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after hours (1:00am) - caleb x reader

hey all,

have gotten back into writing recently and have also fallen headfirst into the LaDS fandom. zayne is my main, technically, but i cannot get caleb out of my head, so here we are.

18+ | pseudo incest // adoptive sibling dynamic summary: You survive childhood by clinging to Caleb. Growing up makes that a problem.

cw: pseudo-incest / adopted sibling dynamic, childhood abandonment, implied parental drug addiction, foster care trauma, grief, nightmares, codependency, attachment issues, emotional dependency, jealousy, possessiveness, teenage drinking, underage drinking, panic/emotional shutdowns, complicated first love, unhealthy coping mechanisms, non-explicit sensual tension, minors navigating romantic feelings, eventual 18+ themes.

Word count: 3,254 of 60k+

By the time Gran took you home, you had learned not to cry loudly.

Quiet crying was safer. Quiet crying could be hidden behind sleeves, behind too-long hair, behind the hard plastic chairs of police stations and foster offices and unfamiliar kitchens that smelled like other people’s dinners. Loud crying made adults sigh. Loud crying made them look at one another over your head, tired and pitying, as though you were a problem someone had left behind with no return address.

Which, technically, you were.

You had turned seven at a police station.

December 23rd, 2055.

Your parents had brought you there with one small backpack, a jumper with a missing button, and a promise that they would be “right back.” Your mother had kissed your forehead too quickly. Your father had not looked at you at all. You remembered the smell of rain on his jacket. The twitch of your mother’s fingers. The way the officer behind the desk had bent down to ask your name in a voice too soft to be normal.

You remembered waiting.

You remembered the birthday badge stuck to your shirt by one of the officers because someone had heard you say the date.

You remembered refusing the cupcake they gave you because if you ate it, that meant time was passing.

And if time passed, then maybe they really were not coming back.

For almost a year after that, you became very good at being still.

You moved from house to house like luggage with a pulse. You learned the different sounds of adults losing patience. You learned that some homes were clean but cold, and some were warm but temporary, and some people liked the idea of helping a child until the child actually needed help. You clung to hands, sleeves, shirt hems. You followed people from room to room because closed doors felt like abandonment wearing wood and paint.

Then, eventually, you stopped following.

Stopped asking.

Stopped expecting.

By November 2056, you were quiet enough that adults called you “well behaved.”

They were wrong.

You were not well behaved.

You were terrified.

Gran met you in a room that smelled faintly of paper, floor polish, and old coffee.

She was not what you expected.

Most adults who came to meet children smiled too much. Their faces went soft and strange, their voices turning syrupy, as though sweetness could cover the sharpness of what was happening. But Gran looked at you like you were a person. A very small, very tired person, maybe, but a person all the same.

She crouched in front of you, knees cracking faintly, and held out one hand.

Not too close.

Not demanding.

Just there.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m Josephine. But you can call me Gran, if you like.”

You stared at her hand.

Her fingers were warm-looking. Soft at the knuckles. Steady.

Beside her stood a boy.

He was older than you. Not by a huge amount, but enough that he felt impossibly big in the way children do when they have longer limbs and sharper elbows and eyes that have already learned to hide things. The first thing that got you wasn’t the fact that he was bigger than you, no. It was his eyes. Those piercing violet eyes. His dark hair was slightly messy, like he had been dragged out of bed or had spent too long running his hands through it. His posture was straight, but not stiff. He watched the room like he was memorising exits.

Then he looked at you.

And for some reason, the buzzing in your chest went quiet.

And although the colour of his eyes could be considered cold, his gaze was warm.

Gran followed your gaze and smiled. “This is Caleb.”

The boy gave you a small smile, “hi.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your backpack.

Caleb glanced at it, then back at your face. His voice softened, but he did not talk to you like you were a baby.

“You like dinosaurs?”

You blinked.

He nodded toward your backpack. The faded little green dinosaur keychain hanging from the zipper had only one eye left.

You did not answer.

Caleb did not seem offended. He only leaned slightly closer, as if sharing a secret. “That one looks like it’s been through a war.”

Gran made a soft sound, half laugh, half warning. “Caleb.”

“What?” he said, still looking at you. “It has.”

Your mouth did something strange.

It almost smiled.

Caleb saw it. His violet eyes brightened, but he did not make a big deal out of it. Somehow, even then, he knew not to scare it away.

So Gran signed papers. Adults talked. Words floated above your head: placement, finalised, guardianship, transition support, trauma response, attachment.

You did not understand most of them.

You understood only this:

Gran was taking you home.

And Caleb was coming too.

At first, you didn’t know what to do with that. Home had become a word adults used too easily. They said “home” like it was a place. To you, home was a door that shut. A car that drove away. A mother’s perfume disappearing from your clothes one wash at a time.

But Caleb stayed beside you while Gran spoke to the caseworker.

Without thinking, you reached for the side of his jacket.

The moment Caleb looked down, your whole body went rigid. You expected him to pull away.

Instead, he simply stepped a little closer.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Just that.

Okay.

Something broke in you so gently it almost felt like relief.

You clung harder.

Gran noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her expression softened in a way that made your throat ache. She did not tease. Did not coo. Did not say, ‘Oh, isn’t that sweet?’ like you were a doll performing something precious.

She only said, “Looks like you’ve made a friend already.”

Caleb glanced at you again.

You stared at the floor, cheeks hot, fingers still twisted in his jacket.

After a moment, his hand came down. You thought for sure he’d pry you off. Instead he simply rested it over your knuckles, warm and careful.

“Yeah,” he said.

And although you had known him for less than an hour, although you did not know his favourite colour or why Gran was adopting him too or whether he had also learned the shape of being left behind, your body decided something your mind was too frightened to believe.

Caleb was safe.

So when Gran finally led you both out into the cold November afternoon, you walked pressed close to his side, your backpack bumping against your legs, your hand still gripping his sleeve like a lifeline.

Caleb never complained - not when you followed him to the car, not when you sat so close your shoulder brushed his arm, and not when Gran caught sight of the two of you through the rear-view mirror. He only watched the city slide past in silver-blue streaks before quietly resting his hand on the seat between you, palm up. You stared at it for a long moment before slipping your hand into his. His fingers closed gently around yours, and for the first time since your birthday, you fell asleep without waiting for someone to leave.

That first night in Gran’s house did not feel real enough to sleep in.

The bedroom was too clean.

Too quiet.

The blankets smelled like lavender detergent instead of cigarettes and damp carpet. There was a small lamp glowing warm yellow in the corner, and soft curtains shifting gently every time wind touched the window. Gran had tucked you in with embarrassing gentleness, smoothing your hair back from your forehead as though she had done it a thousand times before.

You had not known what to do with that either.

So you had laid there stiff as a board while Caleb hovered awkwardly in the doorway behind her, arms folded over his chest.

“Night, Pipsqueak,” he had said casually.

Like he already planned on there being another night after this one.

You had fallen asleep clutching the sleeve of the oversized jumper Gran had lent you.

And then the dream came.

It always came.

Your mother’s face appeared first, blurry around the edges like wet paint running under rainwater. Smiling too brightly. Lipstick chipped at the corner.

We’re going out for your birthday, baby.

Your father’s voice behind her somewhere. Distant. Distracted.

She’ll love it. C’mon, birthday girl.

The dream shifted wrong after that, the way dreams always did.

Suddenly the police station lights buzzed overhead in violent white flashes. Your shoes slapped against tile floors that stretched impossibly long beneath you. Your parents walked ahead.

Farther.

You tried to run.

Your legs would not work properly.

Like wading through glue.

“Mama?”

No answer.

“Dad?”

They kept walking.

Then the darkness came.

Not normal darkness.

It moved.

It crawled along the floor behind you like spilled ink, climbing walls, swallowing corners, reaching for your ankles with hands that were not hands at all.

You screamed for them.

This time louder.

Desperate enough your throat hurt.

Your mother never turned around.

Your father never looked back.

The darkness rushed toward you.

And suddenly you were running from it instead.

Tiny lungs burning. Feet slipping. Reaching for your parents while they faded farther and farther away.

“Please!”

The darkness touched your back-

You woke with a scream so sharp it tore your own throat apart.

For one awful second, you did not know where you were.

The room was dark and unfamiliar. Shadows stretched crooked across the walls. Your chest felt split open, your heartbeat clawing violently against your ribs. You grabbed at your shirt with shaking hands, fingers digging into your chest like you could physically rip the nightmare out from under your skin.

Air would not go in properly.

You were crying before you even realised it.

Small, horrible sobs you could not stop.

Then footsteps.

Fast.

The door flew open.

Gran rushed in first, slippers barely making noise against the floorboards. “Oh, sweetheart-”

You flinched so hard your whole body recoiled.

Gran stopped immediately.

Not offended.

Just careful.

“Oh, honey,” she whispered again, slower this time, approaching like someone trying not to scare a wounded animal. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

You could barely hear her over the blood rushing in your ears.

Your hands were still clawing at your shirt.

Your lungs hurt.

Gran sat on the edge of the bed and reached for you gently, carefully pulling your hands away from your chest before you scratched yourself raw. “Breathe for me, darling. There you go. Nice and slow.”

But you could not.

The dream was still there.

Your mother walking away.

Your father not turning back.

The darkness.

The terrible certainty that everyone eventually left.

Then another figure appeared in the doorway.

Caleb.

He stood there in oversized sleep clothes, hair messy from bed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. But the second he saw you crying, whatever sleepiness remained vanished from his face entirely.

You looked at him.

And something inside you cracked wider.

Because suddenly you wanted him.

Not your parents.

Not the police officer.

Not a foster parent whose name you barely remembered.

Him.

Gran noticed the exact moment your gaze locked onto Caleb.

Her eyes softened.

“Caleb,” she said quietly.

He hesitated only a second before walking over. The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, leaving enough space for you to pull away if you needed to. Instead, your hand moved first, latching desperately onto his sleeve. Caleb glanced down, then back at you. Heat flooded your face. You were crying, shaking, barely breathing properly. But he didn't laugh or look uncomfortable. He simply turned his arm so your fingers slipped from his sleeve into his hand. His palm was warm and steady.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

Your crying hitched harder.

He glanced at Gran once before looking back at you. His expression had changed somehow. Less teasing. Older than a child should look.

“I get them too,” he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him through tears.

“The nightmares.”

His thumb rubbed once across your knuckles in an absent little motion. Comforting you before he probably even realised he was doing it.

“You don’t gotta be scared.”

Your voice came out tiny and broken. “You do?”

Caleb nodded once.

For a moment, his face looked strange in the dim light. Not childish. Not fully.

Lonely.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sometimes they feel real when you wake up.”

Gran stroked your hair while Caleb held your hand, anchoring you to the room instead of the nightmare. Little by little, the panic loosened its grip. Your breathing steadied, the trembling in your fingers eased, and through it all Caleb never let go. Even as exhaustion began pulling you back under, his thumb brushed absent circles over your knuckles as though reassuring himself you were still there. Sometime before morning, still aching with leftover fear, you drifted unconsciously toward him. Caleb stilled for a moment, then carefully shifted so your head rested against his shoulder instead, as though he already knew how to hold fragile things.

From that night onward, you became inseparable.

Gran found it adorable.

Everyone else found it slightly concerning.

If Caleb stood up, you looked up immediately like your body had been tied to his by invisible string. If he left a room, you followed without question. The first few weeks in Gran’s house, she could barely turn around without finding you hovering somewhere behind Caleb’s shoulder, clutching the hem of his shirt or standing close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm.

You rarely spoke to adults unless spoken to first.

But you spoke to Caleb.

Quietly.

In little bursts.

Small things at first.

“I like this cereal more.”

“That cloud looks like a fish.”

“I had a teddy once.”

Sometimes you would speak so softly he had to lean down to hear you properly. He never complained about it. Never asked you to repeat yourself impatiently. He would just tilt his head, dark fluffy hair falling into his amethyst eyes as he listened with an attentiveness most adults never gave children.

And Caleb listened to everything like it mattered.

Even nonsense.

Especially nonsense.

“Do bugs have birthdays?” you asked one afternoon while sitting cross-legged beside him on the living room floor.

Caleb looked up from the little aircraft model kit Gran had bought him.

“Hm,” he said seriously. “Probably.”

You stared at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Tiny little bug parties.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

“They probably eat crumbs instead of cake though.”

You thought about that for a very long time.

Gran nearly cried laughing when she overheard you later whispering happy birthday to a beetle outside.

Caleb was the opposite of you in almost every visible way.

Where you shrank inward, Caleb expanded outward.

He spoke easily. Moved easily. Smiled easily. Not all the time - there was still sadness in him, hidden in quiet corners when he thought nobody was looking - but he knew how to exist in the world better than you did. He carried confidence in a rough, boyish way. Skinned knees. Untucked shirts. Grinning too wide when he got excited about something.

And Caleb got excited about everything.

Mostly airplanes.

God, he loved airplanes.

Military jets. Passenger aircraft. Old aviation history. Flight mechanics. Wing designs. Cockpit layouts. You were seven years old and somehow already knew more about aircraft engines than most adults because Caleb never stopped talking about them.

“Okay, look,” he would say, sprawled dramatically across the carpet with books open everywhere around him, violet eyes bright with excitement. “This one’s called a hypersonic interceptor. Isn’t that cool?”

You would stare at the picture solemnly.

Then nod because Caleb thought it was cool, and therefore it probably was.

Sometimes he would ramble so fast he tripped over his own words.

“And then—and then the wings shift because of drag and velocity and—wait, no, hold on, Gran, where’s the other book?”

Gran would call from the kitchen, “Caleb, sweetheart, you’ve already got six books out.”

“Yeah, but I need the plane book.”

“You are holding three plane books.”

“It’s not the right plane book.”

Meanwhile you sat beside him quietly with your knees tucked to your chest, listening like he was telling the most important stories in the world.

Because to you, he was.

Caleb dragged you outside constantly.

You hated outside at first.

Outside meant strangers.

Noise.

The possibility of being perceived.

But Caleb never really gave you room to hide forever.

“C’mon, Pipsqueak,” he would groan dramatically, standing in front of you with his hands on his hips. “You can’t become one with the couch.”

You frowned at him from beneath the blanket cocoon you had constructed.

“I like the couch.”

“You’ve liked the couch for six hours.”

“It’s soft.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

You looked hopeful.

Then he grinned suddenly, all crooked and mischievous. “Too bad. Playground.”

You stared at him in horror as he grabbed your wrist.

Not rough.

Never rough.

Just determined.

“Caleb—”

“Outside. The sun misses you.”

“The sun doesn’t know me.”

“It told me personally.”

And somehow, impossibly, he got you laughing.

Not a full laugh at first.

Just tiny little bursts of sound.

But Gran heard them from the kitchen one afternoon and quietly stopped washing dishes because it had been almost a year since anyone had heard you sound like that.

At the playground, you stayed glued to Caleb’s side initially. Watching other children from behind him like they might bite.

Caleb never pushed too hard.

He would just sit beside you on the swings, trainers scraping dirt beneath him while he talked endlessly about whatever had captured his interest that week.

Sometimes aircraft.

Sometimes space.

Sometimes weird facts.

“Did you know octopuses punch fish?”

You blinked. “Why?”

“They’re haters.”

You stared at him.

Caleb grinned proudly like he himself had discovered this scientific breakthrough.

Eventually he started coaxing you into things.

Small things.

“Touch this leaf.”

“No.”

“It’s not gonna kill you.”

“You don’t know that.” you’d scoff.

“I do know that. I’m basically a scientist.”

“You ate soap last week.”

“That was one time.”

Then there were bugs.

You hated bugs.

Caleb adored them.

“Look at this one,” he whispered excitedly one afternoon, crouched beside the pavement.

You approached cautiously.

On the ground sat a large beetle, twitching slightly.

You stopped immediately. “No.”

“C’mon.”

“It looks evil.”

“It’s literally just standing there.”

“It knows things.”

Caleb burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell sideways into the grass.

Then he looked back at you with that bright expression you would spend the rest of your life associating with safety. Violet eyes warm. Dark hair falling over his forehead. Smile wide and boyish and impossible not to trust.

“Okay,” he said, gentler this time. “Then I’ll touch it first.”

And he did.

Carefully.

Like the tiny creature mattered too.

You watched closely as the beetle crawled slowly across his fingers.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he promised.

You hesitated for almost a full minute before finally reaching out one trembling finger. The beetle’s shell brushed lightly against your skin. You gasped softly.

Caleb looked ridiculously pleased. “See?”

Your face scrunched up immediately. “It feels weird.”

“But you did it.”

You looked down at the bug again.

Then very quietly, “Yeah.”

Caleb smiled at you like you had just accomplished something enormous.

And maybe, to him, you had.

Because every tiny step you took away from fear felt important to Caleb.

© hopelesslala written at 1:00am. protected at all hours. ✦ all writing posted here belongs to me. please do not repost, translate, adapt, copy, or upload elsewhere without permission. reblogs keep writers alive. theft kills them.

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