SECOND CHANCE PART 1
Pairing: Caleb x Fem Reader/ MC
Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue (smut)
Contains: Angst, yearning, grief, little bit of fluff at the end
TW: Extreme grief of losing someone / mostly angst and yearning
Summary: MCβs experience of losing Caleb the first time, how she dealt with the grief and loss, how she is still scarred, and how she plans to confess to Caleb
Notes: Just to preface, this is my very first attempt at EVER writing a fanfic. I am in no way a writer, so please excuse me in that sense π₯². I always have complex ideas in my head but never the right words to convey. But I absolutely adore Caleb, and his storyline inspired me to do this. Mostly I am a huge sucker for open communication, and so I wanted to imagine how Caleb would feel if MC told him she remembers the events of Lucid Dream (his myth). But also thereβs a depth to her emotions and what she went through while he was gone. So before the fluff, I had to cover all that angst first. π₯Ή
You wake up to find yourself gasping for air, your body drenched in a cold sweat that clings to your skin like a ghostly embrace. The familiar sting of tears on your cheeks is a cruel reminder that even in sleep, you can't escape the pain. Your throat burns, raw and aching, as if the screams that echoed in your nightmare have torn their way into reality, leaving behind a hollow echo of your anguish.
The dream, always the same, replays in your mind with merciless clarity. Caleb, your anchor, your everything, ripped away from you in a moment of helpless terror. You can still see his face, hear his voice calling out to you as the darkness swallows him whole. And all you can do is scream, your voice breaking as you reach out, your fingers grasping at empty air.
With a shuddering breath, you sink back into the pillows, their softness a poor substitute for the warmth you yearn for. The ceiling above becomes a blank canvas for your memories, each crack and shadow a chapter in the story of the last six months without him. The nightmares have been your constant, unwelcome companion ever since that fateful day in Bloomshore district. As you reminisce, painful moments and flashbacks resurface from the last 6 months:
The explosion that tore through the area didnβt just shatter buildings; it shattered your world, leaving you adrift in a sea of grief and regret. Even as insomnia clawed at your mind and you worked yourself to exhaustion, desperately trying to outrun your thoughts, sleep offered no respite. Every stolen moment of rest, every brief nap, became a battlefield where the same horrific scenes played out, leaving you more traumatized with each awakening.
You lasted 3 weeks before the Association mandated therapy. The therapistβs diagnosis of PTSD came as no surprise, but it did nothing to ease the hollowness inside you. You fought tooth and nail to keep working, knowing that if you stopped, if you allowed yourself to be alone with your thoughts, the fragile threads of your sanity might finally snap.
So you slammed the door on your guilt β survivorβs guilt, they called it, as if there were any survivors in the crater he left in your chest. You functioned. You compartmentalized. But there were days when the facade crumbled, when the weight became too much to bear. On those days, you found yourself at Calebβs grave, the only place where you felt you could truly breathe. βIdiot,β youβd choke into the earth, dirt biting your palms as if digging could reach him. βYou promised.β Promised to always be there β your tutor when equations made you cry, your shield when the world turned cruel, your conspiratorial grin during midnight fridge raids.
Caleb was always more than just an adopted brother figure. He was your protector, your confidant, your rock. You were his princess, and he spoiled you rotten. His stupid hero complex, those stray maple syrup stains on his hoodies, the way his laughter crinkled the tiny scar by his left eyebrow. But also the boy whoβd linger a heartbeat too long when fixing your scarf, whose smoldering glances during movie nights made your pulse stutter. The unspoken thing that hung between you like live wires β would he have done more than kiss you that one summer if you both hadnβt panicked and started cracking jokes about something trivial? Youβll never know now. Because you both had been cowards, preserving the fragile equilibrium of his headlocks and stolen hoodies, and texts that always ended with βDonβt stay up late, Pip-squeak.β
This line between your relationship had remained uncrossed, not because of what others might think, but because of the paralyzing fear of what lay on the other side. The thought of losing him, of things changing irrevocably if a romantic relationship went wrong, was too terrifying to contemplate, especially with someone who grew up with you. He was too precious, too beloved to risk losing over romantic feelings, so you kept things playful and platonic, shoving any deeper emotions deep down where they couldnβt threaten what you had.
Youβd found yourself at his graveside on a particularly difficult day, your heart heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. The cemetery grass bit cold through your jeans as you crumbled before his headstone, autumn leaves skittering across granite like memories refusing to stay buried. Your knuckles whitened around the wilted sunflowers in your lap - his favorite, always bought from that vendor by the train station heβd pass on his way back from Skyhaven.
βYouβ¦β The word comes out brittle, choking on summer heat and pancake breakfasts and all the words you swallowed. βYou knew. You had to.β Your thumbnail digging into the stem until green stained your skin. βThe way youβdβ¦ thaw frozen pizza at 3AM because I forgot to eat. Pretend to βaccidentallyβ buy my favorite mango ice cream every goddamn week.β A wet laugh escapes, sharp as the shrapnel that took him. βAlwaysβ¦ always catching me before I fell.β
The headstone had stayed silent. It mocked you.
Your palm slammed against the earth, gravel embedding in flesh. βDamn you, Caleb. Damn you for making love feel like breathing.β Your voice had splintered, each syllable a confession pried from your ribs. βThose nightsβ¦ when youβd carry me home after examsβ¦ your heartbeat against my cheek? I wanted to live there. In your stupid flannel scent and the rumble of your voiceβ¦β
Wind whipped through the trees, scattering goldenrod pollen like the ashes you never got to bury. When you finally whispered it β βI loved youβ β the words dissolved into the twilight, unheard. Unanswered.
You hadnβt noticed the blood on your palm until it smeared across his engraved name. βYouβre gone, and it feels like you took a part of me with you. How am I supposed to keep going without my ray of sunshine? Everythingβs soβ¦ colorless now.β
Your body shook with sobs as you whispered, βI see it every night in my dreams. You being taken away from me. Over and over.β
You pressed your forehead to the stone, imagining the warmth that once greeted your tears. βShouldβve burned with you,β you rasp to the worms beneath the soil. βAt least thenβ¦ Iβd know where to find your hands in the dark.β
Time blurred as you sat there, lost in a haze of grief and regret, until darkness fell. Theyβd found you hours later β some faceless groundskeeper clearing their throat at the edge of your grief. You rose on numb legs, leaving the sunflowers askew. Let them think youβre mad. Let them stare.
The walk home was a blur of streetlights and phantom laughter. Your apartment swallowed you whole β his faded jacket still draped on the couch, the last Tupperware of his braised chicken wings fossilizing in the fridge. You hadnβt bothered with the lights.
As you sunk into bed that night, the ghosts descended too, his voice in your ear, βPip-squeakβ¦β. The nightmare came as always. But this time, when the flames took him, you stepped into the inferno.
The memory of that day alone draws fresh tears to your eyes as you lie there, watching shadows dance across the ceiling. Outside, thunder rolls and rain begins to tap against your window, natureβs own symphony of melancholy matching your mood. Those agonizing six months of grief feel like a lifetime ago now, especially since Calebβs miraculous return β not quite as the same person you lost.
Now heβs Colonel Caleb of Farspace Fleet, a title that carries the weight of untold horrors and survival. The explosion that should have killed him was just the beginning of his transformation. The Toring chip in his body, the bionic arm that registers nothing but searing pain β evidence of modifications you can barely bring yourself to think about. Sometimes, when he thinks no oneβs watching, you catch glimpses of the toll itβs taken on him.
He still looks at you with that same adoration, still calls you βpip-squeakβ with that familiar warmth, but thereβs a shadow behind his eyes now. A darkness that speaks of secrets and burdens he wonβt share. Whatever Ever and the Farspace Fleet are forcing on him has turned your open book into a locked vault, and it breaks your heart to see him struggling under the weight of it all. Thereβs a new distance in his eyes, secrets building walls between you that never existed before.
Yet when he laughs β really laughs β itβs still there. Beneath the secrets and the new hardened exterior, you can still feel it β the genuine love and warmth that is uniquely Caleb. After experiencing the soul-crushing void of believing him dead, youβd take him back a thousand times over, complications and all. Nothing could be worse than the hollow emptiness of living in a world without him.
Of course, that didnβt stop you from giving him a piece of your mind that day after heβd revealed himself and personally interrogated you. The moment youβd stepped into his Skyhaven residence, your heart had thundered with a tempest of emotions. There he stood, a ghost made flesh, the very embodiment of your deepest longings and most bitter regrets.
How dare he? How dare he return from the grave and not breathe a word to you? Yet, even as youβd hurled your grievances at him, a traitorous warmth bloomed in your chest. He was here. Alive. Breathing. Changed but still here, and thatβs more than you dared hope for during those dark months of grief.
The thought of losing him again coils like barbed wire around your chest, but you breathe through it. This time will be different. Youβve clawed your way back from the abyss of grief once β you wonβt let fear sabotage the fragile second chance youβve been granted. Caleb may wear the title of Colonel like armor now, his laughter tinged with shadows, but beneath it all, heβs still yours. The boy who carried your secrets, your joys, and your tears long before Farspace Fleet carved its demands into his bones.
Rebuilding trust has been slow, like stitching together shattered glass. His return has eased the nightmares, but they haven't vanished completely. Learning about his bionic arm only sparked new fears, the way pain flickers in his eyes when he thinks you arenβt looking. It has manifested fresh anxieties about losing him again in an instant. Youβve gotten adept at concealing your own scars, though. He doesnβt know about the nights you still wake gasping, your pillow damp with tears, your graveside confessions, or how your heart aches every time you catch his carefree smile or when he cracks a joke too sharp to feel genuine.
Refusing to dwell in darkness any longer, you reach for your phone and dial his number with trembling hands. He answers instantly, his voice rough as if heβd been waiting. βHey, princess,β he murmures, and you can almost see him leaning against the window of his Skyhaven quarters, that half-smile playing on his lips. You swallow the urge to spill everythingβthe nightmares, the grave visits, the way your heart fractures every time he clenches his hand to stop himself from reaching for you.
Instead, you laugh weakly. βJustβ¦ one of those nights. Had a stupid dream about reliving the same awful day on loop. You know, like that old sci-fi trope?β
He hums, soft and low. βSounds lonely. Letβs rewrite it. Maybe tomorrowβs the day you finally beat the final boss. Orβ¦ find a cheat code.β His voice dips, hesitant. ββ¦Or get rescued by a dashing colonel with terrible comedic timing.β
You huff a watery laugh, curling into the sheets. But the banter canβt mask the tension crackling beneath. When he speaks again, his tone shifts, raw and stripped bare. βIf Iβm notβ¦ the same. If Iβm worse nowβwould you stillβ¦?β
The question hangs like a blade. Yes, you want to scream. Youβre still the boy who made me feel safe. Still the man Iβd cross galaxies for. How grateful I am just to have you breathing and alive, how past and present versions mean nothing compared to the simple fact of your existence. But old habits claw at your throat, so you force lightness into your reply. βYouβve always been a disaster, Caleb. Some metal parts and secrets wonβt change that.β
A beat of silence. Then his chuckle rumbles through the speaker, warmer now. βFair.β
The conversation lingers, charged with everything unsaidβthe Lantern Fest festivities, where heβd brushed his thumb over your wrist, the way youβd both frozen when your fingers tangled while reaching for the same decorations while building your lantern, the way you had sat in his almost-embrace as you both made New Yearβs wishes on the paper boats floating in the lake. But youβre done with almosts and maybes. Before he can retreat behind another joke, you blurt it out: βTake me to the amusement park. Tomorrow. Like we used to.β
A pause. βThe one with the rickety Ferris wheel?β
βThe one where you swore youβd beat me at ring toss and failed. Twice.β
His laughter wraps around you like sunlight. βYouβre on pip-squeak.β
The call ends with Calebβs laughter still tingling in your ears, but you press the phone to your chest a moment longer, as if you could trap the warmth of his voice there. A smile tugs at your lips, bittersweet and hopeful. Caleb has no idea what youβve set in motion, the carefully laid plans waiting to unfold.
He still believes youβve forgotten β those three precious days when amnesia stripped away his defenses, and you both teetered on the edge of something more. The memory of it burns bright in your mind: that train ride through the amusement park, the world blurring into streaks of color and light as his breath ghosted across your skin. His voice, rough with want, whispering βI like youβ against your ear. Youβd been so close, leaning in, hearts thundering in unisonβ
And then pain had lanced through your arm, white-hot and searing. The chip, that cursed piece of tech, had nearly ruined everything. Your fingers drift to your forearm, tracing the faint scar β a reminder of your desperate, delirious attempt to feel closer to him, to share his pain, and understand why he behaves the way he does now. The agony of its removal paled in comparison to the ache in your chest as you realized he believed the process had erased your memories of those precious days. Youβd played along, letting him think the confession, the almost-kiss, had vanished with the tech. It was easier than admitting how close youβd come to shattering the careful dance youβd maintained for years.
But fate, it seems, has granted you a second chance. Tomorrow, youβll recreate and complete that almost confession. And when his eyes widen with the realization that you remember, that youβve always remembered, youβll let the truth spill from your lips like a long-held breath, βI never forgot. Not a single second.β
And in that moment, suspended between what was and what could be, youβll finally close the distance thatβs haunted you both for so long.
As sleep finally claims you, your dreams are filled not with explosions and loss, but with the warmth of Calebβs smile and the sweet anticipation of confessions long overdue. Tomorrow, youβll rewrite your story. This time, there will be no chips, no hesitation, no misunderstandings to tear you apart. Because losing him once was agony β but losing him again, without ever having truly had him, is a fate you refuse to accept.
A/N: The phone call is very much inspired from their actual call in game (Safe Haven). Also these beautiful dividers are from @omi-resources :)
