips brushing, teasing, savoring. every exhale against your skin is a confession, a claim, a promise. his hands explore just enough to make you aware of his strength, his control, without ever forcing or frightening you.

he mumbles against your throat, words melting into the skin: “every piece of you… every thought… i’ve wanted it all. and now i can have just this.”

and for some reason, against all reason, it feels right. you lean into him, surrendering, letting him hold you, map you—not cruelly, but with the slow, dainty precision of someone who has memorized every part of you, who savors each moment as if you were his favorite candy.

caleb smiles against your skin, confident. devastatingly sexy.

you pull away suddenly, hands pressing against his chest with more force than you meant to use.

caleb lets himself be pushed back.

that, more than anything, steals the breath from your lungs.

his body yields easily, a half-step back, palms open at his sides like he’s showing you he never intended to trap you. the space between you snaps open, cold and dizzying.

you turn your face away and breathe. once. twice. again. your heart is loud, disobedient. “it’s—” you start, then stop, swallowing. “it’s too fast.”

caleb watches you like he’s watching weather roll in—you keep going because stopping feels worse. “i’ve never… kissed anyone like that. i don’t know how far this is supposed to go.”

when you finally look back at him, you realize he hasn’t interrupted once. he’s just staring at you.

then he leans in slightly and murmurs, almost to himself, “you look...beautiful even when you’re overwhelmed.”

“…what?”

was he even listening?

heat rushes up your neck, straight to your face, traitorous and immediate. your reaction betrays you before you can mask it, and caleb sees it—his lips curve faintly then.

“i was listening, i just didn’t want to stop looking at you.” his hand lifts slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to pull away again if you want to. you don’t.

the back of his fingers brush your cheek, feather-light, barely there. then your shoulder. then the curve of your hip, just tracing, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

your breath catches.

and caleb takes your hand next, guiding it gently, reverently, as if it’s something fragile. he brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss into your knuckles, there's a soundless whimper of devotion more than desire.

he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes undone in a way that feels far more dangerous than confidence. “do you know how badly you’ve imprinted yourself on me?” he whispers.

caleb eases back just enough for you to breathe. it costs him more than you could ever see. “we can stop, if you want to.”

his body betrays him anyway.

from where you stand, you can see it—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in. the way he's fixed on you with an intensity that borders on hunger. he’s still close enough that you feel his warmth, still angled toward you like gravity hasn’t released its hold.

he means what he says, but he also doesn’t want it to be true. inside caleb’s head, he begs silently.

don't stop. please don’t stop.

his thoughts crowd in, sharp and feverish, all orbiting you. the way your breath hitched when you pulled away, the way your hand felt in his, the way your mouth softened under his. he wants—no, needs—to continue, to show you how carefully he could unravel you, how deeply he already has.

say yes, his mind pleads. let me keep going. let me prove it.

his chest aches with the force of it, with the restraint he’s forcing on himself. he has done terrible things with calm hands and a clear head. he has crossed lines without flinching, cleaned up messes the world never noticed.

for you.

he doesn’t think the words out loud. he never would. but the truth sits heavy and warm in his chest: he has already chosen you over everyone else. irrevocably.

outwardly, he softens his grip, though he doesn’t fully let go. his thumb strokes once, unconsciously, over your wrist—an echo of possession he hasn’t earned yet.

“i don’t want to scare you,” caleb says, voice roughened by restraint. “i just… want you to choose.”

his eyes search your face, desperate in a way that’s barely contained, like a fault line just under the surface. he’s smiling, but it’s fragile.

choose me, he thinks. choose this. choose now.

you don’t answer him—not yes, not no—and the silence stretches. he exhales softly, a slow sigh that curves into a smile, as if he’s already forgiven you for hesitating.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to rush.”

his hand lifts again, unhurried, and this time you don’t pull away. from his perspective, this feels like standing at the edge of something sacred.

his finger traces a careful path down the center of your chest—a line of awareness following his touch. he watches your breathing change, then lower, to your stomach, then down to your lower abdomen where he presses lightly, testing, grounding you in the moment.

“does that feel good?” he asks.

you don’t answer, your silence thrills him more than words ever could.

his finger drifts a little further, right where your clit is. the pressure is firmer now, deliberate but still restrained, as if he’s asking permission without actually asking. he repeats the question, “does it?”

your throat works, you hesitate, then you nod.

caleb’s breath catches. it’s sharp, involuntary, the kind of reaction he can’t fully hide. his smile deepens into satisfaction, eyes flicking up to your face like he’s just been handed proof of something he already knew.

“good,” he murmurs, approval threaded through the word. "i'll... just do this," he sneaks his hand under your shorts, feeling the dampness of your panty on his digits. this makes you squirm, the back of your hand covering your face. "i'll put it in, okay?" caleb's just about to shove a finger in, when you grab his wrist almost frantically.

"wait–"

"hmm?" caleb stops short, eyes flicking up to you. "what's wrong, dear?"

"i... isn't that painful?"

his look of curiosity then turns into one of delight, how cute you are. "have you not tried putting your own finger in?"

"wh- why would you ask me that?"

"so i know how many fingers i can put in," caleb drags his voice in a seductive manner, eyes intentionally looking you down. "and how fast i can go," he continues pressing on your clit with little nudges. "and... how deep i should be."

you've lost count of how many times caleb have had your mouth ajar, utterly perplexed at this man's range of quality. there you are again, staring at him with furrowed brows, and despite yourself, you can feel your pussy clenching around nothing at his words.

"let's make a deal, pip," caleb places an open-mouthed kiss on your jawline, and instinctively, you tilt your head and shut your eyes. "every time you don't speak, i'll do whatever i want with you, 'kay?"

"aah!" that's what you let out the second caleb slides a long finger in, your hands flying to his shoulders for something to grip onto.

he catches your mouth, sealing your noises with a feverish lapping while his fingers linger at your slick heat, skimming just enough to make you ache, barely breaching you before retreating again.

when instinct makes you try to escape from his hand, his grip tightens, stopping you cold—and the small sound you make is answered only by his cruel restraint. he pulls his fingers back, not to leave you alone, but to continue tormenting your bud, circling, brushing, deliberately avoiding both your clit and the relief of letting himself sink inside.

without any warning, caleb pulls away and buries his face into your neck, his teeth sink into your skin as two of his fingers slide into you in one smooth motion. a shaky sound slips from your throat, the sharp sting blurring into heat, and when you instinctively try to move away from his hand, he bites you again—an unspoken command to stay still.

you part your lips to tell him to slow down, but he steals the moment from you—his mouth claiming yours as his fingers drive into you with sudden intent. his tongue presses past your teeth, devouring every broken sound you make, swallowing them whole while his hand moves with an unrelenting rhythm. it’s rough, almost punishing, and he knows it’s exactly what pulls the gasps from your chest—the obscene, wet sounds of his movements filling the room with every sharp roll of his wrist.

“c–caleb,” you choke out, between the kisses, your legs threatening to give beneath you, already spiraling toward release as his fingers strike that sensitive place inside you again and again.

"yeah?" caleb breathes, the veins in his arm almost poking out as he makes an effort to piston into you with just two of his fingers.

you roll your head back against the door, arms now wrapping around his neck. you hate how the heat in your gut is starting to betray you. "f-feels good, caleb..." you cry out, tears starting to form around the corners of your eyes.

caleb stills abruptly, the sound of your voice cutting through him like a blade. he pulls back as if struck by the suddenness of it, breath catching. for a moment, he only stares—then his gaze drops to his own hand, glistening with evidence of just how far he’s pushed you.

a quiet, disbelieving breath leaves him, something between a laugh and a sigh, and that familiar, dangerous smirk curves his mouth.

“look at you....” he brings a finger to your cheek, caressing the texture of your skin ever so softly. "do you realize how being very good i am right now?" he whispers, " "...you should appreciate how hard this is f'me."

hard?...

"aren't you gunna say anything, bunny?"

you purse your lips together, shy and avoidant. you aren't familiar with these feelings, and you aren't sure how to approach them. so all you settle for is silence. just silence.

but, despite yourself, you like that caleb takes it as consent. that he's doing the honor of adjusting the sails. even though you haven't processed the fact that caleb's admitted his obsession toward you long enough for it to sink into your chest.

all you can understand, right now, is not that caleb had implied of doing horrible things just to keep you in his orbit, but the mere sensation of his hands on you, allover you.

and the way his gaze just tells you to let him in, to let yourself feel him.

so you do.

you lunge forward before you can think better of it, fingers fisting into his damp hair, palms cradling his face as you rise on your toes to crash yourself against him.

the world stops. his eyes squint shut on instinct, then flutter open again in disbelief, ghost-blinking like his mind has short-circuited. this wasn’t the script. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you’re kissing him.

you chose him.

oh. god.

he makes a sound low in his throat, something broken and reverent all at once, and that’s all the hesitation he gets. he cannot—will not—let this slip through his fingers. his hands move before his thoughts can catch up, sliding securely under your thighs, lifting you with terrifying ease.

you’re suddenly higher, closer, pressed to him as if you were always meant to fit there. he keeps the kiss intact, unbroken, unhurried now that he has you where he wants you, like this is the only reasonable outcome.

his grip is firm but careful, holding you as if you’re something precious he’s finally been allowed to claim—mouth still on yours with a heart thundering with the knowledge that this time—you came to him.

caleb carries you across the living area as if the distance is nothing. the room blurs at the edges until the sofa catches the back of his knees and he sinks into it with a soft exhale, cushions swallowing him whole.

you end up straddling his hips without quite realizing how, knees pressing into the give of the pillows, hands braced at his shoulders. for a split second, the closeness startles you both—the way your balance shifts, the way his hands hover at your waist, unsure whether to hold or let go.

you don't stop kissing. it’s clumsy in the way first things always are. your mouths don’t quite align at first, teeth bumping faintly. caleb lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, smiling into the kiss, relief and wonder softening the sharpness he usually wears so well. he follows your pace instead of setting it, learning you as he goes, tentative and greedy all at once.

your lips part, meet again. tongues brush—hesitant, exploratory—like you’re both testing how far the other will go. it’s almost intoxicating not because it’s perfect, but because it isn’t. because you’re figuring it out together, right here, tangled up on his sofa like this is the most natural place in the world to be.

unconsciously, you don’t register when the kiss stops being just a kiss.

your body has already begun answering for you—the way your hips rock forward and grind against him isn’t intentional, just a restless seeking born from heat and closeness. you think you’re only trying to stay balanced. you think you’re only following the rhythm he’s set.

caleb notices.

his mouth falters first. the kiss breaks unevenly, breath catching sharp between his teeth. when he kisses you again, there’s a sound this time—low, strained, embarrassingly honest—slipping into your mouth before he can stop it. his brows draw together, the smile gone, replaced by something raw and overstimulated.

then his hand closes around your arm.

he pulls you back just enough to break the contact, and the absence hits harder than the closeness ever did. caleb’s face is flushed now, color climbing high on his cheekbones, his chest rising and falling too fast.

his gaze drops, just for a second, down below—the way his hardening bulge is pressed against your pussy—before snapping back up to your face, wide and almost accusatory, like he’s been wronged by his own body.

“do you even know,” he asks, voice rough and frayed at the edges, “what you’re doing to me?”

you shake your head immediately. no, of course not. panic prickles at your skin, fear that you crossed a line you didn’t even see. your hands loosen on his shoulders, ready to retreat, ready to apologize.

but caleb doesn’t let you move away. instead, he shifts beneath you, giving you a grinding motion upwards. it presses the truth of him into the space between you, heat and tension where there hadn’t been any a moment ago.

your breath stutters, because you realize how rock hard caleb is.

his eyes darken, embarrassed and ruined all at once. “that,” he murmurs, almost helplessly, “that’s what.” then, quieter—like it’s a confession he never meant to give—“you’re making it so much worse.”

and the way he says it makes your face burn, all the way down to your chest, because suddenly you realize this isn’t a mistake to him at all.

"i'm sorry... i thought, maybe... that you would like it—" the words slip out soft and clumsy, tripping over itself the way you suddenly feel. you apologize again, quieter this time, eyes darting away as if you’ve misread everything.

caleb doesn’t answer right away, and he just looks at you.

with that maddening, knowing ease of his—head tipped slightly, mouth curved in a slow, indulgent smile, like he’s watching a child stumble through something inevitable. his eyes don’t leave you, not even when you keep talking, explaining yourself, backtracking.

“oh,” he murmurs, voice low and almost amused. “there you go…”

you falter. "i'm sorry, i don't know how to do this— i..."

“mmhmm,” he nods along as if he’s encouraging you to keep going, like your apologies are something sweet he’s savoring. “yeah, go on...”

it makes heat crawl up your neck. you almost snap at him for teasing—almost tell him to stop looking at you like that, to take you seriously—but before you can gather the words, caleb leans in just enough to steal the space from your lungs.

“do you really think, that a sorry is what i need from you?” his gaze drifts down your chest—your cleavage—lingering a second too long before returning to your face. the implication settles heavy in your chest, in the silence he leaves behind on purpose.

caleb exhales through his nose, smile deepening, and slowly, caleb’s fingers find the hem of your shirt.

he lifts it just enough to break the line between what he knows and what he’s imagined, breath stalling in his chest as if the sight alone has struck something vital.

his eyes narrow with awe, staring at your boobs, the kind that makes his throat work as he swallows hard. "you're so... beautiful."

for a moment, he doesn’t touch you. he just looks. "so beautiful it hurts."

then his hands rise, tentative at first—testing, asking without words—before confidence overtakes restraint. his palms are warm on your mounds, memorizing you as if he’s afraid the knowledge might be taken from him. his breathing turns uneven, and you feel the answer in his body before he ever says a word, the way he presses closer without meaning to.

caleb buries his face against you as he slides your brassiere down to take your nipple in his mouth, murmuring something unintelligible, something wrecked. he clings like a man starving, and all you can do is clutch at him, a sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it.

caleb presses closer, hips moving on instinct rather than intention, chasing a sensation he doesn’t have language for yet.

he rolls his hips upward, eager to bury his clothed erection into your sex, and you feel the way his tongue is simultaneously laving the pain of your nipple. it's desperate, like a man who’s wandered into paradise by accident and is terrified someone will drag him back out.

his arms lock around you, fingers digging in as though you might disappear if he loosens his hold even a little.

he nuzzles closer, face buried against your chest as if he belongs there, and every movement of his body is pleading, clumsy and earnest, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you through sheer will.

suddenly, caleb pulls away and forces you to rise up. "for a while," he says it almost like a moan, you almost smile from how undone he obviously is. but that immediately falters when you see him unbuckling his belt.

"caleb?"

"yeah?"

"are we... going to have sex?"

he looks up at you, pausing for just a second. "do you not want to?"

you gulp, because the most rational choice is to stop. you don't have a condom. and yet, you can't help but imagine the feeling of his cock buried deep into your womb. shit, just the image is enough to have you clenching your pussy.

"please."

your eyes snap back to caleb, and he's giving you that look. that same look he gave you when you helped him put on a shirt in your bedroom. that same desperate, puppy eyes. "please, please let me fuck you." his voice is raw with desperation, and it takes you aback.

"please let's do it, please let me..." he murmurs against your skin, hands going down your hips, lingering further. "let me thrust into you, let me feel how tight you are, please, please."

you stay silent.

"let me fuck you raw, please."

and that's all it takes.

all it takes for caleb to be lounged back against the pillows, his chiseled abs on full display beneath his rumpled shirt, sweat dripping down his flushed face. his eyes were glued to your every move now that your back is facing him (it was easier to put inside that way), a look of pure, unadulterated lust etched on his handsome features as you rode him with slow, sensual rolls of your hips. the way your ass bounced and jiggled with each thrust, swallowing his rock-hard cock to the hilt, left him absolutely spellbound.

caleb's hands quickly grew restless, roaming greedily over your curves. they slid from your hips, up to your waist, before eagerly descending to grasp at the pliant flesh of your ass. his calloused palms smoothed over the supple mounds, squeezing and kneading the giving skin as if he needed to map every dip and swell. he couldn't resist the urge to grab and mold your ass to his hands, his fingers sinking into the plush, pillowy flesh.

he grabbed two generous handfuls, squeezing them almost roughly as he spread your cheeks apart. this allowed him a shameless, unobstructed view of your slick, dripping pussy swallowing his thick cock to the hilt with each roll of your hips. "oh, god..." caleb groaned, his voice low and rough with lust, almost as if he spoke to himself. "you're... taking me so... well. shit, i can't—" his eyes remained watching your walls stretch around him, your body accepting every thick throbbing inch as he bucked up to meet your downward thrusts.

your thighs quivered with exertion, muscles burning from the intensity of your movements. beads of sweat trickled down your back, your body glistening from the heat of what you're doing. yet caleb remained oblivious to your fatigue, his hands still greedily exploring every inch of your curves. his touch turned almost rough in his fervor, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh of your rear with shameless abandon.

"keep going..." caleb's voice was a low, husky murmur, soft even as his grip tightened meanly on your hips. "c'mon, just a little more." he urged you on, eyes still riveted to the debauched sight of your dripping pussy swallowing his cock over and over, his own need overwhelming any thought of your exhaustion. "you can do it—ngh! take... a little more of this dick, bunny."

but, it seems you couldn't take it anymore. caleb felt you starting to slow down, a soft whimper escapes your parted lips. not wanting you to stop, he leans in and captured your cheek with a tender kiss from behind.

seizing the opportunity, he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, gripping you tightly. and with a swift and sudden movement, caleb flipped you both over, your body tumbling down to the armchair of the sofa. the change in position left you face down, your shapely ass now raised and presented.

he takes a moment to admire the erotic sight of your backside up in the air, your dripping pussy on full display, before standing up. rising to his feet behind you, he grabbed your hips in a firm grip, then, with a primal grunt, he slammed his rock-hard cock deep into your soaked, needy hole.

"angggh!" you scream, as caleb sets a wildly fast pace from the start, his hips pounding against your ass with a staccato rhythm, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. he gripped you tighter, pulling you back onto his thick shaft as he pistoned into you, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix with each brutal thrust.

the new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper than before, your body shaking from the force of his wild fucking. caleb leaned over your back, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against you as he growled filthy words of praise into your ear. "baby, this pussy is amazing. 'm gonna fucking ruin you, oka-ay?"

this is it.

this is heaven.

this is everything he's ever wanted, ever needed, ever imagined in the silence of his head. he's replayed this scene in him for many impossible times.

caleb's head rolled back, eyes squeezing shut as he fucked into you with wild abandon. guttural whines and grunts spilled from his lips, his hips slamming against yours with a force that shook the sofa.

"caleb, wait... don't cum inside," you gasped out between ragged breaths, feeling your own peak fast approaching. but he paid no heed to your plea, instead choosing to drive into you even harder and faster.

a dark chuckle rumbled up from caleb's chest, vibrating against your back as he leaned over you. "don't cum inside? mmm, you say that, but your pussy is squeezing me so fucking tight," he punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass. "like it's trying to beg for my cum."

suddenly, caleb's hand fisted in your hair, gripping the strands tightly as he yanked your head back. a surprised, wanton moan tore from your throat at the sudden sting of pain, your back arching as he forced your chin to tilt up. your pussy clenched around him, walls fluttering wildly as a fresh gush of arousal flooded your core.

then, without warning, he wrenched his swollen cock out of your dripping cunt, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. before you could process the loss, hot, thick ropes of cum erupted from the weeping slit of his dick, painting streaks of pearly white across the smooth expanse of your ass.

caleb's body shuddered and jerked as he came undone, his low moan rising in pitch until it almost sounded like a sob of ecstasy. he milked his pulsing cock, stroking it through the throes of his intense orgasm until the last weak spurts dribbled onto your skin. panting harshly, caleb slumped forward over your back, his chest heaving against you as he tried to catch his breath. "fuck... fuck..." he gasped, still gripping your hair with a trembling hand.

almost in disappointment, you look back up at him with a slightly confused gaze. "i... i thought you'd cum inside?"

still panting softly from his intense climax, caleb looked up as you glanced back over your shoulder at him. his eyes, though glazed with lust, met yours with a hint of amusement. a lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took in your questioning gaze.

"what, baby? did you really think i was gonna pull out at the last second?" caleb chuckled, he brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face with his fingertips, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the rough grip he'd had moments before. "i'm still the same guy, dummy."

same guy, sure.

caleb's still the same guy.

he doesn't know better that after he's finally, finally laid his hands on you like this, he'll spiral into something even more worse.

"caleb,"

"mhm?"

"can we... move to your bedroom?" you say softly, eyes tracing the line of caleb's biceps.

his bedroom?

no, anywhere but his bedroom.

caleb gives you a smile, lets out a breath that gives away a laugh. "we can stay here, can't we?" there's no way he'd let you in there. no way he'd let you see the true depths and layers of his feelings for you. the pictures, the posters allover his wall, the collection of pieces he stole from you, even pieces of all the previous people he's killed for you.

caleb inhales the scent of the sweat from your neckline, and he squeezes his eyes shut. "wanna fuck again?"

and from the very beginning, caleb belonged to you in a way no one ever explained to him.

you were ten when you first cried in front of him. he was twelve, watching your tiny body tremble over a scraped knee you got because you followed him too closely. and something about the sight lodged itself deep inside his ribs — not joy at your pain, but the soft, breathtaking sweetness of you trusting him enough to fall apart in his hands.

he didn’t understand it then. he just knew he liked being the one you ran to. he liked the way your small voice cracked when you said his name. he liked that he could fix things for you — band-aids, broken toys, scared little hearts.

back then, it was innocent.

or at least, that’s what he told himself.

because even as kids, caleb noticed things no normal boy paid attention to. the way your lips wobbled before you cried. the way you’d cling to the sleeve of his shirt like he was a lifeline. the way your eyes always searched for him first — even in a crowd.

and whenever you sobbed and wailed, something warm would bloom in his chest.

something possessive. something dangerous. something that felt like home.

you never noticed his… attachment. you were too busy laughing at his jokes, too busy following him around like a little shadow, too busy trusting him with every corner of your vulnerable heart.

caleb — growing too fast for his age — then learned early how to hide the darker edges of himself. he smiled easily, joked carelessly, and protected you fiercely. he pretended to be normal, he pretended the warmth he felt at your tears was just ... affection.

but as you grew older, the warmth sharpened into a thrill.

he never wanted you hurt — never. but whenever you cried, a strange relief washed over him. a soft, selfish comfort. because your tears meant you still needed him. you still came to him. you still trusted him enough to unravel in front of him.

and if you were crying, then caleb was the one close enough to wipe your tears.

people around you said you were like siblings. inseparable, adorable, meant to grow up together.

but caleb knew better.

siblings didn’t feel this way. friends didn’t look at each other like this.

he learned to control it — the obsession, the dark possessiveness, the urge to keep you close enough to breathe. he hid it in jokes, in teasing smiles, in the soft “you’re okay, i’ve got you”s he gave you each time you trembled.

you never saw the way he watched you. not really. not fully.

because while you saw a best friend, caleb saw the girl he’d spend his life orbiting — quietly, obsessively, lovingly.

he didn’t just want to protect you.

he wanted to be the only one you’d ever need.

~

the airplane didn’t fall — it plummeted, nosediving off caleb’s desk in a tragic, slow-motion arc that you could only watch with widening eyes. the wing hit the floor first, then the tiny propeller, then the rest of it followed with a dull little clack that felt, to you, like the sound of the universe collapsing.

you stood completely still as a ten year old.

your fingers remained frozen in the air, as if you could somehow catch the moment before it broke. but reality blinked back at you in two sad plastic pieces lying on the wooden floor of caleb’s room, sunlight gleaming off the fracture line.

your breath wavered.

oh no.

oh no no no—!

you hadn’t meant to touch it. you only wanted to look, maybe admire it up close, maybe imagine the two of you flying it later outside like you always did. but your sleeve brushed the tail, and then your elbow bumped the base, and then—

you ruined everything.

your throat tightened painfully. tears pricked instantly, too fast, too hot.

“c-caleb’s gonna…” you whispered to yourself, voice cracking before you even finished the thought.

you crouched down, trembling, as if you could piece the toy back together by staring hard enough at it.

then tears spilled, quick and messy, streaking warm down your cheeks.

the door clicked open behind you.

“pipsqueak? you in here— whoa.”

caleb’s voice always had that familiar, steady warmth, but right now it broke off mid-sentence. you felt him pause in the doorway.

then his footsteps crossed the room — quick, sure, almost protective.

you squeezed your eyes shut. “i’m sorry…” you whispered before he even reached you. “i’m really, really sorry— i didn’t mean to— i broke it, i broke your airplane…”

caleb stopped beside you. you didn’t have to look up to know he was staring. you could feel it — that quiet, unreadable focus he had even at twelve, like he always noticed things before anyone else did.

he knelt down, picking up the wing.

“huh,” he murmured softly, examining the crack. “you really did a number on it.”

you burst into louder tears at that, tiny shoulders shaking. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to! please don’t be mad— i didn’t— i shouldn’t have touched it—”

“hey, hey— apples.” his voice dropped, gentle but edged with that boyish firmness he was growing into. he reached out and tapped your wrist lightly. “look at me.”

you sniffed, rubbing tears from your cheeks, and lifted your gaze slowly...

caleb didn’t look mad.

not even annoyed.

in fact… he looked almost amused, soft around the edges, like he wanted to chuckle but was trying very hard not to make you cry harder.

“it’s just a toy,” he said quietly. “why’re you crying like i’m gonna banish you from the house or something?”

you hiccupped. “…you liked that toy.”

“yeah,” he nodded, lips tugging upward, “but i like you more.”

your breath hitched — tiny, startled, something warm flashing through your chest.

caleb noticed. caleb always noticed.

he shifted closer, brushing your cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. “you really thought i’d yell at you?” he asked, lowering his voice like he was coaxing a secret out of you.

you nodded, embarrassed. “you always take care of your things… and i broke one…”

caleb snorted softly. "pip, you’ve seen me crash this thing into the wall at least fifteen times.”

“…but that’s different.”

“yeah,” he said with a small shrug, “’cause you breaking it is kinda cute.”

“cute?”

“mm hmmm.” he tilted his head, studying your face with that strange, intent softness he carried only for you. “your nose gets red and your voice gets tiny. you look like a crying dumpling.”

“i don’t—!” you finally squeaked, mortified, but the tears paused in surprise.

caleb grinned, triumphant.

“see? you stopped crying already.” he lifted the broken airplane piece. “come on, i can fix it. but you’re helping.”

you wiped your face again. “helping…?”

“yup,” he said, already reaching for the toolbox he kept under his bed. “if you break my stuff, you have to fix it with me. that’s the rule.”

“w-we never had that rule,” you protested softly.

caleb gave you that smile — the one that always felt like sunlight and trouble. “we do now.”

he tapped the floor beside him twice.

and while you patched the toy together—caleb holding the wings steady, you sniffling as you pushed pieces back into place—he kept doing it. those tiny, stolen glances. the ones he thought you wouldn’t notice, the ones he didn’t even know he was making. every time your lashes trembled, every time you bit your lip to stop your tears, something warm and frighteningly sweet curled in his chest.

later, he would remember this moment as the first time it truly took root—whatever strange, heavy thing was beginning to bloom inside him. an attachment too big for a twelve-year-old boy to understand, too shadowed and sticky to name.

since then, caleb tried to be careful.

he forced himself to walk a step behind you instead of beside you, forced himself to pretend he didn’t always feel your gravity tugging him closer like it always had. he told himself he shouldn’t hover, shouldn’t cling, shouldn’t watch you so openly—because what if you got scared? what if you looked at him differently? what if you... pulled away?

but wanting to protect you and wanting to keep you near were braided into the same quiet ache. so he did what he could: he hid it.

as you grew into teenagers, his restraint only sharpened the edges of his obsession.

in sleepovers, on carpets littered with pillows and spilled popcorn, caleb would lie awake long after you drifted off—watching your chest rise and fall, memorizing every soft, unguarded blink of your dreaming face. he told himself it was harmless, he told himself he just wanted to make sure you were safe in your sleep. but sometimes his breath would hitch, and the room would feel too small and all too intimate.

at school, he became popular without trying—good-looking, tall, the kind of boy people gravitated toward. girls slipped love letters into his locker; some waited by the gates to confess, small boxes of chocolates cupped between shaking palms. he always accepted politely, then went home and left the gifts untouched.

because at night, under the dim blue glow of his phone screen, caleb would scroll through your photos instead—old candid shots you didn't even remember he took, blurry pictures of you frowning at a worksheet, laughing with your head tossed back, or asleep on the couch with your cheek squished against his arm. he’d stare until the ache in his chest grew unbearable, until the need to reach out and touch you almost made him forget his restraint.

and then there was the habit he could never break.

stealing small pieces of you.

a hair tie left on his desk; a pen you forgot to take back; the charm from your backpack that mysteriously “fell off.” he never took anything you would miss too much—just little things, tiny artifacts that made his room feel less empty. he kept them in a box beneath his bed, opening it on nights when the distance he forced between you felt like punishment.

he knew it was wrong, or at least strange. he knew he shouldn’t. but it was the only way he could feel close to you without frightening you with the truth—that you had always been his sun, and he had always been orbiting, hopelessly and helplessly, even when he pretended not to.

and oh, how caleb hated it.

not in the dramatic, stomp-your-foot sort of way—he wasn’t that kind of boy. no, his dislike came in tiny fractures. little cracks behind his smile. soft sighs he pretended were nothing. eyes that lingered too long on scenes he wished he could erase.

because seeing you… sitting beside some boy?

laughing with him?

doing that little crinkly-eyed smile you always did when you found something genuinely funny?

it made something in caleb’s chest twist—sharp, childish, and a little bit ugly.

he didn’t understand the feeling... it wasn’t anger. it wasn’t sadness. it was something weirdly in-between like trying to hold too much water in cupped hands and watching it spill out anyway.

there was that one p.e. class, one of those sunny afternoons where the gym smelled like rubber soles and chalk, and everyone’s voices bounced off the high ceiling.

you were doing partner pushups with a boy, palms meeting each time you went up. it was innocent. your teacher had assigned partners and other students were giggling everywhere.

caleb tried to focus on basketball. he really did. he dribbled, shot, caught, repeated. but his eyes kept sneaking over—like magnets he couldn’t pry away.

he watched the boy grin at you.

he watched you grin back.

and he felt… weird. hot? itchy? restless? like an entire storm was growing inside his stomach.

without thinking—literally without a single thought passing through his brain—he tossed the ball.

except “toss” wasn’t the right word.

it zoomed.

straight toward the boy’s face.

a loud, cartoonish THWUMP! echoed through the gym. the boy stumbled back, letting out a surprised yelp. you gasped, scrambling to his side.

“ah! are you okay?!" your voice was high and worried—so unlike how you talked to caleb. you never sounded like that with him. you always sounded relaxed, soft, comfortable, familiar.

and caleb hated that you used that voice on someone else.

“sorry!” caleb called out, forcing a sheepish grin. “my hand slipped!”

it absolutely did not slip.

the teacher scolded him, told him to be more careful. caleb nodded obediently the whole time, face flushed just enough to look apologetic—but deep down, there was that tiny, secret spark of satisfaction.

because the boy stopped smiling at you after that.

and things only got trickier.

you started finding your own little world—friends to eat snacks with, classmates to chat with before homeroom, girls to walk home with. you laughed more, wandered more, lived more.

all good things.

all things that slowly took your attention away from him.

and caleb, who had always been the sun in your orbit, suddenly felt like he was becoming… a star in the background.

and he hated that, too.

so he tried to tug your gaze back gently—nothing scary, nothing dramatic. just… nudges. soft things. harmless little games.

like posting new photos online. photos where he looked a little taller than last month, or a little sharper, or a little cooler in that effortless preteen heartthrob way he didn’t admit he knew he had.

a half-smile here.

a candid shot with basketball practice sweat on his forehead.

a group selfie where he somehow ended up in the center.

he posted, refreshed, waited.

and when that tiny notification popped up—pipsqueak liked your photo—he felt lighter and heavier all at once.

~

by the time caleb turned eighteen, the dreams about you had already become routine—frequent things that threaded themselves into his nights like an extra heartbeat. at first, they startled him. he’d wake up with that strange sense of longing, a kind he didn’t know how to name yet, the kind that made him want to keep you close even when the world said he should be letting go.

but over time, he stopped fighting them.

dreaming of you became… normal.

expected.

almost comforting, in the same way your childhood scent had been—the faint trace of baby powder, crayons, and the warm, sunlit air of long summer afternoons. his dreams followed that same softness, that same familiarity. in the dreams, sometimes he saw you laughing beside him at the park swing. sometimes you were leaning against him during some lazy after-school afternoon. sometimes you were just… there, smiling at him in that way you used to when you were ten.

he accepted them all.

took them in like breath.

but then—

one friday kinda changed everything?

he’d come home late from basketball practice, shirt clinging to him, muscles sore, hair still damp from a rushed shower. he barely finished dinner before collapsing onto his bed as exhaustion clung to him heavily.

and he fell asleep fast. too fast.

and the dream that came… felt different from the start. warm...? near... breath-close... it felt like someone had stepped into his chest, into the hidden, locked-up places he never let anyone touch.

you.

you were in front of him, looking at him in that soft way—the way you used to when you were little and he was the only person in the world who could fix the things you broke.

he didn’t know who moved firs, maybe you did, maybe he did.

maybe both of you met in the same impossible middle.

but suddenly, your mouth was pressed on his.

a shy press of lips—sweet, tentative, as if asking him a question.

and he answered before he even realized he had.

his hand slid to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if terrified you’d slip away. his mouth pressed harder against yours—hungry, desperate, relieved, every suppressed feeling he’d buried since childhood bleeding through that single kiss. he tasted your breath, your warmth, your everything.

and he wanted more.

so much more.

he was almost gasping for air when your lips parted, resting his forehead against yours with eyes shut tight. his fingers wouldn't stop clutching on your hair locks, and then, he dives in again.

"mmh..." he was already pulling you flush against his chest, like he was afraid that you'd let go, and he'd see how scared you were of how desperate he is. caleb pushes you against a wall, lips ghosting over your chin, your jawline... your neck...

he woke up with a violent gasp.

like someone had dumped him into cold water.

he sat upright so fast his head spun, breathing hard, chest heaving. sweat clung to his hair, his shirt, the sheets twisted around his legs like he had fought sleep with his whole body.

for a long moment, he couldn’t even breathe right.

your name sat on his tongue like a brand.

and the taste of that dream-kiss—imagined but too real—still burned on his lips.

caleb dragged a shaky hand down his face, exhaling shakily as if trying to push the dream out with each breath.

“...seriously?” he muttered to himself, half-frustrated, half-something else he couldn’t admit out loud.

but even with his pulse racing, with embarrassment crawling up his throat, with the weight of want settling unbearably under his skin… every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again: your breath brushing his mouth, your lips pressed to his, your waist under his palm like something he had every right to hold.

his body felt too warm, and for some reason his sweatpants felt too tight.

he kicked off his blankets, but the heat stayed.

his face also burned.

he rolled onto his back, then his side, then back again — restless, pulse drumming in his ears. he tried to tell himself it was just a dream... just exhaustion.... just teenage hormones?

he covered his face with one arm, exhaling shakily. “…damn it.”

only then he'd realize that his other calloused hand was already rubbing the hardening bulge underneath the fabrics.

he sank deeper into the pillows, breath catching as the memory of your mouth moved through him again. the warmth pooled low in his stomach, spreading, tightening into the area between his thighs.

his mind kept drifting where it shouldn’t.

caleb pulled his boxers down, and the grown size of his manhood springs out, twitching for some kind of release.

he stares at it with half-lidded eyes. wonder how you'd react in seeing how big he is.

no, caleb, don't bring her into this.

even still, he let himself fall into it — into the feeling of you, the fantasy of you, the dream he wanted far too much.

he lay very still afterwards, facing up at the ceiling with his chest rising and falling, with his fingers wrapping around the girth of his length, his mouth ajar, his eyes hiding under his arm.

“...this is bad,” he whispered, voice barely there. “i’m in trouble."

he rolled his head back, chest rising in a long, shaky inhale, but it didn’t help. the tension was coiled too deep, wrapped around his ribs, in the way his adam's apple bobbed unevenly. he tried to steady his breathing; instead it came out rough, uneven, almost like a quiet growl.

“god…”

he stroked himself, slowly, carefully, making sure he had to picture your face in his head.

he shifted against the pillows, jaw tight, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring. his body felt big, restless, almost too heavy for the mattress. he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, but it did nothing for the feverish warmth rolling through him.

and it was you doing this.

just the thought of you.

he hated how easily you could undo him.

but he loved it too much to stop.

his hips shifted unconsciously — a slow, frustrated twitch he couldn’t control — and a low, strangled sound escaped him before he could bite it back.

he squeezed his eyes shut, teeth sinking into his lower lip, breath coming faster now.

he fastened his pace, gripping his own cock tighter with a veiny fist, pumping the length with wanton pleasure.

he felt helpless in a way that made him angry and desperate all at once, like a man fighting against something stronger than him. like wanting you was a force he physically couldn’t resist.

he turned his face into the pillow, voice muffled, deeper, rougher than it had ever been in his life.

“…baby.”

saying a pet name he's always wanted to use on you out loud made the heat slam into him even harder. he jerked slightly — a sharp, involuntary reaction he couldn’t hide from himself — thighs tightening, shoulders flexing as he sucked in another trembling breath through his teeth.

this was unbearable.

this was addictive.

this was everything he shouldn’t be feeling.

and yet — god — he couldn’t stop.

his chest rose and fell in uneven waves, sweat beading along his collarbone, his entire body tensed like it was trying to hold itself together. and still, he continued masturbating.

he then reached toward the nightstand, fingers trembling just a little, brushing blindly until they found the cool surface of his phone. he curled his hand around it, grip tight like he needed it to anchor him.

the screen instantly lit up, bathing his face in pale light.

and the moment he swiped it open, he didn’t even think.

his thumb moved on its own.

straight to the photo album he shouldn’t have labeled with your initial.

straight to the folder he never let anyone see.

he tapped it.

your photo filled the screen.

and then, caleb moaned, stroking himself faster, harder. his hips twitched upward, matching the pace of his fist.

that one picture — the one he’d taken months ago during golden hour, when you were laughing about something he couldn’t even remember anymore.

and god.

seeing it now—

it made him helplessly horny.

his breath stuttered.

his eyes softened painfully, almost hungrily.

he sank back into the pillows, phone held inches above his face, his thumb resting on the edge of the screen like he was afraid touching the photo itself would burn him.

but somehow… looking at your face did more to him than anything else. it lit every nerve on fire. it made his dick harden even more, it made him gasp for air, it made him bite his lip to suck in a groan.

it made him cum.

he exhaled shakily, chest lifting and falling in slow, heavy waves.

his brows knit together, expression tight, almost pained.

he looks at the streaks of cum across his screen, as if he just made a mess on your face. he drops the phone on his chest, arms also dropping to his sides. and all he could do was to get hard again.

~

at twenty-two, the world felt too big for the both of you.

different universities, different fields, different schedules that never lined up right. caleb was off chasing airplanes and flight hours, always with some photo of runways and clouds on his feed; you were buried in training for your own line of work, juggling deadlines and requirements like a circus act.

it wasn’t sad, exactly—just… growing up. the kind that happened quietly, without asking permission.

but every summer, you went home to grandma’s house—the one that smelled like sweet tea and old wood, where the windows were always open and you could hear the neighborhood kids yelling from three streets away. and caleb would always show up, sometimes pretending he just “happened to pass by,” even though grandma always made too much food on the days he returned.

last year had been your last real summer with him.

and now, today, he was coming home again.

just thinking about it made your chest do a weird, fizzy little flip.

your classroom was glowing with afternoon sunlight, warm and playful, the kind that turned dust particles into tiny floating sparkles. you were wiping down desks with a rag, humming under your breath, moving slowly because your mind was far away.

he’s probably already on the bus... or on his way to grandma’s?

maybe he already arrived—should i hurry home? or not?

you were smiling to yourself without realizing it.

until—

“girl?”

you jolted a little, almost dropping the eraser in your hand.

your friend stood near the doorway, eyebrows raised, a grin tugging at her lips. “you good? you look like you’re… floating.”

“i’m not floating,” you said, though your voice came out very much floaty.

“you totally are,” she laughed, stepping into the room. “what’s got you all smiley and glowy? did something happen?”

you straightened a stack of books just to have something to do with your hands. “no,” you said. “not really.”

“mm-hmm,” she hummed, clearly not believing a word. “you’ve been cleaning the same desk for five minutes. and smiling at it. is it a magic desk?”

you pouted a little. “don’t tease me.”

“i’m not! i’m just saying—something’s up.”

you hesitated.

the thing about caleb was… he wasn’t easy to explain. he wasn’t a crush, he wasn’t just a friend, he wasn’t a stranger either. he was something in-between—a familiar warmth from childhood summers, the boy who always stole half your snacks, the one who fixed everything you broke, the one who always came back.

you fiddled with the cloth in your hands and murmured, “it’s just… someone’s coming home today.”

your friend’s grin exploded. “ohhhh. someone.”

you puffed your cheeks. “stop it. it’s not like that.”

“suuuure,” she said, dragging out the word dramatically. “then why are your ears red?”

“they’re not—!”

“they are,” she said, poking one.

you swatted her hand away, cheeks warm.

but inside—quietly, secretly—you were already imagining it: caleb standing in grandma’s kitchen, pretending not to wait for you.

grandma calling your name the moment you step inside.

his eyes flicking to you first.

today, he was coming home.

when you finally arrived home, you stood in front of grandma’s door with your suitcase beside you, still in your uniform, the late-afternoon light brushing gold against the old wood. somehow, even after all the summers you’d come home to this place, today your fingers lingered on the doorknob a little longer.

your heart thumped—not loud, but quick.

caleb should be here by now...

and that thought made you hesitate, the way you did when you were little and wanted to knock but didn’t know if he was on the other side waiting.

finally, you took a tiny breath and pushed the door open.

“i’m home…?”

your voice echoed softly in the living room.

no answer.

you tucked your shoes away and stepped inside, the familiar scent of citrus cleaner and grandma’s dried herbs filling your nose. everything was the same—the framed photos, the humming electric fan, the worn-out sofa with mismatched pillows.

“grandmaaa?” you called, wandering further. “where are you?”

you peeked into the kitchen.

empty.

you peeked into her room.

still empty.

your footsteps pattered through the house like they always did—light, curious, a little bouncy. you called for her again, dragging out her name in that childish way you never quite grew out of.

but she was nowhere.

you puffed your cheeks, confused, and made your way to the backyard, sliding open the squeaky screen door.

the first thing you noticed was the hose—completely undone, tangled like a lazy snake scribbled across the ground. the flowers along the garden edge were soaked, dripping little beads of water like they’d just gotten an unexpected shower.

“grandmaaa, i’m ho—”

a big, warm hand suddenly slipped over your eyes.

you gasped, freezing on the spot.

before you could say anything, a voice brushed against your ear—raspy from travel, deeper than last summer, but undeniably playful.

“guess who?”

your breath hitched.

that voice.

that stupid boy.

your lips twitched upward in a small, involuntary smile. “…caleb?” you murmured, trying not to laugh.

his hand tightened just a little—like even in this silly game, he didn’t want to let go yet. “mm,” he hummed, and you could hear the grin in his voice, “took you long enough.”

you peel his hand off your eyes with a tiny huff, ready to scold him for sneaking up on you—

but then you turn around, and your whole brain just… stutters. for some odd reason.

caleb blinks at you, all casual, all unbothered, all unfairly looking like that.

he’s only wearing a white tank top, thin enough that you can see the faint shape of his muscles shifting underneath. it hangs perfectly over the slope of his clavicle, draws a line to the wideness of his shoulders, and his biceps—oh. yeah. those definitely weren’t that big before. or maybe they were and you just weren’t paying attention. (you were. you absolutely were.)

his hair is slightly damp, pushed back in a way that looks both messy and… weirdly handsome? like he rolled out of some slice-of-life anime where everyone magically looks good doing chores.

“uh—why do you look like that?” you blurt out before your brain can stop you.

he quirks a brow, confused. “like what?”

you wave your hands vaguely at all of him. “like… that.”

he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’ve been cleaning since morning. grandma’s busy with her reunion at the clubhouse. the house was a mess so… yyyeah.”

he shrugs, and the movement just makes everything worse. stronger. broader. more defined.

“wow,” you mumble under your breath, “someone got manlier.”

“huh?”

“nothing.”

to distract yourself (and probably to ignore the fact that your heart is beating like a loose tambourine), you grab the watering can beside you. “come on, help me with the flowers.”

“yes, ma’am,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours—just enough to feel that new, annoyingly firm muscle.

you move along the garden bed, tipping the watering can just enough so the soil darkens slowly. caleb stays beside you, his own can bumping lightly against your leg every now and then—he swears it’s an accident, but you know better.

“so…” he starts, voice soft and a little curious, “how’ve you been? it’s been a while since i saw you this close.”

you brighten a little at the question, because finally—someone to talk to. “oh! i’ve been fine, actually. better than last month.”

and once you begin, you… don’t stop.

you tell him about the weird stray cat that tried to follow you home, the new project you’ve been working on, the random thing you learned online at 2 a.m., the neighbor who sings too loudly in the morning, the sweet snack you’ve been obsessed with lately—just a whole collection of things that have been floating in your mind.

and caleb just listens, really listens.

he keeps his eyes on you the whole time, the soft kind of staring that doesn’t feel heavy—just warm. every now and then he nods, or breathes out a quiet laugh, or tilts his head like he’s storing every word for later. and somehow, his attention makes your talking even worse. even faster. even louder.

“—and then the lady told me i looked too young to be buying that, which is insane because i’m literally—”

“you do look young,” he cuts in, lips twitching.

you gasp. “excuse me?”

“sorry,” he shrugs, though he’s obviously not sorry at all. “baby-faced rather.”

“oh, shut up. you’re just jealous i don’t look like a stressed office worker.”

“hey,” he says, feigning offense, “i think i look very youthful.”

you make a face. “you look like someone’s dad.”

caleb smacks water at your shoe with his watering can. “take that back.”

“nope.”

“fine.” he leans a little closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “just remember—karma comes quickly.”

“what are you gonna do? water me?”

“don’t tempt me.”

you dodge behind the hibiscus plant like a child, laughing. he follows, shaking his head but smiling that soft, helpless smile that only shows up when he’s with you.

the next, caleb flicks a bit of water at your arm, you shriek dramatically, and suddenly it’s war.

“oh, you’re dead!!”

“come here then,” caleb grins, eyes narrowing like a cat spotting easy prey.

“nope nope nope–!!”

you bolt.

like actual children, you sprint straight into the house, socks sliding on the floor, heart thudding from equal parts adrenaline and laughter. behind you, caleb barrels in with none of the grace a future pilot should have.

“get back here!!”

“no!! why would i do that?!”

“because i said so!”

“that’s not a reason—!”

your giggles echo through the hallway as you turn every corner too fast, nearly tripping over a rug. caleb’s footsteps are louder, heavier, like he’s purposely stomping just to scare you. the two of you are basically reenacting tom and jerry—except much louder and much dumber.

you duck behind the dining table. caleb circles the other side. both of you stare each other down.

“…hi,” you say.

“move,” he warns.

“no.”

“fine.”

he lunges.

you yelp, turn, and run for the living room. he’s faster. way faster. you barely make it past the couch when—

“got you!”

caleb grabs your waist from behind and the momentum takes both of you down onto the couch cushions. you let out the most unflattering squeak as he catches your wrists mid-flail, pinning them above your head before you can escape again.

both of you are panting—half from running, half from laughing too hard. your chest rises and falls quickly, and caleb’s breath brushes your cheek, warm and uneven.

your laughter fades first.

his fades after.

and then the silence slips in, soft and heavy.

you blink up at him.

he blinks down at you.

his hands are still around your wrists. his body leans over you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin. the white tank top isn’t helping—broad shoulders, defined arms, everything just there and very hard to ignore.

caleb swallows, jaw tightening just a little.

“…caught you,”

caleb stays still for a long moment, his eyes fixed on you, and for once, the world narrows down to nothing but your face, your hair falling slightly over your cheeks, the way the sunlight hits the curve of your jaw.

and then—it all crashes back. every quiet feeling he’d tucked away since you were kids, every stolen glance, every moment of watching you sleep, every tiny obsession he’d convinced himself was harmless… it comes rushing forward like a flood he can’t hold back.

he swallows hard, throat tight, and his chest feels like it’s too full, too fast. he’s leaning over you, feeling your warmth, the softness of your hands under his, your uniform riding up slightly as you shift, and it’s almost unbearable how… beautiful you look. how impossibly you’ve grown, how much you still belong in his orbit.

but then, just like that, the moment snaps. his lips twitch into a small, almost mischievous snort, like he’s breaking the tension with the smallest, most human excuse he can find.

“ugh,” he mutters, brushing back his damp hair, finally getting off of you. “i need to change my clothes. this tank top is sticking to me like glue.”

he stands, trying to keep his voice light, playful, like everything is normal again. like the sudden surge of everything buried in his chest doesn’t exist.

you blink up at him, unsure if the air between you is just heavy from running or from… him.

~

summer slips by the way it always does with him.

one monday, you’re wobbling carts through the grocery store with caleb, arguing over which apples are “pie material” and which ones are “just posing as apples.” he flicks your forehead when you pick the wrong brand of flour. you shove him into the cereal aisle, and the employees would stare, but he just grins.

then you’re both in the kitchen, elbows touching, sugar dusting the counter, caleb peeling apples with that stupid smug look because his slices are “more aesthetic.” you roll your eyes but let him win. he always wins.

another day, you’re sitting cross-legged on his carpet, controllers in hand, yelling at him for cheating.

“you literally walked off the map,” he accuses.

“you distracted me with your commentary!”

he laughs so loud you almost throw your controller at him.

and then the fair—cotton candy fingers, grandma holding both your hands while she drags you into photobooths. caleb presses his cheek against yours in one of the pictures, claiming it’s “for comedic effect,” but he keeps that strip of photos in his wallet later.

it’s all small things, tiny pockets of happiness. the kind that feel like childhood with just a hint of something else underneath.

then one saturday night, with summer already slipping through your fingers, you stand at the doorway of grandma’s bedroom and watch caleb help her with her medicine. he’s gentle, patient in a way he never is with anyone else. he brushes a stray hair from her forehead, telling her, “c’mon, grandma. you promised you’d take it without making that face.”

and she tries—she really tries—not to make that face.

you smile quietly, but it aches in your chest. because it’s almost over again.

so you slip away, leaving them to their soft laughter, and you walk down the hall toward caleb's bedroom.

his door is half-open with the lights warm. his room smells like pine-scented laundry, a little cologne, and something distinctly caleb.

you step inside, slow, hesitant. your fingers graze his desk, the edge of his bookshelf, the jacket tossed carelessly over a chair.

you’re just… taking him in.

the way he exists in this space.

the way this room feels like him.

the way being here feels like the summer you wish would stay just a little longer.

you sit on the edge of his bed, sinking into the sheets that still hold the shape of the boy you grew up with, the one who somehow became the person you look for in every room.

and for a moment, alone in the soft quiet of caleb’s bedroom, you let yourself feel it—

that tiny, childlike longing.

that wish that summer didn’t have to end.

that wish that he didn’t have to go for another year again.

you kneel on the wooden floor, palms warming against the boards as you lean forward, squinting at the little shadow jutting out from beneath caleb’s bed.

a black box.

sticking out just enough to be suspicious.

you blink.

tilt your head.

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw—caleb said that once, teasing you as you tried to solve a puzzle he purposely made too hard.

so you swallow, reach out, and tug the box toward you. it scrapes softly against the floor, heavier than you expect. you hesitate, fingers hovering over the lid.

this feels like trespassing.

like peeking into a part of him he would never show you on purpose.

but then—the lid lifts.

and your breath stops.

inside…

is you.

everywhere.

your mind blanks for a moment, then comes rushing back too fast.

right at the top: a bundle of ballpens you thought you’d lost in elementary school. the blue one with the star sticker you swore someone stole.

and beneath it—

your old handkerchief, folded neatly, the one you dropped at the playground when you were twelve.

your brows knit, confusion rising.

what—

you dig deeper.

and your stomach flips.

there, tied gently with a small ribbon, is a clipping of hair—your hair—cut cleanly from the time you’d trimmed your bangs at his house and swept everything carelessly into the trash.

your hands tremble.

your breath feels too loud in this quiet room.

printed photos of you follow—some candid, some clearly zoomed in from afar. little notes scribbled around the edges in his uneven handwriting;

mine

she smiled today.

don’t let anyone else see this.

your pulse stutters.

and then you see it.

tucked in the corner.

soft fabric you immediately recognize.

your ... underwear.

one you lost at a sleepover years ago. you’d laughed it off, thinking maybe grandma misplaced the laundry.

but it’s here.

folded.

kept.

you flinch, heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.

your mind shatters into a dozen frantic thoughts all at once.

since when? why? how long has this been here?

you can’t breathe. you can’t think straight. you stare at the contents of the box — the pens, the handkerchiefs, the hair ribbon you thought you lost in middle school, the printed photos, the little notes scribbled along the edges.

pieces of you. pieces he kept. pieces he collected.

is this… really caleb? your caleb? the boy who teased you, protected you, grew up with you?

you replay every memory you can grab onto — his laughs, his scoldings, his shoulder bumping yours, the way he always appeared when you were sad, the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

none of it ever hinted at… this.

or maybe… maybe you simply never looked close enough.

your breathing starts to shake. your hands press against the floor, palms clammy.

if he walks in now—if he sees you kneeling here with this box wide open—what would he do?

your heartbeat feels like it’s crashing against your ribs. your thoughts spiral so fast they blur into noise. what do you say? what do you do? what is he going to think? what is he going to do?

panic rises like a wave.

you’ve always been like this — whenever the world becomes too big, too loud, too confusing, your eyes sting before anything else.

and now, tears start gathering at the corners of your vision. you blink them back, but they only spill faster.

“pips?”

caleb's voice drifted from the hallway in that familiar, warm way he always calls you when he comes home, like he’s expecting you to peek your head out with a smile.

but his footsteps stop.

silence folds into the doorway, sharp and sudden. you freeze before you even look back — some instinct curling tight in your chest.

you turn anyway.

caleb stands there, half-shadowed by the hall light, one hand loosely gripping the doorframe. at first glance he looks like himself — tall, composed, that calm gentleness he’s worn like a second skin since childhood.

but then his expression shifts.

quietly, subtly, and... devastatingly.

the softness drains out of his face when his gaze drops to the box beside you.

and the world seems to still.

you feel your throat tighten, breath hitching around the panic rising up like a tide you can’t hold back. your fingers shake when you try to close the lid, as if that could undo what you’ve seen.

“c-caleb,” you whisper, your voice splintering. “i… i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to— i shouldn’t have— it just… fell out and i… i’m really, really sorry—”

the apology collapses into itself. your words tangle, trip, dissolve. tears prick hard at your eyes, and once they start, they won’t stop — you’re crying before you can even think to control it.

you bow your head, covering your eyes with a trembling hand.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper again, smaller. “please don’t get mad…”

for a moment, caleb doesn’t move. not an inch.

and that’s somehow worse.

his eyes stay trained on your face, or more specifically, on the tears streaking down your cheeks. there’s a tension in him, a razor-thin stillness, like he’s remembering something old and buried.

and then it comes. the smile.

slow and wrong.

it isn’t the boyish, familiar grin he’s shown you your whole life. it’s something quieter, curved at the edges with an eerie sort of fondness. a shadowed tenderness. a chill disguised as warmth.

something double-edged, like a gemini splitting into two halves before your eyes.

one caleb softens at your sorrow.

the other… savors it.

the memory hits him, and you can see it flicker across his face. that day years ago when you cried over his broken toy airplane, hiccuping apologies through your tiny hands while he knelt in front of you, both amused and captivated.

he remembers how small you looked, how helpless, how easy it was to hold you together.

and now?

now you’re twenty-two, trembling on his bedroom floor, tears falling in the same pattern, the same rhythm. and caleb—

caleb drinks in the sight.

his smile deepens by a fraction, just enough to reveal the truth beneath it: possessive and unsettlingly pleased, something that has clearly been growing in the dark all these years, fed by every moment you broke down in front of him.

he steps forward once unhurriedly, “…baby,” he murmurs, almost tenderly. “you’re crying again.”

you flinch at him, caught completely off guard. his expression… it isn’t the caleb you’ve known your whole life. not quite. it makes the air in the room press in on you, and for a moment, you stop crying, unsure whether to feel relief or dread.

“you know,” he murmurs like he’s teasing a thought out of you slowly, “i’ve been waiting a long time for you to… see me properly. to know just how… depraved i am… about you.”

your hand flies to your face, wiping tears quickly, frowning. “…w-what? how… why… when…?”

caleb exhales softly through his nose, a faint chuckle curling at the edge of it, and leans just a fraction closer. “i’ve always been like this,” he says calmly, almost casual. “i just… learned how to hide it and study how to keep it safe… and just for you.”

then he reaches out, hand brushing your cheek with gentle precision. instinctively, you flinch under his touch, and he notices immediately.

“oh?” he teases softly, leaning a little closer, voice dipping low and intimate. “scared of me now, huh?”

in caleb’s mind, a storm raged quietly, controlled only by the years of practice he had spent masking it behind jokes, mischief. he had trained himself to appear harmless, easygoing, the caleb you knew and trusted since childhood. it was a careful performance, a shield he wrapped around the darker edges of himself so you would never see the full weight of his obsession.

and yet, right now, the performance threatened to crumble.

he felt the tug of restraint, the voice inside whispering that he should stop, that he should step back, apologize, tell you he didn’t mean to frighten you. because the last thing he ever wanted was for you to be scared of him. not you. not ever.

but then he looked at you.

looked at the soft curve of your tear-streaked cheeks, the way your lashes trembled, the small catch in your throat as you tried to steady yourself. the way your lips quivered, pleading silently for forgiveness.

and everything he had buried — the longing, the possessiveness, the aching need to protect you and own every fragment of your vulnerability — exploded.

he could feel it spilling over the careful lines he had drawn around himself. his smile twitched, tinged with something that felt like both awe and hunger. his hand twitched in the air, wanting to brush your cheek again, to touch, to tether, to reassure, to claim just a fraction of the fragility you were showing him.

a part of him screamed to stop, to let you step back, to let you run from this intensity.

but another part whispered too loud, too insistent: no. don’t stop. keep going.

and so he stayed, watching you carefully, savoring the vulnerability you hadn’t meant to show him. every shiver, every hiccup of breath, every glittering tear that caught the light… it was like electricity under his skin, something he couldn’t, wouldn’t, hide.

“you’re so… fragile,” he murmurs, “always trembling when i look at you. always… like this.”

he tilts his head, studying you. the duality is there; the big brother smile that makes your heart ache, and beneath it, something darker; a grin that delights in the power he has over you.

you lift your hands, wiping at your cheeks, trying to reclaim yourself once more.

“stop trying to hide from me,” he whispers, almost a growl beneath the surface, a sound that should be playful but feels weighted. “you think you can erase this, hm? this face? it’s mine to see.”

your breath catches, and before you can answer, he closes the tiny distance between you. not abruptly — slow, intentional, teasing — his lips brushing yours in a touch that’s soft, yet desperate. it’s a kiss that speaks of obsession, of years of secret longing, of power and possession, all tangled together.

he lingers just enough for you to feel the way he kisses you, lips moving against your own. and when he pulls back ever so slightly, just to look at your reaction, his grin curves sharper, almost sadistic.

“see?” he murmurs, voice low and taunting. “i’ve wanted this for so long… and now you’re finally here, just like this, just for me.”

he tilts his head, letting just the hint of a smirk play at the corners of his mouth, as if he’s daring you to do something.

“come on,” he murmurs softly, but carrying that edge of impatience only he can wear. “you’re not going to just sit there, are you?”

your heart skips. your hands fumble, and he notices, of course. he shifts, one hand sliding gently above your wrist, not gripping, but holding just enough to keep you there. the other balances him against the floor, fingers splayed and steady.

he presses again, brushing his lips against yours with a rhythm that’s like he’s testing boundaries you didn’t know existed. it’s the kind of kiss that makes your mind spin: tender in one moment, provocatively bold the next, all while his eyes glitter, studying your reaction like a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

“see?” he whispers between soft presses, tilting his head closer. “i know you want to, pipsqueak… just a little. i can tell.”

you whimper softly, and it’s enough to make caleb pause, just for a heartbeat, before his grin curls sharper.

“there it is,” he teased, as if he’s discovered a secret treasure. “that little sound… that’s all i need to know.”

before you can protest, before your mind even has the chance to catch up, he’s lifting you effortlessly, cradling you against him as if you weigh nothing at all. your body instinctively stiffens, heart hammering, but caleb’s hands are firm enough to hold your thighs.

he carries you to the bed, laying you gently on the comforters. the softness swallows you, a cocoon, yet caleb leans over, pressing close, lips meeting yours again, depraved and passionate.

your eyes shut, trying to catch up with his pace, but you could only grunt.

“shh,” he whispers, tilting his head just enough to catch your gaze, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your temple. “look at me. it’s okay… you’re okay.”

but the teasing lingers in his tone, “you sound so helpless when you do that” he chuckles, “i could listen to it all day..."

"shut up, caleb—"

"are you enjoying?"

you can feel your heart thundering in your chest—embarrassed, and nervous, but…the way he’s been speaking and acting also has arousal pooling between your legs, even though you aren't quite sure of what exactly is this wet feeling yet.

"i..."

“hmm? what was that?” his fingers lightly coast up the skin on your face, and the sensitivity of it has you gasping quite loudly.

you attempt to escape his touch (despite your instincts, which are currently screaming at you to let him continue, because god it feels somewhat... good), but caleb isn’t letting you go anywhere. with himself above you, you’re stuck. there’s no way you can beat him in a game of strength.

“w-what do you think i want?” you manage to respond, mustering up a bit of courage. it’s not in your nature to just let someone, especially caleb, talk to you like that without fighting back. caleb, however, is blunt with his rebuttal.

"i think you want more than just a kiss, apples. i think you'd love to see how far we can both go, right? am i wrong?"

your breathing has picked up now, fanning in hot puffs between your bodies. each of his words causes sinful scenarios to bloom within your mind—and you feel your down there clench around nothing—hot, and aching to be filled.

yeah, you grew up uninfluenced, but that doesn't mean you haven't went through nights of masturbating, watching or listening to something from your phone because caleb was too far away, in all ways.

“but… if i’m wrong about you, then say the word and i’ll stop,” he murmurs. “i will.”

yet you don’t say it. you can’t. you want him to keep going, painfully, shamefully so.

without missing a beat, you finally close the space between you, pressing your lips to his with desperate urgency, hands moving to cup his face. and then, just like that, he pushes back, shoving you onto the sheets beneath you with a controlled force.

“if you want more,” he says, eyes dark with mischief, “you’re going to have to say it.”

"please let's do it," you respond, breathless. caleb leans in, your lips nearly touching, and he looks you in the eye.

“say it right, because if it’s not good enough… don’t expect me to give you anything.”

“i…” your throat feels parched, words caught somewhere between your racing thoughts and the ache curling through you. you’ve never needed this—needed him—so badly before. and if caleb doesn’t give in… you’re not sure how much longer you can hold yourself together.

“i want—,” your words are cut off as a gasp involuntarily escapes your mouth. caleb's other hand has found its way between your legs, two long fingers rubbing between your soaking folds.

“d-didn’t you just say i wouldn’t get anything?” you stammer, thighs tightening instinctively, betraying how horny you've gotten. caleb raises an eyebrow, that infuriating, crooked grin tugging at his lips.

"does this really count as anything?"

his fingers tease at your entrance, barely dipping into your pussy. even if you think of grinding down to force him deeper, his hold on you prevents you from doing so—and you whine as he pulls his fingers away—simply continuing to tease your womanhood while neither touching your clit nor pushing his digits inside of you.

“i would suggest saying what’s on your mind, squirt. you shouldn’t be acting like this when i haven’t even done things.”

“i-inside me,”

"hmm?"

"i want you inside," you say, starting off innocently enough. you’ve never verbally been lewd before—the idea of telling caleb what you want him to do to you while he's literally hovering right there above you is a bit terrifying—but you know if you don’t start somewhere, you’ll never get what you want.

“i... i want you to fill every inch of me, i've been wanting it for so long.” you get braver with every word, and when you feel caleb's cock strain against your stomach, trapped in the tight space between your bodies, a wave of satisfaction emboldens you.

you take a shaky breath, finally letting the words tumble out, eyes fixed on him, and whisper, “i… i’ve been thinking about you for so long, caleb, longer than i even realized. every little thing you do, every look, every word… i’ve felt it, this pull toward you. i’ve wanted you, more than i knew how to say, and i’ve been yearning… for you, for all this time, without even understanding it myself… until now.”

caleb's breathing is a bit gruffer now—his face burying against your shoulder as his hand drops away, coming to momentarily rest near your hip. you feel his hand sneaking beneath the hem of your top and dragging upward, with goosebumps rising on your skin. your confidence momentarily falters—a hot wave of arousal jumbling your thoughts—but you continue.

"s-sometimes, i wonder... how would it feel to do the things people do in adult stuff with you. if you would like it if i gave you a blowjob—"

without warning, he bites down on your skin—two of his fingers slipping inside of your pussy at the same time. a breathless whine escapes you, pain and pleasure mingling, and when you attempt to grind your hips down on his hand, he nips at you again.

“maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and taunting, “if i could put a tag on you. just so everyone knows you’re with me. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance—his lips moving to capture your own as his digits thrust between your walls. his tongue forces its way into your mouth, swallowing the moans that rip from your throat—his pace ruthless as he fingers fuck you. but he knows it’s what you want, your pussy positively drenched for him, lewd sounds permeating the room with each flick of his wrist.

his other hand finds your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly and causing you to whine. caleb's touches are sure to leave you sore and bruised, but the idea of having marks to remind you of this moment for days to come is undeniably appealing.

“c–caleb,” you gasp, your knees beginning to buckle. you’re already racing towards your climax, his fingers pressing into your sweet spot with every jab.

“are you already going to cum?” he asks, placing an open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. your head is spinning, but you manage to nod.

“mmm... should i let you cum?”

“please.” your voice is raw with desperation, head pressing back against the sheets as the dam holding your orgasm at bay threatens to collapse. weakly, your hand raises to grab caleb's arm—your fingernails digging into his skin.

he smiles, lips pursing together, eyes following the motions of your head. "cum then."

and you do—mouth opening into a silent scream as you release around his fingers. he pumps you through it, pace slowing to drag out the waves of pleasure. and finally, once you’re able to breathe again, he pulls his hand from between your thighs.

you watch him bring his soaking digits on his lips, smearing your own juices against his tongue. it’s an embarrassing realization—that you had drenched his hand with your arousal—and his action only burns you up even more.

but caleb maintains eye-contact as he does, before bringing the very same fingers towards your mouth, urging you to lick his saliva off.

for a moment, you take your time getting caught off guard, staring up at caleb, your caleb, ontop of you. the boy you used to climb on trees with, eat crayons with, chased frogs on the streets with.

you lean forward to suck on his fingertips, tongue lapping up the length.

“don’t regret what you said earlier about letting me use you,” he whispers into your ear, and within seconds, you find yourself tossed around onto the soft sheets, flipped onto your stomach.

there’s movement on the mattress behind you, and then caleb’s hands are reaching forward to grab your hips. he forces you onto your knees—dragging your ass backwards—and without warning, something quite large shoves between your walls.

“mm--!” you bite your lip, fingers grasping at the sheets as caleb begins chasing his own release. his hips smack against your ass, rattling the bedframe with each movement, and despite yourself, pleasure begins building in your gut once more.

"oh, yeah... i was right." caleb speaks, voice all breathless and raspy. "you were as tight as i've been imagining—no, more tight—much, much tighter—!"

you whine at his words, thighs shaking as the intensity of his love-making begins to overwhelm you. if it weren’t for caleb's grip on your hips, you’d be slack against the sheets—twitching, and taking a much-needed breather.

but this isn’t about you. right now, it’s about him, and you both know it. it's his turn to do whatever he wants. it's the least you can give him, considering he’d already let you cum, right?

“cum again?” he asks, and you shake your head no. he chuckles, one of his hands reaching around to toy with your clit. the act immediately has you crying out—pussy tightening around him and forcing a grunt from his throat.

"let's see about that, huh?"

the next few minutes are a blur—your mind spiraling into incoherency as caleb's dick stretches and fills you in all the right ways. with his fingers rubbing circles at your clit, you’re brought back to the brink of orgasm quicker than you’d imagined—the pleasure beginning to tip into overstimulation.

“please please please please,” you chant, forcing yourself to clench around him. caleb groans, retaliating with a brutal thrust that has tears pricking at your eyes. you’re not sure if you want to cum, or simply want him to cum so you can finally catch your breath.

“fuck,” he curses, beginning to fall apart around the edges. his fingers work at your clit even faster than before, and you choke on a cry—attempting to pull your hips away—but he doesn’t let you.

with a guttural moan tearing from your throat, he forces another orgasm from your spent body. you go limp—any remaining strength fading from your limbs, and caleb drags you back onto his cock a few more times before his pace falters, and he finds his bliss as well.

instantly, caleb plops down beside you, trying to chase his own breath. and when he steals a glance from you, he takes a double look.

"hey, hey, did you just cry?"

you're too worn out to answer, but you're sure you probably did. from how hard and rough he was fucking you.

your vision is starting to blur, and the last thing you see before blacking out is caleb's smile.

This really sets the scene for how upset he was at you. Just plain unhappy, how could you be so stupid? Going out without explicit say so from him, god you’re so ungrateful.

He walked down the halls with a mission, the same air of authority he always had. Maybe the uniform made him seem like you just had to listen to him- Obey. His subordinates, at least the ones you’d seen that day, seemed too rigid- too fearful, to be anything but practiced..-Learned obedience. Obedience bred by fear was something he swore by when it came to his work. Maybe it was time to apply it to you too.

His footfalls were heavy, hard to miss, impossible to ignore. Maybe that’s what the sense of foreboding was in your dreams, it’s too foggy to tell.

Caleb turned the knob and opened it to a crack. No sounds, lights off. Ah, so you’re still sleeping. Poor you, so sleepy, so tired after a day of disobeying any rule he set.

But, it’s not like he could be entirely too mad that you took the bait. Yea, sure— he set you up. He just wanted to see if you’d be desperate enough to think he’d be so stupid as to lighten up his security measures. The cameras that were way too obvious being turned off, yet the ones that weren't the camera staged as a doorknob, the one pretending to be a flower bud, even the one posing as a damn charging port? They were very much still on.

But everything else seemed to just be gone! Lucky you..! Except the bolted shut windows, the bullet proof military grade windows you couldn’t dream of shattering, the metal kitchen door to keep you away from the knives and glass, the lack of sharp edges never made a reappearance in the house either. The damn thing was basically baby proofed to hell and back. All with the goal of keeping you here. Keeping you safe. And you found a way out through pure dumb luck. Planned dumb luck. The one day he decided to test you by very simply leaving the door unlocked. (ignoring the 12 security systems and pass codes set in place when you come within 2 feet of it and even attempt to open it.)

And you took the bait. And you had the audacity to sleep after it all. Oh, he was going to fucking ruin you for this.

Each step closer toward your bed echoed from the heavy boots he wore. Boots he trudged through blood in. He bent down, crouched at your side and ran his fingers lightly above your neck. He ‘ought to leash you, really. You’d gone out. Sure, the moment you left you were never actually gone. All under his surveillance and tracking. He saw everything— but.. what if you’d gotten hurt, hm? What would poor Gege do? Extensive measures might have to be taken, then. Like the vulnerable kitten who just kept trying to escape when you were both young.

The truth is, you weren't sleeping. And you sure as hell weren’t unaware, he made sure of that. He wanted you to know what was going to happen to you, and know you deserved it. The type of man he is wasn't an ethical one. He wasn’t above anything, and that meant being a good Gege and giving his sweet girl some water when she returns home from her little escapade.

He drugged your water. Clearly. Just enough to knock you out for the day, light shit. He could have very well gotten you light headed, babbling and mushy brained- but where’s the fun in that?

“Gege’s home.. T’awww, my sleepy girl, yeah? Long day..?”

You woke up from your bout of drug induced unconsciousness, already fed up with him. You should have known it was too good to be true. A door unlocked? In this house? Really..? Fuck, you walked right into it with the lone glass of water you knew damn well wasn’t there when you left. But you were so thirsty and everything was suspiciously out of all their stock all of a sudden after just a couple customers or closed. Like.. everything. There would be customers buying things leisurely, yet the moment you strolled up to get something, they were out.

Yes, he did pay off (read; threaten) every shop runner to close down for the day, either that or refuse you service the moment they recognized you.

You didn’t respond to him taunting you, it seemed like every word you spoke up until now only fueled him and his fucked up head.

“Mute now, hm? I didn't drug you up that much.. I don’t think so, at least.” He trailed his hands down your back, rubbing up and down as if he were soothing you, but it only felt like a threat. Each stroke of his hand across your body had a purpose you couldn’t quite make out yet. A reminder of sorts.

“Been thinkin’ Pip. Real hard, so try and understand. If I were… to.. say- impair you, that would make you easier to manage, yeah?” That got a reaction out of you.

“Caleb, stop talking like that— isn’t this whole sick thing just to keep me ‘unharmed’” you rushed it out as if any second later would have gotten you killed. Maybe it would have. It was like a hostage situation and you had to talk him down before he got any funny ideas. “Well, calm down, I didn’t say I was going to. N’ I said I was thinking. Am I not allowed to think?”

Unfortunately for you, his ideas were about to get hilarious.

Saying no would imply you’re setting a boundary and he would get mad. Saying yes would imply he could think up whatever sick shit he wanted and you’d be on board and he would get trigger happy. You lost either way, so you said nothing.

–Which implied that you 100 percent wanted what he hadn’t even said out loud yet. Caleb logic.

He flipped a switch in a second and suddenly your chest is on the mattress and he has your wrists in a one handed grip. Combined with his weight pressing down onto you made it impossible to even imagine escaping.

He pressed even more weight on your body, leaving down until his chest met your back, his head coming to the side of your face, making sure you heard him loud and clear.

“That means i’ve gotta’ breed you ‘till you take. Then you can never leave. I'm gonna keep you here, and so will your body.”

As he says this his hands snake around and under your body, laying his forearm under your hips and pulling them up with him, giving him access to your shorts. His chest being to your back made the sense of foreboding that much more potent, you couldn’t read his face because you simply couldn’t see it.

His fingers unbutton your pants and slide them down “Gonna let me do this? ‘Gonna let Gege make you his? He’s doing this for you. For your own good..”

“Is gege scaring you? Hm?”

If you say no, he’s only going to up the ante. If you say yes, it’s going to go to his head and he’s gonna get trigger happy. So you just moan as he grinds into your panties.

That moan must mean this excites you. And it does. Not that you’d ever admit that to this sick fuck. But if you’re enjoying it to an extent— what does that make you? C’mon, he’s hot, you’ve known him 99% of your life, and you’ve had the hots for him since you were 16, it was just a crush back then. Just a crush.

For him it was so much more. It was an obsession in a ‘family’ shaped bottle, sure, he wanted to be a kind figure in your life– but he also wanted to be the only figure in your life. He didn’t want to be family, or friends, he wanted to be yours and that wasn't possible as long as he was who he was. At least without all the faux kind smiles and calm demeanor. He was always like this. The incident just gave him the perfect excuse to unleash it.

Each roll of his hips into yours just pushed you into arousal further and further, sue you- you liked it, big whoop.

Each time he touched you, it was like wrestling with Satan the way you tried to deny how much you wanted him- it’s just the way he goes about it that unsettled you. But you didn’t even know the half of it. You moaned when his fingers began to circle your clit, rubbing feather light like it was barely there only to press down, making your hips draw back into his.

The sounds of his huffs against your ear only heightened your pleasure, God- he sounded so fucking good, panting like a damn dog every time he laid a hand on you, hips rolling wildly. The texture of his clothed bulge against your bare pussy was a contrast as delicious as any.

He starts to suck on and kiss your neck, licking with no direction, just pure instinct. The need for him to leave some kind of mark on your was unbearable for him- he couldn't ignore an opportunity to boost his ego. “Fuck, pip- so sweet for me, so fuckin’ sweet..”

The filth and praise he whispered in your ear as his fingers swirled slowly was intoxicating. He was so fucking intoxicating.

“Gonna go faster, baby, faster. Gonna make you cum.” and he did. He went so much faster. His fingers jerked back and forth under you as his panting increased. You writhed as you sank your face further into the bed, only getting so far before he gripped your jaw and forced your head to the side. “Don't hide, you don’t hide from it. From me.” The squelching and obscene noises he was ripping from your soaked cunt was something you never thought possible, his fingers gliding along your wetness making sounds that filled up the room.

“That’s it baby, louder. Louder.” he goaded. Egging you to get louder and louder until even the cameras in the garage could pick it up. All so he could watch it back later.

The pressure building up inside of you was hard to ignore, and he knew it. Fingers going impossible faster as your pussy drooled onto the sheets under you, staining them for the near future. Knowing the sick fuck- he’d probably fold ‘em up and put it in a display case.

His panting turned into moans as he felt you dripping all over his fingers, they merged into incredulous laughs. “Shit, baby- gonna fuckin’ cum, hm? I know…” Your whines got higher and higher until the pressure snapped like a rope holding a truck. Liquid squirting out of your cunt like a waterfall, pooling in his hands and onto the sheets.

Caleb groaned as your juices warmed his hands, fingers rubbing into your slit lazily just to hear the sounds your pussy would make. She always made such delicious sounds.

The gloves of his uniform now covered in your slick and cum, he leans back to teeth them off. His chest no longer on your back as he sat up on his knees, yet his hips never left yours. “M’not done yet, Pip. not yet..”

Gloves tossed to the side, he shoves his coat aside to get to his heavy belt buckle. The tingle and clink of every movement just made you clench around nothing. Through the loop, and pull. ‘Clank!’ The belt fell. ‘Ziiiip.’ His fly was undone.

And suddenly his bare cock was resting on your back. Fuck– no matter how many times you saw it, it never got less daunting just how big it was. He gripped his cock by the tip, thumb pressing up against the head as he dragged it down your ass and to your waiting cunt. The way he rubbed it up and down, and up.. And down- Fuck.

He moaned and lolled his head to the side, as if getting every angle to his dick dipping between your folds just barely only to pull back, the strings of your last orgasm connecting you each time you pulled away. Caleb's hands came to grips your ass, spreading it to make way for his cock. Kneading and squeezing wherever he wanted. He gripped lower to your thighs, spreading them to see your pussy throbbing with need. You arched into his touch, desperate for anything.

He suddenly ceased all movement, his hands leaving you as he dragged you by the legs to the edge of the bed. “Shh, to the side– there you go, look to the side.”

It was you. In the mirror you’d forgotten was there, a tall wide mirror on the side of the bed. The scene it replicated was like drugs to Caleb. Fuck that deer in headlights look you had, the way his cock prodded against your cunt, the strings of cum dripping to the floor, the arch– all of it tightened his balls and now he was sure. He was going to breed you silly.

He pulls himself away from you, slowly getting to his knees, level with your slick pussy. He breathes in a huff of it, groaning when he releases the air. “Fuck.. best fuckin’ thing in the world, my sweet girl.”

Shoving is face into your pussy he licks a long line up it, tasting every inch of it. Caleb felt his cock twitch with each lick of your sweet pussy, already addicted to every little clench against his lips. He sucks your folds into his mouth, letting go with a sloppy pop before diving right back in, nodding his head up and down wildly into your cunt.

The way he looked in the mirror was too much, yet you couldn't look away. He looked so good on his knees feasting on you, lost in how you tasted. Your back arched even further into his face, pushing your hips back as he groaned behind you.

“All ‘f it baby, yeaaah.. All in my mouth..” he just kept talking into your pussy, mumbling sweet words into it like you weren't losing your mind as he latched onto you as if he were trying to suck something out of you.

And he was, he wanted it so badly. He wanted- needed– something to come out, more, more, more. Your juices dripped down his chin, down to his neck and into the collar of his uniform, it was so messy you had to turn away from the mirror to save face.

Everything was so mushed together in your head that you couldn't focus on anything but the slurps and sucks of his mouth as he licked and licked and licked. He finally leans back for a deep breath, giving you a moment of reprieve. But only for a second to palm his cock slowly, just staring at your pussy as it dripped and drooled. Lips wet and shiny as he heaved, the uniform rubbing against his heated skin with each stroke of his dick. Only four slow strokes before he simply dove back in, lips attaching to your clit, thumb pushing into your hole. He tightened his hand around his cock with a moan as you pushed your face into the bed. You fisted the sheets, your leg lifting as he shook his head back and forth, the obscene sounds filling the room. Your eyes almost rolled into the back of your head each time his thumb sped up to match the rhythm of his tongue.

The tension inside you was coiling and curling with the heat in your belly, winding tighter and tighter with each suck of your lips. The sounds of his hand going faster and faster up and down his cock as he ate you out was hypnotizing. You don't even recall when he stopped, edging himself just before he came, focusing completely on your pussy.

Both his hands came to your ass, gripping enough to leave bruises as he opened his mouth wide and fucking sucked. Your voice wavered and shook with each moan, your thighs trembling. You pulled your hips away from his mouth trying to get some reprieve, but he only slid his hands to your thighs, pulling you even harder into his face, sucking deeper, shaking his head, his arms snaking around your thighs, locking you to his face.

You looked into the mirror and had to look away immediately after. The sight of his face pulled flush against your ass, head moving wildly, body tensed with pleasure. The coil pulled tighter the moment his tongue began to thrust in and out of you. It snapped the moment he moaned directly into your ruined cunt, your cum flooding his mouth as he drank it down like it was the first sight of water he’s seen in weeks.

He unlocked you from his face and held your lower thigh as he licked up everything lazily, jaw moving smoothly between your thighs, the sigh of it in the mirror was fucking beautiful.

He finally pulls away slowly, a thick string of saliva stretching as he backs away and breathes in deeply, catching his breath. Caleb slowly stood, stroking himself slowly as he laid a hand on your back. “Remember why were here, pip. Fuck, you’re so pretty. Gonna breed you, baby..”

His slow praise was all that clouded your mind as he lined himself up with your wrecked cunt and pushed in, inch by inch as he stretched you, filling you up as you clenched. “So fuckin’ tight, my tight girl..” he moaned as he lifted his knee onto the bed, looking into the mirror on the side watching your scrunched face, bitten lips and arched back. Caleb leaned forward, pushing himself inside you deeper. He buried his cock into you to the base, his balls snugly against your cunt. Not even giving you a second to breathe, he immediately began to slam his dick into and out, thrusting roughly into you.

He reaches his hand to your hair and grips, pulling your hair, forcing you up to your hands. “Thought..-fuck..! Thought i forgot all about today, hm?” He laughs between moans as he tightens his grip on you. “I’ll never for-hah..forget. As long as I have the footage.. Of this.”

Of course someone like Caleb had cameras, even in the bedrooms. You expected nothing less. “Say yer’ fuckin’ sorry, pip. Fuck.. Say it.” You can only whine in response as he fucks you, hips thrusting so roughly your whole body shakes.

“Say it- fuckin’ say it. I’ll fucking show everyone how much- hah.. Shit- how much ‘a slut you are.” Of course he wouldn't actually show anybody what was his. As much as he loved the idea of showing his subordinates exactly what they could never have– you were for his eye only, especially when he’s got you like this. Then, you started clenching like a whore when he threatened to show everyone.

He leaned forward to taunt filth into your ear, calling you all sorts of names for sarong to clench after that, what a slut, right? His pounding became more and more relentless, messy, and deep. The way you reached back and gripped onto his starched and pristine ironed uniform, pulling him closer.. It drove him crazy– you drove him crazy. All the more reason to never let you leave.

He sucked marks and bruises into your neck, kissing your cheek before turning your face to his, shoving his mouth onto yours. He moaned into your mouth as you whined into his.

He broke away from you and spaced his knees further and forced you into a mean arch. “Almost done, baby- almost..” he breathed into your neck. He gave a slight pause before he was pounding into your slick cunt over and over again, his hands digging into the soft of your hips, never daring to let go. Caleb's noises overpowered yours, so vocal and unabashed in how good you made him feel, so good he couldn’t seem to shut up.

He felt his balls begging to be emptied, begging to fill you up– he was insatiable. And so were you. You kept fucking your hips back into his, never letting his leave yours for too long. Due to him having never taken his uniform off, Tech and all– Suddenly his radio roared to life in his ear. Ah, now he remembers, he came here on break, he’s still on the clock. Despite this his thrusting never stopped, only slowing to just slick sounds instead of the pounding that took over the room. He tapped his ear to pick up. “State your business.”

You’d never be able to tell he’s fucking the life out of someone with how steady his voice was. The slow place he was going did nothing to lessen the heat in your belly, only churning it more. Your low whines made it to Caleb’s ears only a second before he lifted your head and shoved his hand against your mouth, giving you a particularly hard thrust that made you come undone unexpectedly. He knew, but he paid it no mind, keeping his slow pace all while the Fleet personnel droned on in his ear piece. “I see, and you’ve done as i told you? Every single file?”

The overstimulation was slowly creeping up on you, eye getting glossy, drooling into his hand as it gripped your face. All your senses are full of him.

In the haze of your mind you couldn't really hear anything, just the slick sounds of how he lazily dragged his cock and in out of you. His thrusts sped up, his voice becoming a little more strained. “Meet at 0700, all Fleet Personnel under my command– will be in attendance, we’ll talk then.” There was a noticeable pause when he spoke, but if the man on the other end wished to keep his life, he’d shut up about it. And he did.

“Looks like I've gotta speed this up, Pip. Duty calls.” He braced one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, angling himself into you. He could feel himself getting closer to cumming just from repositioning. He pulled his aching cock out of you, rubbing the weeping tip onto your cunt before slipping right back inside.

You both moaned at that. You both fit so perfectly– so deliciously with one another, he could only wonder why he hadn't locked you up sooner. He began his pace, hips snapping with quickness against yours, giving neither of you reprieve. If you were overstimulated before, it was worse– or better now. He kept hitting that spot that made you see stars and forget where you were. Thinking only ‘Caleb, Caleb, Caleb’ as if you were under a spell.

Ropes of stray arousal spouted from his dick with each thrust. “Fuck, fuck f- oh.. Pip, y’so fuckin’ perfect for me. Taking my dick so perfectly..” You could only moan, no words coming to mind, only his name. You’d never felt so full.

He rolled his hips harder, impossibly harder. Again, and again, and again– you reached your hands back and began pushing his hips away. Well, trying. “You can take it, pip. I know you can..-fuck.. You can.”

Could you really? You felt like you were getting split in half and swallowed. You had walked into the jaws of a beast, and how had you only just now realized that? His hips began to stutter and stall, his dick twitching inside of you as he threw his head back with a loud groan that seemed to shake the house. “Gonna..fuckin’ cum, baby… almost– almost, ah…ah fuck.” His voice took on a whiny quality as he began to tense up. His moans spilled through bitten lips, and a raw throat. Fuck, he was gonna fill you up. “Ready? Yeah, all ready for Gege.. fuck- gonna fill you up..”

He began panting, his voice cracking and going off kilter. His balls tightening with each thrust before the dam finally broke. His semen rushing out of his spent cock, filling your needy cunt.

His thrusts never stopped, riding out his orgasm and pulling one more from you. He was overstimulating both you and himself, unable to stop himself, unwilling to part from you. His broken whines filled the room, pushing his face into your neck once more, breathing you in. The feeling of his cum sitting deep into your womb was dizzying, leaving your brain mushed. Caleb wasn't faring much better– but, alas– he has a job to do, like, right now.

He slowly slides himself out of you, making a milky stream of his seed spill from your puffy cunt. He groaned deeply at the sight. “That should do it, yeah?” He chuckled as he caught his breath, straightening his uniform.

Something must have rang in his ear, because he tapped at it once and his eye hardened for a sec before it was gone. His eyes slid back over to you as he zipped himself back up, smiling as if nothing had happened. “I’ll see if it takes when I get back. I hope you learned something today, Pipsqueak.”

Although his voice took on a light hearted tone, there was something under it that promised worse if he found you to disagree. He rolled you onto your back, your body feeling as heavy as bricks, yet your limbs like jello. You don’t remember him leaving to grab moist towelettes, but he came back to wipe you done a while ago and took a step back to look you over with what most would say was a soft look. It just seemed smug.

“But, we both know when it comes to you.. Lessons are hardly learned in one sitting.” Basically, Caleb's way of saying; ‘I hope you’re not stupid enough to try and escape again.’ And, you were not.

After a staredown where he went blank for a moment, he clapped suddenly and turned on his heel towards the door, unlocking and opening it. “Gege wont be long, so just lay there.” Was all he said before he was ‘gone’. To Duty. blood and grime, coverups and sinister deals. To the Fleet. Yet his eyes were still on you, cameras, listening devices, alarms all littered by the handful around the room. So, you laid there, and you waited.

his cock aches underneath his uniform and he just can’t take it. fuck the damn challenge. it’s the last thing on his mind, you being the first thing. your pussy struggling to take his cock, specifically. 

he groans, the sound raw in his chest, and stalks toward you like he’s already lost the battle with himself. his hands hook around your hips, pulling you off the counter and straight into a deep, desperate kiss.

“need you,” he mumbles against your lips, the words barely out before his tongue pushes into your mouth, hot and hungry. the force of it makes you lightheaded, your whole body going loose in his grip as he kisses you like he’s been deprived for weeks—it’s been one day. 

you part from him, much to his dismay, and look up at him through lidded eyes. “w-what about—”

“fuck it. you know i can barely go a day without fuckin’ you, baby.” he mutters, spinning you around and bending you back into your original position over the counter. “this okay, pips? or are you bent on winning the challenge this year?”

and, thank fucking god, you whimper with a shake of your head, “mmph, no… i want you, caleb.”

it’s all the confirmation he needs. he drags your his hoodie up over your ass, bunching the fabric at your waist, then tears your panties off like they offended him. his own uniform comes off just as violently, shredded off his body like a second skin he can’t stand to be in anymore.

when he finally pulls his cock out, the tip is already glossy with precum. the sight alone makes his breath hitch. he can’t help thinking how impossible it would’ve been to last a whole month without you—when he’s practically wanted you since… well, forever.

he gathers wetness, dragging his tip across your slit before slapping your cunt with the hefty weight of his cock. he revels in the way that you jump and whine, “stop teasing, caleb.”

he breathes out a soft, messy apology before pushing into your drooling hole, and your cunt welcomes him back instantly—greedy, grateful, like it’s been waiting for him just as badly.

it doesn’t take long before he bottoms out inside you, filling you completely. he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat, every inch of him stretching you open in the way you’ve been craving.

“g-god, caleb,” you sigh, content with the way his cock stretches you around him. “you feel s’good, baby. s’deep.” 

caleb’s hands grasp tightly at your hips as he ruthlessly pounds into you and he lets out a throaty moan that borders on a desperate whimper. the sound makes your pussy flutter around him which elicits yet another sound from your boyfriend. 

“b-baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “fuckin’ love this pussy. can’t go without it—always need you s’bad.”

you laugh on a moan, wiggling your ass in front of him like a minx and whisper out, “it’s all yours, caleb. f-fuck, ah—yeah, right there! fuck me however much you want.”

caleb’s eyes roll back at the confirmation. his cock jerks uncontrollably before his body nearly keels over as his orgasm hits him like a truck out of nowhere. his warm cum fills you up till it’s practically overflowing out of you. 

“sh-shit, baby—” caleb whines. “‘m sorry, god, didn’t mean to cum s-so fast.”

you shake your head, “‘s okay… now that we’ve established no nut november is over for you, you can cum as much as you want.” you giggle, tightening around his messy length before whispering. 

you tighten around him again, your voice low and wicked when you whisper to him.

“preferably inside of me.” 

#XAVIER: NOVEMBER 3RD @ 10:05 PM

xavier genuinely thought no nut november meant he wasn’t allowed to eat nuts for the entire month—peanuts, cashews, almonds, all of it. easy. he didn’t snack on that stuff anyway. but when he discovers what it actually means? when he realizes the “challenge” he so confidently agreed to has nothing to do with food and everything to do with him not getting to cum? he’s furious.

furious that you tricked him. furious that you knew he never kept up with trends like this and still let him agree with that innocent little nod.

now it’s been three days. three long, hard days without touching you, kissing you, filling you with his cum and claiming you as his. 

frankly, enough is enough. 

xavier knows it’s late and that he has no business pounding on your door at 10 PM knowing good and well the two of you have to work early in the morning, and yet? he does it anyway without having a damn to give. 

when you open the door, he doesn’t even give you the chance to utter a single word before he’s grabbing your face and smashing his lips against yours for a depraved kiss. you moan in surprise and it allows him a chance to deepen the kiss to his liking. 

he pushes the two of you farther into your apartment so he’s not stuck in the doorway, but the second the door clicks shut behind him, he’s pinning you back against the cool wood. the chill contrasts sharply with your overheated skin, making you gasp just as his lips trail down your neck.

he nips at every patch of exposed skin he can reach, ignoring your breathless whimpers for him not to leave a mark.

“couldn’t wait any longer,” he murmurs, slipping his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts and rubbing at your clit, pulling clipped little moans out of you. “miss you, miss being inside of you. i can’t last a month, you win.”

“xavie,” you whimper, back arching off the door as his skilled fingers toy with your neglected bud. “no nut november is stupid anyway. i lose too.” 

it’s all it takes for xavier to rip your shorts and panties down and pull his aching cock from his pants and fill you up right against the door. 

you can’t help but cry at the feeling of your pussy molding to the shape of his cock again. three days without sex isn’t a long time, in fact, that’s pretty normal for… normal couples. 

but you and xavier are far from that. you’re insatiable for one another. you fuck like bunnies and while he’s more eager than you, slamming his hips up with force and haste, you still find yourself craving him several times a day nearly every day. 

“xavier!” you cry after a particularly sharp thrust against your spongy g-spot, velvet walls contracting around his thick length. “oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”  

he pants, thumb catching your clit again and rubbing disoriented circles against the swollen pearl. “cum with me,” he coaxes desperately and you cling onto him and his words for dear life. “come on, angel. show me you missed me as much as i missed you.”

your orgasm is explosive, the single leg you have wrapped around his waist pulls him closer as you attempt to keep your balance. you cry a mantra of his name while your ears ring. 

xavier follows in suit, stilling deep inside of you and spurting out thick ribbons of warm cum into you with a soft moan. he burries his head into the crook of your neck and bites the skin there again like he’s trying to make the marks impossible to cover up in the morning. 

“i love nuts in november,” xavier whispers and you can’t help but let out a breathy laugh and nod. 

“me too.”

#ZAYNE: NOVEMBER 8TH @ 11:17 PM

irritation doesn’t even begin to cover it. zayne has been battling a migraine for seven days straight, and there’s only one thing he can blame—the absurd, month-long, orgasm-free challenge known as no nut november. each day has been worse than the last, but today feels like the peak of his frustration, the kind he hasn’t felt in ages.

he’s usually patient, calm, steady—but now he’s worn down to the bone. he snapped at colleagues, was short with patients, and that little smile you’ve trained him to wear so easily? completely gone. not even the carefully packed macaroons you tucked into his lunch can touch the edge of this misery…

all he needed was you. 

so when he comes home a bit later than usual with his lips turned down in a little pout and trudges into the bedroom and spots you in his bed, it’s like the straw that breaks the camel's back. 

he huffs, unbuckling his belt with quick hands while his cock hardens underneath his slacks. 

“what are you doing?” you ask, smiling knowingly. you already know he won’t last long—clingy, needy, always craving your touch. the tension radiating off him is palpable, and there’s only one thing that can fix it: you.

without a word, he strips down to his boxers and slips into bed beside you, tugging you close into his arms. his face buries into your chest, nuzzling against you, and you swear you can hear him purring with contentment.

“i don’t think i care for this challenge, my love,” he mutters, voice low and rough around the edges. “i tried… really, i did. but work’s been hard, and the days without you just keep stretching longer and longer. every hour feels heavier than the last. please… can we just—”

he swallows, his big, pleading eyes locking onto yours, something raw and vulnerable in them that you’ve never seen before. his hands fidget on your body, unsure, yet desperate for your answer.

“fail. together?”

how can you say no?

and now zayne’s desperately rutting into you while trying to maintain his composure, but it’s been so long… almost 9 whole days without being buried in your warm cunt. his cool facade cracks and every ounce of need pours out of him. every little moan says, “i missed you,” and every thrust says, “i need you.” 

and that’s the thing about zayne. he has no trouble saying these things—he says them to you all the time—but words only tell part of the story. the way he fucks you tells it all, in a wild, desperate, overzealous way. every thrust, every grip, every groan screams one thing louder than words ever could— i love you.

his thick cock drags against your sopping walls, as his hands roam your body like he can’t get enough of your body and he wants to etch the memory of the way you feel in his brain. he gropes your tits, runs his fingers down your abdomen, grips at your hips, squeezes at your thighs—hands so hot and heavy, but still sweet and gentle.

“sweetheart,” he moans throatily and it has you sighing in content. “you’ve ruined me—god, i can’t even go 8 days without you.” he finds your hands and laces his fingers with yours. 

“you’re so weak, zaynie,” you breathe, a choked laugh slipping out with it.

“i am,” he agrees immediately, nodding as he squeezes your hands in his. “so, so, so weak—always weak when it comes to you.” he lets out a breathy laugh, his voice shaking. “y-you’re all i think about. every second of the day—i think about how you feel wrapped around me… think about filling you up so much you can’t think about anything but me. so you know exactly how it feels.”

your heart flutters in sync with your cunt, his words igniting heat that twists your stomach with need. “think ‘bout you all the time, zayne,” you whimper, and he groans, cock throbbing, balls pulling tight.

“then won’t you cum for me?” he asks, voice hot and sharp. “cum for me so i can fill you up with my cum.” it’s not a suggestion—no, it’s a command.

and really… who are you not to obey? especially when he asks so kindly.

#RAFAYEL: NOVEMBER 16TH @ 4:33 PM

rafayel has been so strong and oh so good. he loves a challenge, and when you first mentioned no nut november, he brushed it off with a cocky, “pffftt, this will be eaaasy.” and god, does he wish he’d said anything else, because now? he can’t take it anymore. the first week was fine—annoying, sure, but manageable. he had urges, but they didn’t own him. by day ten, though, rafayel was restless, pacing, jumpy, painfully aware of every brush of your skin and every thought of you. every single day after that? a living nightmare.

his resolve has crumbled to dust. he doesn’t care about the challenge anymore—can’t care—because you’ve taken over every corner, every crevice of his mind. he can’t paint, can’t sleep, can’t keep forcing himself into cold showers like they’ll save him.

he just needs you, and he needs you bad.

it’s his need that spams your phone with texts. 

rafayel ♡: cutie pls come over

rafayel ♡: you win

rafayel ♡: need you :( i cant take it anymore

you: muhahaha, i’ve been waiting for you to fold. i’m on my way ♡

when you arrive at his place with a permanent smirk on your lips, he doesn’t give you much of a chance to gloat, whimpering, “come here.” before molding his soft lips into yours. rafayel needily guides your body into his bedroom, tearing all of your clothes off of you and moaning into your mouth in the process. 

“rafayel, sl-slow down.” you attempt to say, but he swallows all of your words, drinking them in like he needs them to sustain himself. 

he pulls away from you just to get rid of his clothes and take in the sight of you with swollen lips, hazy eyes and heaving chest dressed in nothing but your underwear. then he’s immediately on you again, pulling your panties to the side and pushing his cock inside of you. 

he lets out a guttural moan—raw, shaky, broken. the kind of sound that tells you exactly how badly he’s craved you.

“i–i… oh fuck—cutie, fuck—you’re s’tight.” the words fall apart on his tongue, voice cracking like he’s coming undone inside you. “too tight… please—tell me you missed me as much as i missed you.”

you gasp as your walls stretch around him, fuller than they’ve felt in two aching weeks. your hands grip his strong shoulders, your mouth dropping open in a helpless moan—soft, sweet, impossible to hold back.

rafayel whimpers again at the sound. he hasn’t heard it in so long that now it’s overwhelming him, shattering whatever self-control he thought he still had. 

“i–i did miss you, baby,” you whine, nails digging into his shoulders until little red crescents bloom across his warm skin. he hisses at the sting—then his hips snap forward, harder, faster, like the pain only spurs him on.

“r-rafayel—hah! slow down— ‘m not going anywhere!”

“damn right, pretty girl.” he’s panting, voice frayed at the edges, a low chuckle rumbling out of him. “you’re not going anywhere until we make up for all that lost time. we’re never doing this again, right? you won’t make me spend a month without you ever again, right?”

you should tease him—should laugh at the fact he barely survived two weeks—but the truth is you spent that time touching yourself to the memory of him, aching for exactly this… and you never said you’d be participating in no nut november. 

so you just nod, breath shaky, a needy sound slipping out of you. “never.”

he groans, a deep, desperate sound, before crashing his lips against yours, kissing you like he’s starving. then his hips drive forward, pressing all the way in, and he spills into you with a needy, helpless moan that trembles against your mouth.

the sudden warmth inside you makes you gasp, but it’s the kind of shock that melts straight into relief, into everything you’ve been aching for these past weeks. your legs wind around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, keeping him there as he rides out his orgasm—still moving, still chasing yours with shaky determination.

he really, really needed this.

#SYLUS: DECEMBER 1ST @ 12:00 AM

sylus knew you were upset with him. furious, even. he knew you never expected him to actually make it through the entire month of november without a single orgasm—and that’s exactly what made it fun. that’s why he held out as long as he did. your begging was adorable: all the pouts, all the half-assed seduction attempts, all the dramatic threats about killing him if he didn’t fuck you stupid. none of it worked the way you wanted. if anything, it only strengthened his resolve. and that made you livid.

it wasn’t that sylus didn’t want you—god, he wanted you constantly. how could he not when you always looked so perfect, when you kept throwing yourself at him like temptation incarnate?

but the wait? the wait was worth it. more than worth it. he knows it the moment the clock hits midnight, november finally ending—because you’re on him instantly, tearing into him like something starved.

“you bitch,” you practically growl, voice shaky as your hands tear at his clothes. “how dare you leave me hanging for a month?! do you know how many hours i went without you? do you?!”

“720, sweetie. i know because i went that long without you, too.” he drawls, a little smirk on his face hiding the pure excitement that he’s feeling, though his cock shows you just how eager sylus really is. “but it was a challenge. you didn’t really expect me to lose, did you?”

you want to strangle him. 

instead, you let your pussy strangle his cock, sinking onto him in one go. your walls painfully stretch to accommodate his size but you breathe through it and take it in stride like you have a point to prove. 

“just shut the fuck up and fuck me, sylus.” you groan, grabbing his hands and placing them on your hips. “fuck me good or i will never forgive you.”

his laugh comes out more like a groan, rough and strained, and he nods once before gripping your hips tight. in one effortless motion he lifts you—weightless in his hands—then drops you back down, thrusting up into you at the perfect, brutal angle. “as you wish, pretty girl.”

you cry out, sharp and high, when the tip of his cock slams against your cervix. “sylus!”

“yeah, i got you,” he grunts, voice gritty. a breathy huff of your name slips out of him as his brows pull together in focus. he’s trying… god, he’s trying so hard to stay locked in on your pleasure, to give you everything you’ve been deprived of.

but thirty days without an orgasm…

his balls ache, heavy and swollen, his cock throbbing inside your tight, tight pussy—so tight he can feel your heartbeat around him. and as he pumps into you, desperate and controlled all at once, he starts to feel it—your pleasure mixing with his, bleeding into him until it’s almost unbearable.

your hands palm your tits imagining they’re his hands and you find yourself wishing he had hands everywhere. you want them on your tits, your hips, around your throat, pressing against your clit and stomach—you can’t get enough of him. 

this doesn’t help sylus’s dilemma. the sight of you taking every inch of his cock like you own it with your head thrown back makes him damn near feral. 

“fuck, baby,” he gasps, fucking into you like a mad man. “missed this—missed you. you feel like heaven.”

“y-you could’ve—hah! you could’ve had me, sy—” you moan with a little bite in your words. 

“i know, i know,” he murmurs, voice low and apologetic. “poor thing… i kept you waiting for me. ‘m so sorry. let me make it up to you, sweetheart.”

you’re on your back almost instantly—flipped before you can even register the movement. by the time your vision catches up, your eyes go wide, breath stuttering at how fast he moved.

his thumb finds your clit, circling it with cruel precision, and his thrusts slow to a deep, deliberate rhythm. he wants to draw your orgasm out painfully without letting his own break free. his whole body shakes with restraint. he refuses to cum before you. he won’t. not after making you wait so long.

only when you come apart beneath him—only then will he spill his thick, pent-up seed inside you. and when you do? when you break and gush all over his abdomen, clear liquid spraying over his abdomen with a shattered cry… all he can do is fill you up with a copious amount of cum with a fragmented groan of his own. 

you shudder beneath him, twitching with every slow grind of his hips, but even through the haze you manage to get something out—something more than the tangled moans filling the room.

“i hope you can make it to the morning,” you breathe, voice trembling but defiant, “because i’m far from done with you.”

He has to make sure your body is functioning properly, wouldn’t want you to get any imbalances, that’s why he has to have his fingers inside you, making you cum - plus, it gives you the endorphins that are healthy for you!

He disguises everything as being protective or for your benefit. Following you everywhere. Serving as this big guard dog figure. And it works. People stay away.

He’s also very particular on what you wear. You can’t go out like that. Can’t be too short, too low, too tight. But when you’re home, it’s the inverse - it’s so hot, he says, you should take everything off and just relax. Actually, you can’t even find your warm home-wear, it’s gone missing. And if it’s actually pretty cold and you’re shivering, you can just curl up with him.

And speaking of which, he’ll tell you he keeps finding you up and around in the middle of the night. You have a sleepwalking problem! It’s better if you two just sleep in the same room, in the same bed, where he can keep an arm latched around you to make sure you don’t go wandering off.

If you complain, he has a couple tactics to go to. If you have a soft heart, he’ll act hurt, ask you why, you don’t want to spend time with your brother? You don’t hate him do you? Do you just not love him? He does everything he does for your sake. If guilt doesn’t work, he’ll make you paranoid. Tell you the awful things your friends actually said about you, that guy that was trying to hurt you, aren’t you glad he’s here to tell you about these things? He can deal with them too, if you’d like. It’s not like you need other people. Why even try to make friends? All throughout your life you’ve done just fine, just the two of you. That’s all that needs to be. He already does everything a boyfriend does, all the providing and care, so why do you need one?

Of course you might object, say it’s “wrong” for him to get so close to you, that it’s weird, even if you’re not related its still weird, people call it step-cest or pseudo-cest for a reason, that people will notice… But those are the same people that have always been mean to you, right? The same people that have always hurt you, while he’s the only person that actually loves you, the only one that’s there for you. So really, doesn’t what he thinks matter more than what they think? He’s the only person that tolerates you, the only person that will take care of you…the only person you need.

And if you don’t have anyone else, you need someone to take care of your needs, don’t you? Just reminding you over and over that it’s just society who doesn’t understand. They’re hard wired to think this is wrong. It’s not. As long as you’re not related there can be no consequences…right? Ah, whatever. Other people whose opinions don’t matter, as you get fucked into every piece of household furniture you have. And it’s good too. No other guy will ever bother to make you cum, and even if they did, you won’t cum for anyone else as hard as you do for him.

Which he makes a point of. You’ll get to cum every day, several times a day, in all different ways and places. It’s very casual, often, too, you just get bent over the counter while you’re cooking, he follows you into your baths to rut up into you, you’re spooning and nearly on the verge of sleep when he flips you onto your stomach and fills you up. You just need the reminders, and you’re so insatiable he doesn’t know what you’d do if you weren’t too exhausted to go out and seek other outlets. You can be laying on a couch or bed asleep and he’ll just wake you up with fingers inside of you, sucking on your neck and leaving little marks. He loves hickeys and insists on making sure you always have one visible since you’re less likely to leave the house that way.

But god forbid Grandma Josephine finds out…

You’ve tried to run away. Again. You actually managed to get quite far this time, almost having left Skyhaven until Caleb caught up with you, like always. You never learn, do you? He asks as you’ve been tied up so tightly you could barely move and placed onto the kitchen floor. You can’t really see what he’s doing with his backed turned to you and facing the stove, but you’re sure that he’s not heating up the stove to cook food. A metal stick of sorts is in his hands, and you can tell he’s agitated. Angry. Upset. Tired.

Aren’t you sorry for what you did?

You look away. Are you sorry for what you’ve done? No. But when you look at his tired face, the eye bags under his eyes from a sleepless, worried night trying to find you and the betrayal in his voice… you have to admit, you do feel a little bad for him. Just a little. But not enough to apologise.

Are you going to give me the silent treatment now?

Caleb turns to you. His voice is oddly grim and cold. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look furious anymore. His eyes are still manic though, his brow furrowed and his jaw pulled tight. He’s holding something behind his back. That scares you more than what his expression. You know he won’t hit you at least— definitely not kill you— but when he bends down, eyes fixed on your face and one hand behind his back, the other gripping your shoulder so tightly that you could feel something roll and click…you almost cry out, but he shuts you up. He’s busy choosing a spot for it to go on, and you talking would only distract him. It has to be somewhere prominent enough for everyone to see, but also somewhere you can see or at least catch glimpses of. And it has to be sensual. Maybe right above your chest or your collarbone or your arm or would you like it on your hip?

Well? Are you going to apologise now? He asks. But you’re still not talking. Really, he doesn’t like the look you give him. He’d rather you put up a fight. He’d rather you feel enough emotion to yell at him because at least you’d be communicating rather than sit there and silently sulk to yourself, effectively ignoring him.

Don’t you have anything to say?

He sighs when you don’t reply. He presses you down completely onto the cold tile floor, shoving up your shirt, and you’re panicking and trashing about so he pins down your knees as well. When you see him take the red-hot brand from his back, the silver tip burning red and yellow in some parts, you start whimpering and crying and sniffling about how you promise you wont run away again, you’re sorry, begging him to do anything else, but he just mutters that you’re way to late for that now.

I’ll show you silence.

You scream as the red hot iron touches your skin. But hey, at least he’s holding your hands and tells you to squeeze it when it hurts.

—