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he ends up leaning against the kitchen counter for another forty-five minutes watching videos of you making kids lunches and snacks. and he ends up hitting the follow button on your profile, telling himself it's because he's awful in the kitchen.

(and not because he can't get enough of the way your honeyed voice settles warmly in his chest, the way it tickles against his ribcage, the way it crawls down his spine.)

(not because he somehow finds himself hanging on to every word you say, every simple ingredient, every mundane step.)

(he knows it's gotten bad when he nearly cuts the tip of his finger off because he's too distracted by the soft sound of your laughter as you describe an easier way to dice cucumbers.)

by the time the first day of school rolls around, karasu feels like making lunches won't be so daunting anymore. even if he's watched so many of your videos by this point that his daughter has taken to giggling whenever she hears "daddy's girlfriend" when he's got his phone propped up on the counter in the kitchen.

(and if he's maybe, possibly developed a sizeable crush on you along the way, well, that's between him and the sink and the cutting board, thank you very much.)

and it's fine, really. until his daughter skips outside when he's picking her up from her first day of school. until she grabs his hand with big, bright eyes and a mischievous smile as she whisper-yells that she met his girlfriend.

—and that's when you step out of the building amongst the tiny children making their way to their parents with a name tag clipped on your sweater, a pencil behind your ear, and a binder in your hands.

you, his daughter's teacher.

if there's a hobby caleb enjoys doing that involves you, it's to jack off to the sound of your voice on the phone. on a random friday, during a casual phone call, you decided to dial caleb's number to ask for his opinion about phone models. you wanted to purchase a new one.

but as caleb continuously panted heavily into the line, trying to disguise his ragged breaths as the exertion of his strenous work-out, you couldn't help but feel uneasy. "twenty-six... twenty-seven… ngh—yeah, i’m here. keep talking, i’m listening." he squeezed his shaft tighter, imagining your dainty fingers wrapped around his girth, mouth slightly ajar from the short, sharp gasps he constantly let out.

"are you really working out, caleb?" you furrowed your brows, trying to capture the sounds he was making carefully.

"thirty-nine… forty—hnnh… yeah, you really called during my set." caleb let out a soft, breathy chuckle as he picked up his pace, his hand gliding over his saliva-slicked cock. between his fingers was your black-laced panty that you lost, the undergarment that he cheekily hid in his pockets when you did laundry together. he shakily exhales through his mouth, then gave a particularly loud grunt. "fifty… hnnnh, fuck—"

you whisper into the phone, horrified. "caleb! are you normally this loud?"

"y-you called me now of all times, pipsqueak. what'd you expect?" he lowers his voice, sultry even through the panting. "you still thinkin' bout those phones?" caleb grunted once more, his cock pulsing and leaking pre-cum as he stroked it with wild abandon, the obscene sound of his self-pleasure filling the corners of his dark bedroom. he absolutely enjoys doing this, getting off from the thought of you being painfully clueless to his sickening intentions and depraved lust. "sixty-one… hah… sixty-two—ngh—shit… i'm shaking…"

you turned your back, clutching your phone tighter as your ears turn redder. "caleb, seriously—do you have to sound like you're doing something indecent?!"

caleb grinned against the phone, "i am doing something indecent. thinkin' about you while i'm like this." he smirks at his own innuendo, involuntarily jerking his hips upward as he neared his release. goddamn, it feels so good. you feel so good. sometimes, he just wants to pounce on you and take you without your consent. "can’t help it… every time i pump—i mean, push down, i’m p-picturing you. m-mouth open. those wide eyes… shit—sixty-five…"

in a hushed panic, you mutter, "what??"