When you get out from the shower still patting down your slightly damp hair, you notice Xavier standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at something in his hand that you cannot immediately recognize as you step closer, faintly noticing the serious expression drawn across his face.

It's unusual for him not to turn his head in your direction, especially when you had been too impatient to go and dry your hair first — something, that will always have you end up with a runny nose for a couple of days after and put on long sleeves even during the warmest summer days.

Usually, Xavier would immediately offer to get the hairdryer for you, have you sit down on the sofa, so he can take his time making sure your hair would be completely dry before you lie down somewhere else. He's learned your care routine over the months of dating you and has gotten pretty good with it, to the point you trust him with everything while you relax under his magic spell.

But tonight, Xavier looks.. distressed? He's still staring at whatever is in his hand, his back turned to you that you have to tiptoe around him in an attempt to get a look, but he's faster and already moving away before you can see what has him so riled up.

You spot the bag you brought home just a couple of hours ago sitting on the counter in front of him: it's from that fancy patisserie that just recently opened which Zayne recommended to you during one of your appointments last week. And since Xavier's coming over tonight for dinner, a movie night and probably some cuddling after, you made sure to stop by on your way home to bring back an array of freshly baked goods you two could have as a dessert.

You assume he must have taken them out to serve them on some plates while you had been in the shower, yet whatever happened during it, must have left him so conflicted that he has silently contemplating something without saying a word to you even when you're right next to him.

"What's on your mind?" you ask him casually, walking over to the cupboard to take out some plates, "You've been so quiet."

Xavier doesn't respond. You walk over to the drawer next to him and reach for some forks, take a quick glance up and realize that whatever must be on his mind is not something you should be taking this lightly; there's something unexplainable behind his eyes which you always loved to compare to the prettiest stars in the sky — something dark and dangerous that you can't put the right words behind.

"Xavier?" you reach for his hand and gently pat it, and Xavier's eyes widen for a quick second as his head whips up and he stares right back at you, "..are you alright?"

"Where did you go today?" he asks instead of answering your question, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you closer, "After work, I mean."

"Hm? Oh, I stopped by that pastry shop," you remind him, your arms returning the embrace without realizing how tight his grip has gotten, "The one that just opened near the association. I think it's called.. 'les étoiles'? Why?"

You turn towards the bag on the counter and carefully open the box, showing him what's inside, "Looks great, doesn't it?" you chirp with a small giggle, "I picked out a bunch for us to try. The staff there recommended this one when I-"

"The staff, huh"

His voice drops, and the part of your skin that his hands are touching starts feeling incredibly warm. You recognize this tone and the way these words coming out of his mouth sound: it's reminiscent of how Xavier always acts when you talk to him about your neighbor Charlie, or how he reacts when you tell him about getting free macarons from Zayne after finishing your monthly check-ups.

It's something you have learned about him just after you two started dating. The sudden changes in his mood when you had happily told him about getting free bread had taken you by surprise at first, and it's only a while later that you realized it's only with certain people that Xavier gets like this: he is jealous.

You've never thought of him as the jealous type when you had first gotten to know him; Xavier always seems so calm and collected about everything else in his life, that you never realized how easily affected he is when you closely hang out with someone else until you started taking a closer look at him and the way his face changes.

Except the thing is, for today, you don't think something had happened that would result in him looking this angry: in fact, since he wasn't even there when you went to pick up desserts, there's no reason for him to look this upset. Especially, since this isn't something unusual for you two; there have been a lot of occasions where either of you go and pick up food for each other, and never had it resulted in an argument like it sometimes does when Xavier's jealousy makes it hard to even greet people you've known for a while.

"Did they say anything to you?" he asks, his voice rough around the edges, "What did they look like?"

You look up at him and tilt your head, "Uh, I don't think I remember tha-"

"Do you really? Or are you just saying that so I don't pry further?"

He looks tense, his eyes scanning every single bit about you as if trying to find a hole in your story that just isn't there. And then you finally spot the slip of paper in his palm that he had tried to hide away from you this whole time.

"What's.. that?"

You reach for it before he's able to register what is happening, and when you finally manage to read it all, the puzzle full of questions starts solving itself bit by bit:

It's a note someone must have put on top of the box of pastries you have gotten earlier today, that you didn't even notice until Xavier did. The phone number, hastily scribbled down next to a very flirty message that is trying to catch your attention, has you let out a small gasp; especially when you recall not having whatsoever of an overly friendly conversation with the person taking your order. In fact, you are pretty sure you had asked for a recommendation, keeping in mind a certain someone who liked anything with cherries in it.

"Who-"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he replies coldly, "Why did you take this?"

"I didn't! I didn't even know this existed until just now-"

"And he just happened to ask to get to know you better when all you did was order? Is that really what you want me to believe?"

You are staring at him wide-eyed; his harsh words echoing in your head as your heart stops beating for a second and you feel a pained sting in your chest. This isn't the Xavier you have grown to love and cherish; not the one, who you have promised to be with for as long he'd keep shining for you. This is an unreasonable part of him that has forgotten about everything you've ever told him.

And he can clearly tell how hurt you are. The moment the words leave his lips, it's like he stops breathing for a second, realizing what he had done. Xavier huffs, taking the note out of your hand to give it one last read before he crumples it in his fist. And then, without saying another word, he backs off and quietly walks away.

He doesn't get far, because you are following him closely, your hands reaching forward to hold him back because his silence has you worried about what's going through his head. Xavier's jealousy has never really been an issue for you; in fact, there is a part of you that finds his possessiveness quite attractive since he doesn't really go too far with it except for trying to prove the point that you are his, and his only. It's just that in rare cases like this, his impulsiveness will bury any rational thought he'd usually have, had this not been about you.

You are certain that deep down, Xavier knows, that you won't ever have eyes for someone else, but he despises the idea of someone else looking at you the way he does: your loveliness, charm and sweetness something only he wants to lay his eyes on, even though that's not really possible.

"I really had no idea.." you mumble, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt, "I'm sorry, Xav, I didn't really mean to-"

"There's no reason for you to be sorry," he mutters, shaking his head, "It's me. I just.. need some time to cool my head right now-"

You wrap your arms around his back and feel the way his muscles tense under your touch when you press your body closer. "You can talk to me about it, I don't mind" you mutter, "I.. I get worried when you stay too quiet and don't even look at me"

Xavier turns around, his hand reaching up to cup your face, "I'm sorry" he mumbles, his eyes finally looking familiar again, his thumb brushing your cheek slowly. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you, his voice softer than before "I didn't mean to hurt you with my words and I didn't mean to get this angry. It was stupid of me-"

"I'm all yours" you interrupt him, nuzzling your face into his palm, "And you are all I ever think about, don't forget that. No one's ever going to change that, and I'll make sure to keep telling you until you realize how madly in love with you I am."

The breath he lets out sounds like he has been holding it for a while; Xavier's ears turn pink and you watch how a fluster fills up his face, "I also don't want anyone else but you," he says quietly, "And I will always choose you. I'm sorry for hurting you."

Your stomach flutters and you reach your hands up to pull him down by the drawstrings of his hoodie, closing the distance between you two until his face is just right in front of yours, "What can I do to make you stop looking this guilty, hm? Tell me how I can repay you, and you'll have all of me."

"..Please kiss me."

Your lips find his without a second thought. Xavier parts his lips and invites you in, swipes his tongue across your lips as he deepens the kiss and pulls you even closer. You call feel his warmth as it engulfs you, his lips making sure to tell you how much his heart beats for you, and you only. He tastes sweet, which is confusing, considering the desserts haven't even been touched at all; and if this is how sweet he is, then there's no need for any pastries tonight when you can have all of him instead.

"More," he mumbles, his voice raspy as his arms wrap around you to keep you just where he wants you to be: right in his arms, with not an inch of space keeping you away from him, "I want more."

he nods and retreats to his office—the kind of lair only a chairman could have—as you grab your pre-prepared stack of papers and smooth down your pencil skirt. before you follow your boss, you call over your shoulder to your stricken colleague: “hold that thought, david. Sorry!”

──────

the biggest room at eoncore tech is no less ostentatious than the first time. 

valko sits on his sleek wooden desk, wearing a troubled yet expectant look. as soon as the door closes, you fold your arms in front of him. 

“don’t look at me like that,” he grumbles.

“like what?” you ask dryly. as you toss your stack of papers onto his desk, they scatter to reveal the contents: some spare handouts from six months ago, a few sheets that house all your doodles, and literally, some blank sheets of printer paper. 

not a report to be found.

you work in the design department, for god’s sake. 

“he was all over you, right in front of me! i mean, what kinda guy does that?” valko huffs.

“my team works on the opposite side of this floor, koko. it’s not his fault you have super-hearing.”

he scoffs and folds his arms over his chest. “whose fault is it that he kept bothering my girlfriend?”

“a secret relationship doesn’t work if one party has no interest in keeping it a secret.” 

he’s exasperated, like the distance is killing him. “why don't you just become my assistant? that way, you could move into this office with me. it’s roomy in here.” 

“that’s a great idea!” you gasp. “or, i could become chairwoman, and you could be my assistant.”

his eyes light up, glittering gold. “that works, too. i can ask around and see what it’d take to get you the jo—”

“i was kidding.”

within a millisecond, his tan ears match the shade of his hair. “uh, yeah. i knew that.”

a long sigh escapes you as you shake your head and smile at him. “look, you’re not entirely wrong. it is annoying being hit on while i’m just trying to do my job, and it is nice having you to come rescue me. it’s just a little too obvious sometimes, and that makes me nervous. how about we come up with some kind of signal you can use to pull me away when you need to?”

he doesn’t even blink. “when someone gets too close to you, i pull the fire alarm.”

“no.”

“when someone gets too close to you, i distract them with a question.”

“better. let’s roll with that one for now.” finally, you uncross your arms and clear your throat. “am i excused, sir?”

slowly, he looks you up and down, eyes zeroing in on your exposed neck. “keep calling me that, and you won’t be.” 

With your breakfast growing colder by the second, you plop down in the opposite chair and finish it off, your bites rough like sandpaper and chewing menacing like it's not the right grit. Your brow heads inch toward each other, forehead creased and shoulders tight as you eat. He has to stop doing this, you think…

Finishing your breakfast, you wash up your plate and other dirty dishes. Drying yourself off, you dive for your phone and scroll through your contacts, searching for the name with the love hearts only to remember you removed them a few weeks ago. Pressing the call icon, your phone starts to ring. Almost instantly, the line connects.

A rather chirpy voice comes through the speakers, "Good morning, pipsqueak. How are you feeling today—?"

"I told you stop sending me flowers, Caleb," you ground out, your mood thoroughly soured by his unwanted generosity.

"Did you?" He chuckles awkwardly, definitely remembering your last phone call to him a week ago. "It must have slipped my mind. Whoopsies."

"Caleb," you grumble. There's no winning with him. His love is like the fresh air, fuelling your flame. But his warped ideals are the glass placed over the candle, snuffing it out until only grey tendrils and hardening wax are left behind. Your simmering heat dies. Ashes in your heart. You release a defeated sigh. "At least, send them every fornight, okay? They don't wilt that quickly…"

"You got it. Oh, and by the way, how are your cramps? Your period should start in a couple of—"

"Caleb, oh my god! You still track it?!" You exclaim, affronted. It's bad enough that you couldn't recover all of your panties from his abundant collection. Must he track your cycle as well? You suppose it's better for your lover to care more about your reproductive health then not care about it all. But that doesn't apply to exes.

"'Course I do. I can send you some chocolate if you're having cravings. Do you want dark or nutty? That brand you like also came out with an orange flavour if you wanted to try it." You pinch your brow, settling down on the couch as you feel this stabbing pain in your stomach, like some demon slipped out of hell, twisting your guts in its grotesque hand. You're rendered speechless.

"Do you have enough pads?" Caleb asks, continuing to obsess over you the way you wish he wouldn't. "Why don't you text me the ones you need and I'll pick them up for you? I was heading to Linkon this afternoon, anyways."

"No, you weren't, Caleb…" You mutter, growing more exhausted by the minute. "Just give it a rest, okay? I already have all of the chocolate and pads I could ever need. And you don't need to come over."

"Didn't you say your tap was leaking? I can fix it while I'm there. And I'm sure your cat misses me, too. I bought her some treats while I was at the pet store the other week. I should be there about three. Oh, and I can buy some groceries on the way. How about I make us some braised chicken wings for dinner? My treat." You don't even get a chance to respond as he continues on, "Alright, I've gotta get going. Fleet stuff. But I'll see you later, alright? And don't worry about cleaning your place up. Just take it easy."

"Fine. Bye," you utter, quickly hanging up and slamming your phone down on the coffee table. Leaning back, you clutch your abdomen. God, that guy is such a pain in the ass. Just barges in on your life whenever he wants. Giving and giving until you can't take anymore. That's the main reason things fell off between you two. The Fleet was stressing him out, and rather than keeping that stress at work, he'd let it out on those who threatened your relationship. Threatened as in offered to grab something from the top shelf for you, or even smiling at you just a little too much to the point where Caleb became worried they would try and take you away from him.

When he became like this, you can't say. But the man you walked away from most certainly wasn't the one you ran toward. He understands that you're not a possession that can be stolen, or a naive girl that can be misled by creepy older men. But despite his understanding, he still clings to this archaic idea of protection. Your radient light shouldn't be dimmed by the stains of humanity. It should be kept pure. In the palm of his hand.

Moving out and finding your own place was challenging enough. Of course, Caleb wouldn't let you carry any of the boxes or handle any of the white goods. Nor would he let you pay for the rent or utilities. But at least he let you decorate. Oh, and gave you this illusion of space with his recent absence. But your address is ingrained into his mind alongside bittersweet memories of your time together. Your laughter is sewn into his soul, your intellect the sparks that set his neurons alight. Your body is branded into his.

Quiet meows pull you from your daze. You cat, Mittens, stretches before you, paws spread and rear high before her spine curves into an arc. She must have heard Caleb's voice and grew curious. Brushing up against your leg, she meows again, her soft fur sticking to your lounge pants. You give her few head scratches, spouting utter gibberish in a baby voice about how Caleb will be coming over later today. She perks up at the mention of his name, a purr starting in her chest.

Unfortunately for you, your sweet kitty, Mittens, loves your ex-fiancé. She's never been as affectionate with you as she is with Caleb. And he spoils her rotten. The most expensive treats, the prettiest pink collar with her name embroidered into it. Her cat tower remained at his place in Skyhaven because of its size, but you brought along the numerous cat beds, scratching posts, dangly toys and other bizarre cat things Caleb bought for her to your new place; they fill an entire bedroom. And to say she loves them would be an understatement. But the little plushies and other items you've given her over the years? She couldn't be less disinterested.

Resigned to your fate, you fetch a heat pack and chuck it in the microwave, letting it get nice and toasty while you choose a movie to watch. Thankfully, it's your day off, so you have no objections to taking it easy. You end up picking a comfort film and settle back onto the couch, pouting as Mittens goes to sit on her fur-covered cushion that also has her name embroidered into it, but this time, with a crown (guess who bought it?).

The time flies by, 3pm steadily approaching between films and grabbing snacks. There's no knock on the door when Caleb arrives, just the jangle of keys and shameless thud behind him before he removes his work boots. You don't even turn around. He's still in his colonel uniform, you can smell it. Guns, sweat, and unreported violence. The rustle of grocery bags overpower your senes.

Caleb leaves them in the kitchen before stalking into the living room, a big grin on his face as he comes over to you. "Hey, honey." He wraps you in his arms, your face smushed against his shoulder as he squeezes you tight. "I missed you." Drawing back, he cups your face, the heat of his hands soaking through his gloves, into your cheeks. "Where's my kiss?"

"Ca-leb," you groan. "We're separated. Sep-ah-rated. I'm not kissing you."

"Oh, come on, baby. I've had a long day. And besides, it'll make you feel better." His boyish charm is difficult to resist. But you must. As you're about to say no— "Please." Your ancestors must be looking down upon you with disdain as you begrudingly lean in and give him a peck.

"One more?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Fine, fine. But I expect something a little more generous after dinner." Releasing you, Caleb retreats to the kitchen, going through his overnight bag you knew he'd end up packing.

"I'm not sleeping with you, fuck wit!" You call out to him, remaining on the couch to sulk. His laughter rings off the walls, geniune amusement. You bet Mittens has her tail curled around his calf right now, seeing as she's disappeared from her cushion.

He doesn't shout back. He knew you never liked it when he shouted. And his voice is loud enough, unmistakeable in the quiet of your apartment as he says, "I never implied you should. All I meant was that you're being a little curt. Breaks my heart, you know?" You can envision his sad pout, those cunning, puppy eyes staring at you.

Every retort dies on your tongue. Pushing off the couch, you head to the kitchen and see Caleb feeding Mittens a pureed treat. She laps at it happily, excited every time he pinches the packet and sends another meaty curl springing up from the opening.

"Can you get changed, please? Don't tell me you're gonna fix my tap in that." Your eyes roam over his uniform, noticing the small splatter of blood on his sleeve. The sight causes you to gulp.

"Why not? I thought you liked it when I wear my uniform," he teases, squeezing out the last of the treat for Mittens. Once she finishes eating, he pats her head and cooes gently, "There we go. That's my good girl."

"Caleb." You fold your arms across your chest, your patience wearing thin. He should be saying that to you. "Just hurry up and get changed, okay? You can use my shower or whatever. But don't use all of my body wash. I don't have much left."

"Don't worry. I bought you another bottle just in case." Caleb stands up, Mittens pawing at his leg while he unveils an extra large pharmacy-exclusive bottle of your go-to body wash. Of course, he had time to go to the pharmacy and buy that for you. No! Of course, he made time to go to the pharmacy and buy that for you.

Without another word, your ex-fiancé begins unpacking the groceries he bought, putting them away without any difficulty (he has pictures of your kitchen on his phone, all of the drawers and cupboards labelled accordingly). You help him with maybe one of the bags. He's awfully fast. Sunlight streams in through the windows, illuminating his dark locks. It feels like old times. Noon grocery shopping or after work convenience store runs. Delicious home cooked meals. Lazy Sunday morning sex with breakfast to follow. You miss those times. You miss who Caleb was back then. Who he never stopped being. But not who he ended up becoming.

Your kitchen is spotless by the time he ducks off to your bathroom. You rest against the coutertop, your fingers pressed to your lips, mind off in the clouds. There's a weight that's missing. He kept your engagement ring. You remember that conversation like it was yesterday, though the wound is but a scar left behind.

"I'm not taking it back. It's yours." Caleb huffed, incredulous as to how you could offer up your ring to him like that, the ring he gave you to symbolise the lifetime you'd spend together.

"Caleb! I'm serious. We're over!" You held out the ring to him, inching it closer despite his obvious hesitation. All he had to do was take it from you, and then your soul would finally be freed. You'd be finished with him. For good—or so you thought.

"I told you, I'm not taking it back. I don't care if we're over. I don't care if you pawn it off or throw it in the ocean. It's yours."

"Then keep it safe for me, will you?" You countered, grabbing his wrist and placing the ring in his palm. All your love, in his hand. His to protect. Forever more.

You wonder what happened to it—the ring, that is. If he still has it. He definitely still has it. Probably keeps it in his bedside drawer and stares at it longingly before bed each night like the pathetic loser he is. Your loser… (un)fortunately.

A traitorous grin stretches across your lips, concealed by your hand. You immediately scowl at yourself, mumbling like a mad woman about getting your head in the game. But it's difficult to when you see a fluffy tail swaying until its out of your sight, obscured by the wall. You bet Mittens has wandered down the hall to sit outside bathroom… Yep, you can hear her scratching at the door.

Sighing, you trudge down the hallway, eyeing your precious little baby who must get inside that steamy room with Caleb. Oh, how you wish that was you—! Stop it! You shake your head, intent on banishing those thoughts before they take root and fester. Reaching the bathroom, you go to open the door when the handle turns. The door opens. Not just a little ajar thing, no. Like some freak of nature Caleb opens the door wide, chilly air flooding his soaking wet body, your towel haphazardly slung around his hips.

"Hi ba… by." His voice drops from high-pitched to his familiar resonance, expression turning from over-excited to bewildered in seconds.

"I was. Getting the door." You glance down at Mittens who happens to be licking the water droplets off Caleb's ankle, your cheeks heating up at the speed of light.

"Riiiiight." He quirks a brow at you, mischievous smile on his lips.

You gesture to his (or rather, your) towel. "You couldn't grab a clean one?"

"There were none left in the linen cupboard." He shrugs, quickly catching the edges of the towel as it begins to slip. All you can see is wet, rippling contours. Taut skin. Veins running up his hands and forearms, those on his hips disappearing beneath the pink, Egyptian cotton. It's been a little while…

"You're such a liar, Caleb," you mutter. "You didn't even look! I put fresh ones in there the other day."

"Really?" He says as if he's surprised. His hand comes to his chin. Everyone talks about ovulation cravings, but none dare speak of the beast you become as your period approaches. "Hm… I can't remember seeing any—"

"Because you didn't look—"

"But you don't have many, right? Isn't it better to save them, anyway? We might need them for later tonight." You gasp at his insinuation.

"Caleb!"

"What? You're thinkin' about it, too. There's no need to be shy about it. I thought we got over that a long time ago—"

"Oh my god, shut up!" You groan, your frustration palpable as you stomp away from him, fingers pressed to your temples. You've got a headache coming on. And Mittens will be all damp by the time she and him emerge from the bathroom. You'll have to dry her off while Caleb works on your kitchen tap. The agony that persists. Must life only bring suffering?

Only once the sun kisses the horizon is Caleb finally fiddling with your kitchen tap, twisting it, unscrewing it, examining it while you struggle to keep Mittens away from him. Since you dried her off, she's been strutting through his legs, flopping over and demanding belly rubs almost every minute he works on your tap.

As she does it again, you slide her across the floor and scoop her up in your arms, bouncing her like a restless baby as Caleb flashes you a grin.

"She's really missed me, huh?"

"Yeah. She used to start meowing at like 2am when we first moved in here. And she wouldn't stop until I got up to feed her. But now, she's calmed down a lot." You release her on the ground, watching as she inevitably bounds over to Caleb.

"That's good to hear. But I wish you told me she was giving you trouble. I would have visited if I knew she was keeping you up at night." Caleb dismantles your tap with ease, laying each part out on your sink so he can assess them one at a time.

"That's why I didn't tell you, dummy. I needed some space. I still need some space, actually," you remark.

"I've given you plenty of space, honey."

"You still track my cycle," you grouch.

"Okay, yeah." He picks up one of the parts, sniffing it like that rusty scent will tell him something other than that your apartment is overdue for a reno. "But it's not like I'm reviewing your discharge nightly."

"Anymore," you quip. "I bet you miss doing that, freak."

"You don't have to be so mean, you know? Especially not to the person who's doing you a favour right now." That shuts you up. You glare at him as Mittens begins to meow, anxious for an ounce of that handsome man's attention. As she stretches up, paws on his shorts, hind legs and torso elongated, he bends down and lifts her beneath the underarms. His fingertips overlap. You forgot just how large his hands are. Merely seeing them is different to seeing them wrapped around something. You gulp.

Caleb places her arms over his shoulder, one hand beneath her rear as he continues going through each part of your tap. You don't say anything else as he works, intent on watching her drift off to sleep with her little furry head on his shoulder. Your chest pangs. Everything you've tried to convince yourself you don't need is before you… It's times like these that make you forget those moments when you were curled up in bed, crying as Caleb just had to put another innocent person in their place for 'flirting' with you (showing basic kindness). If he would just change—

You stop yourself. There's no use relying on someone else to change. For someone cannot change unless they truly wish to. And Caleb, you're sure, feels justified in his actions. He can't see his wrongdoings, only how his 'righteous' actions upset you. What he does is not the problem, but he himself is. Or at least, that's how you understand him to be. If his perceptions have changed in the short time you've been apart, then you'd welcome that with open arms. But…

"Looks like it's your o-rings," Caleb says, holding up four little rubber rings.

"My what rings?" Your brow furrows. They really need to rename those to something else.

"Your o-rings. They create a seal between parts, so water doesn't leak out of places it shouldn't. It looks like one of them was loose. But to be safe, I'll replace all four." He sets them down and stalks off, returning with a packet of assorted replacement rings. It doesn't take him long to find the perfect match, and it's all too soon before he's re-assembling your tap, attaching it back to the sink like it hadn't been touched in the first place. He turns it on then off, waiting for any leaks. But there are none.

"Thanks, Cay," you murmur, gracing him with a sweet smile. A high unlike any substance can give him. He beams back at you, attempting nonchalance and thoroughly failing at it.

"It's alright. Wasn't too complicated or anything. But if you have anymore trouble with it, let me know. I can try replacing the washers next time to see if that'll do it." He packs up his few tools and leaves the kitchen, likely heading to his bag which he undoubtably left in your bedroom. You scoff. There's no way he's sleeping in your bed tonight. The couch is calling his name.

It's a little early for dinner, but seeing as Caleb hasn't returned for a minute longer than he ought to, you start pulling out the ingredients he meticulousy packed away earlier in the afternoon. He's probably going through your dirty laundry basket. If you're missing a pair(s) of panties, you'll know who the culprit is that's for sure.

By the time he waltzes back into the kitchen, Mittens trailing behind him, you're already measuring out the ingredients for the sauce.

"Hold on there. Are you starting without me?" Caleb pouts, clasping his heart like it hurts. You roll your eyes at him, snapping the lid back on the soy sauce.

"What does it look like I'm doing, dummy?" Now where is that darn hand grater when you need it? You start pulling open drawers, a bulb of ginger in your other hand as you frantically skim through knives and spoons. It's not long before Caleb is by your side, magically retrieving the grater you swear wasn't there a second ago.

"Looking for this?" He can barely contain his smirk.

"Thanks," you mutter, your eyes narrowed as you take the grater from him. Returning to your array of little bowls, you grate the ginger into one before mincing garlic into another. Meanwhile, Caleb soaks the chicken wings in water and a pinch of salt. But of course, braised chicken wings simply aren't enough for dinner. He also bought your favourite noodles, bean sprouts, and other yummy ingredients to make stir-fry noodles.

Easily, you and Caleb slip into a familiar routine, him at the stove while you man the chopping board. Mittens is off rubbing her scent all over Caleb's work boots. All that's missing is oldies jazz playing in the background. You wonder where you put your speaker as you chop the spring onions. A bit of music wouldn't hurt, right?

The onion slips, but your clouded mind doesn't react fast enough. The blade comes down and pierces your skin. A thin red line appears. A whimper escapes you. Caleb is beside you within a second, prying your hand off the knife and setting it down so he can examine your finger.

"You alright?" He asks, his voice slightly gruff.

"Mhm," you hum, trying to pull your hand back, but he won't let you. His grip is like a vice, clamped up in concern.

"Go sit down." He finally relents, releasing your hand. "I'll grab the first aid kit."

"I'm fine, Cay—" He's already stormed off, en route to your bathroom to grab the bandaids and disenfectant. Petulently, you throw yourself into one of chairs at the island bench, groaning about how he's making a big deal out of nothing (even though he can't hear you right now).

When he comes back, he sits beside you and diligently patches up your finger, chastising you lightly for not being more careful. After all, it's not the first time you've done this when cooking with him. His presence can be so distracting… But it's not like there's anything else for you to do in the kitchen other than chop. There's no way he'll let you near the stove when he's around. Maybe he'll put you on dish duty next time. How exciting.

You're banished to the couch while Caleb finishes up with dinner, your sweet kitty oblivious to your indignation as she finds a way to sit inside of your ex's boots. To leave her scent all over them simply isn't enough. She must infuse herself with the lining, coat the insole with her fur until he's forced to recall her every time he gets dressed for work.

Once Caleb finishes cooking, you help to set the table, watching with keen eyes as he plates everything. It looks delicious, steam rolling off crunchy fried noodles and tender chicken wings sparkling beneath the overhead light. Before digging in, you set out a bowl for Mittens, the clang of the metal on the floorboards enough to rouse her from her cosy spot.

Caleb's shoulder brushes against yours as you sit down, the cotton fabric of his t-shirt catching on yours. You can feel his heat, fabric sliding over skin. An ephemeral touch, replaced by hairs on edge as you yearn to close that small gap between you. He loads up your plate first, giving you the best looking chicken wings before dishing himself out a couple.

You start with the noodles, and oh boy are they divine. Perfectly crisp. The bean sprouts go so well with the salty flavour. Picking up a chicken wing, you bite into it and find that Caleb's cooking has only improved since you last saw him. Taking another bite, it dawns upon you that you forfeited a man who's good both in bed and in the kitchen. You should be ashamed of yourself!

As the silence stretches on, you decide to break it with, "How's therapy going?" Caleb nearly chokes on his chicken wing's bones.

"The-rapy?" He coughs out, clearing his throat before chugging half a glass of water.

"Yeah. Remember? I said that if you wanted to get back together, then you'd have to start going to therapy."

"I know, but I… didn't think you were being serious." Caleb's brow puckers in thought, his hand on his chin as he recalls that fight you two had in the days leading up to your separation.

You sigh dramatically. "Of course, you didn't."

"Hey…" He turns to face you, expression slightly pouty yet undeniably serious. "Look, pips, I don't need to go to therapy—"

"Princess, you're deranged." You twirl your chopsticks in your noodles, gathering them up in a bundle. "You need to go to therapy."

"I'll have you know I'm not deranged." He says, defensively.

"Yes, you are, Caleb. And even if you weren't, I'd still want you to go to therapy or at least maintain a journal or something."

"I have a journal." You cast him an 'oh, really?' look, which he nods at. "I'm serious. I have a journal. I write in it nightly."

"What do you write about?" You ask, pointing your noodle-ladden chopsticks at him antagonistically.

He chuckles in awkwardly. "Uh, it's a secret. There's no point having a journal if I tell you everything I write in it."

"I didn't ask you what you wrote, dummy. I asked what you write about. Work stuff, airplane model stuff, daily life stuff. What? What goes in there?" He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, suddenly avoiding your gaze. You've got a bad feeling about this.

"Don't tell me it's a log of my discharge." His eyes widen. Caught red-handed. "Caleb!" You nearly shriek.

"What?" He winces, acting as if his unspoken admission is competely normal and natural.

"At least tell me it's in a physical journal." You silently pray his answer is 'yes'.

"Of course, not. I can't visualise patterns and trends in a physical book," Caleb says like that's painfully obvious and absolutely essential to the nature of his journaling. "I've got it on a spreadsheet. I can show you sometime, if you'd like. Actually, I noticed as I was going through your laundry that your recent discharge was slightly yellowish. Has that been happening for long or—?"

"Caleb!" You exclaim, almost dropping your chopsticks.

"If it persists, it could be a sign of an STI. Have you been having sex with other—?"

"No!" Your eyes are like those of a deer in headlights, heart pounding defeaningly loud in your ears, and chest heaving. When did you get so worked up? Quiet ensues, neither one of you sure what to say next. Eventually, you utter, "Okay, one, gross—"

"That's not gross—"

"Two, you don't even keep a journal. A journal is supposed to be for mindfulness, Caleb!"

"Well, I would say that tracking your cycle is pretty mindful, wouldn't you?"

You groan, clearly frustrated with his smart ass attitude right now. "You see, this is why you need to be going to therapy."

"You don't want me to track your cycle?" He pouts, ready to turn on the puppy eyes should your temper rise. Of course, that's all he got from what you just said.

"No, you fuck wit. Just listen to me," you grit out. "Yes, I want you to track my cycle. But also, we're not together anymore, so you can stop tracking it now. But even if you do track it, you can just use an app. You don't need to be going through my underwear on a daily basis to figure out where I'm at in my cycle. It's not normal, Cay."

"Well, dating is pretty rough these days." He shrugs, cupping his chin pensively. "I can't imagine many men going to the lengths I do to take care of their partners."

Setting your choptsticks on your plate, you run your hands down your face, exhausted by his antics. "What I'm saying is that it's weird, Caleb. God, you never listen to me."

"Don't say that, baby. You know I always listen to you." He leans over, palm on your shoulder to comfort you. But you push him off.

"No, you don't. You never listen to what I say. You always just do what you think is best for me without asking what I want." Your words hang in the air, floating atop wispy steam. The food's getting cold.

In a gentle voice, Caleb murmurs, "Let's not do this anymore, okay? This conversation isn't going anywhere, and it's only upsetting you."

"You're upsetting me!" You lash out, on the verge of tears. Unexpected, they crept up on you. Your appetite shrivels up and rots in your stomach. Sniffling, you grab your plate and take it to the kitchen counter, wrapping it in aluminium foil and turning on the oven. After placing it inside to keep your half-eaten dinner warm, you dash down the hall, making it to the bathroom to wash your greasy lips.

"Honey…" You hear Caleb coo. Why does it always have to end like this? You, balling your eyes out. Him, unwaveringly oblivious to the pain he's caused you. And your steadily approaching period doesn't help either. Your hormones are out of wack. But at least he doesn't tip toe around you. That would be worse. To be treated like some bomb about to explode any minute. At least respects you enough to argue with you like you're his equal. As if you could call that spat a true argument.

Ducking into your bedroom, you see that indeed, you were correct; his overnight bag rests at the foot of your bed. With tear-filled eyes, you grab it by the handle and drop it on the floor, climbing under the covers to cry in peace. But it doesn't last for long. You're only graced with five mintues before there's a knock on your bedroom door. Caleb doesn't bother to ask for permission to enter, he simply slips inside, sitting on the edge of your bed and stroking where your head is beneath the quilt and blankets.

"I'm sorry," he utters, regret in his voice.

"For what?" You grumble, muffled by the layers between you. But he hears you all the same.

"I'm sorry for making you feel you like I don't listen to you. And I'm sorry for making you cry. It was never my intention to do either of those things." He pauses for a moment, waiting for you to accept his apology. But those magical words never come. With a deep breath in, he concedes, "I know that I can be a little overbearing sometimes. But it's for your own good, I swear." You push the covers back, fresh air swarming your red, puffy face.

Sitting up, you wipe your snotty nose on your arm, swallowing thickly before mumbling, "If your overbearing nature is making me feel unheard and upset, then how is it good for me?" He opens his mouth, retort ready when it withers away. That look in your eyes—it's as if he's been thrust back in time to a month ago—broken. All he succeeded in doing by coming here (besides from fixing your tap) was to shatter your spirit. And even worse, up until this very moment, he felt justified in doing so. But now…

"I'll go to therapy, okay? If it's that simple to make you smile again, then I'll do it. I'm sorry I didn't start sooner." You shake your head. The perfect answer rejected.

"You have to go to threrapy because you want to. You have to want to change. You have to want to get better. It's not about me, Caleb. It's about what you want," you stress. He licks his lips, inredulous, tasting the metaphorical saltiness of your tears. Don't you understand? Caleb can't exist without you. Whatever you want—as long as it's good for you—Caleb wants, too.

"I want to. Go to therapy—"

"No, you don't—"

"Well, I'm going to go anyway, alright? Whatever helps get us back on track. I want you to know that I haven't given up on us. And I'm pretty sure you haven't either." Caleb grabs a tissue from your bedside table before inching closer to you, carefully patting away the wetness of your cheeks. Your lips are swollen, quivering slightly as you feel your tears renew from his sweet affection.

With his hands on either side of your face, tissue in his lap, Caleb leans down and plants a kiss on your forehead. He trails down your temple and cheekbone, coming across to the reddened tip of your nose and then dipping to your lips. His kiss is light and fleeting, nothing too overwhelming as your emotions spill over. Resting your head against his shoulder, you snake your arms around his torso and squish him like a teddy bear. A soft chuckle arises. He embraces you just as tightly if not more.

"You're the worst ex." You mumble into his shirt, a big sniffle following behind.

"Yeah?" He replies, teasing lilt to his tone.

"Yeah." You rub your face against him like a feline; Mittens doesn't deserve to have all the fun. Speaking of the devil, she jumps up onto the bed, nuzzling at Caleb's side in an attempt to make your sacred cuddle a group hug.

"Caleb."

"Mhm?"

"I love you," you murmur, squeezing him a fraction tighter. He chuckles quietly, big warm hands rubbing circles into your back soothingly.

"I love you, too."

That night, you reluctantly let him sleep in your bed, his warmth lulling you into the deepest sleep you've had since separating.

Your heart is racing, jitters crawling up your spine as you futz with your hair. You're supposed to be going on a date tonight in—you tap your phone screen. It lights up. 17:52—8 minutes. More precisely, it'll be your first official date with Caleb since you two separated. He's been good for the past six months, going to therapy and keeping his distance (thanks to the cameras he installed all over your place when he was minding Mittens (you were away on a short business trip)). Slowly, you've been growing closer, falling back into old patterns you never really shook off. He's taken care to listen to any problems you've raised, and learned to let you initiate (for the most part).

But of course, Caleb is still Caleb. You can hear him enter through the front door from where you stand in your bedroom, hunched over your vanity.

He coos to Mittens, "How's my favourite girl?" You hear the rustle of treats. Must he feed her? She just ate an hour ago… Huffing, you give up on your hair, resigned to accept the awkward curve of your fringe. Grabbing your perfume, you rip off the cap and douse yourself in that luxurious scent.

"Pipsqueak?" Caleb's footsteps grow louder. He opens your bedroom door. "There you are, honey." You gaze at him through the mirror, eyes roaming over his tailored suit with delight and settling on his orange striped tie. A smile breaks out across your face.

"I'll be done soon, okay?" You tell him, heading over to your wardrobe and unveiling your shoe collection, many of which, Caleb bought for you on a whim. 'I thought these would go with that cream dress you like.' 'The bow reminded me of you.' 'Weren't you searching for a pair of heels just like these?' Skimming through your options, you settle on a sleek pair. Thankfully, you taped your toes together in advance. Slipping the heels on, you wobble a bit when standing up. But Caleb's there to catch you. He grasps your forearms and holds you steady, leading you forward like a parent does to their toddler. That's what you feel like in these fuckers anyways. A wittle baby.

"You okay? You know, you don't have to wear these if they're too hard to walk in," Caleb reminds you. But you shake your head, intent on surviving the next few hours in these beautiful (tortuous) heels.

"I'll be fine, Cay. I wanna look pretty for our date tonight." You tell him. He chuckles lightly, halting and stepping closer to you. His hands trail across to your waist, gripping you firmly.

"You look very pretty, honey, with or without heels." He grins at you, leaning in for a kiss, but stopping short of your lips. He wouldn't dare to ruin your lip combo before you've even reached the restaurant. "Tell you what, I'll keep a second pair of shoes for you in my car. How does that sound? You can change into those once you get tired of these."

"Mhm, yes, please." You nod, scampering off to retrieve your comfiest sneakers. Handing them to Caleb, you follow him out your bedroom door, grabbing your handbag on the way out. Mittens is happily munching on some gourmet treats as you two lock the apartment up. On the kitchen counter, you notice a small plate with a delicious looking slice on it.

Pointing to it, you say, "For me?"

Caleb whips around, a big grin on his face. "Yeah, I made some banana bread this morning. Thought you'd like to try it."

"I'm watching my weight—"

"I know, I know. That's why I only brought you a slice. Try it, won't you?" Staring at him for a few seconds, you eventually sigh.

"Fine. I'll try it later tonight." You abandon the treat and rejoin Caleb's side, ready to leave for your date. Mittens is oblivious to your departure, unperturbed by the lights going out as she finds the jacket Caleb left on the couch for her to sleep on.

The drive down town is short, accompanied by some nice jazz and light chatter. Caleb gets the door for you once he's parked the car and keeps an arm around your shoulders as you walk up to the restaurant's entrance. Heading inside, the hostess greets you both and leads you to a quiet table at the back Caleb specifically reserved. Ever the gentleman, he pulls out your chair for you and pushes it in before taking his seat opposite you.

"You don't have to be so chivalrous, you know?" You remark. Table water and two cups are placed in front of you. The hostess leaves you both to go through the menu.

"I wanna make a good impression." Caleb shrugs, a little shy. You chuckle at that.

"I think we're past that stage, don't you?" You flip the menu open, the insanely high prices jumping out at you. Gulping, you read through the offerings. Weird pairings. Beijing this, Parisan that. You remind yourself that Caleb can afford this kind of fine dining.

"Well, it never hurts, does it? And I've always been chivalrous, pipsqueak." You glance up. He hasn't even opened his menu.

"Aren't you going to read the menu?" You gesture to it, bemusement creeping into your voice. He graces you with a reassuring smile.

"I'll have what you're having."

"Cay-leb," you grumble. It's always these little bullshit games when it comes to him. You thought he got past that months ago. "What if I want a salad?" You challenge, the menu pressing awkwardly against the sides of your fingers. It's rigid. The binding is stiff. Perhaps, they were freshly printed? But these aged pages tell a different story.

"You're not having a salad, honey. We're at a nice place. Why don't you have the roast duck instead?"

"You been here before?" You ask, wondering if he's brought other girls here during the time you've been apart. But as soon as that thought enters your mind, you cast it out. Caleb wouldn't. He's not like that. And neither are you. But he doesn't have to be so smug about this all.

"Well, I had to make sure you'd like it," he replies off-handedly, signalling to a nearby waiter that you're ready to order. You expect Caleb to do the talking once the server arrives, but instead, he nods at you.

For a moment, you stare back at him, the gears slowly turning in your mind. And then—"Hi, um, I'll have the Beijing roast duck and my partner would like—" You glance down at the menu, saying the first dish you see, "The teriyaki glacier 51 toothfish, please." The waiter smiles at you and gathers up your menus.

"Any drinks?" You turn to Caleb and find him to be rather unhelpful. He's wearing this proud smirk, enjoying seeing you struggle like this.

You stutter, "U-uh, yes, please. Just a bottle of red wine."

"Which one, miss?"

"U-uh." You hadn't even gone through the drinks menu! Of course, a place like this has about 30 different varieties of red wine to choose from. "What. Do you recommend?" You ask, your words clunky like this is your first time speaking to a waiter.

Flipping open the extensive wine list, the server points to the reds section. "The 2017 Côte D'Or Bourgogne by Benjamin Leuroux is my personal favourite. The fruit fades into the background, allowing a lightness to take centre stage. Very refreshing and moderately affordable." You eye the $380 next to the wine's name. Very affordable, indeed. "But if you're looking for something premium." The waiter directs your attention to the next page. "I'd suggest the 2013 Chambertin Grand cru by David Duband. Only two barrels were produced from vines over 50 years old. It's beautifully balanced with a broad range of earthy notes complemented by florals and a wild berry that creates a smooth finish. A truly exquisite wine, I can assure you." For over $2,500, you'd be expecting a pretty exquisite fucking wine, yeah.

Again, you meet Caleb's eyes, figuratively on your knees and pleading for him to utter a few words. But now, he seems distracted. He looks at you without really looking at you, smiles at you without smiling.

"Um. We'll have the first one you suggested. Thank you." You grin at the waiter, watching as he retreats before facing Caleb. "Hello-oh? I could have really used your help back there, dummy." He seems to recover from his daze, blinking back to reality at the sound of your clipped/irritated tone.

"On the contrary, I think you did great. I should let you take the lead more often," he says playfully.

You roll your eyes at him. "Yeah, yeah. I never wanna do that again. You didn't even give me enough time to look at the menu! And now I just ordered a $400 wine—" His phone buzzes, promptly shutting you up. With a grimace, Caleb pulls out his phone and checks the notification.

"Sorry, honey. Work stuff. I'll be back in a minute, alright?" He pushes his chair out, rising to standing. Your eyes widen, your lips forming into a pout.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah," he breathes out, quick to reassure you. "Let me handle this and then it'll just be you and me, okay? No more interruptions." You nod earnestly, watching with sinking shoulders as Caleb weaves through the tables to the exit. He's a busy man, you know. But it's hard to remember that when he always prioritises you. If he's not on a mission, then he'll be at your doorstep at the first sign of trouble, no hesitation, no 'Sorry, honey, I have a meeting' or other commitments coming between the two of you. You wonder what's so important that it could disturb him during your date. Maybe something went wrong at the HQ and he'll have to return right away. You sincerely hope not.

As you wait for him to return, you admire the patrons surrounding you. You see glittering pearls and shiny bald spots, beer bellies and opulent diamond rings. The overhead chandeliers are warm and cosy. A pianist in the corner plays, their fingertips agile and skilful. It isn't too long until Caleb sits before you once more, his phone out of sight.

"You okay?" You murmur, your brow puckered from concern.

"Yep. Everything's been taken care of. So where were we?" Caleb replies, sounding rather chipper. Your conversation comes easily, slipping into something comfortable. There's a push and pull, the two of you on the edge of your seats as you lap up the other's words like excited puppies. The food arrives all too soon, the wine poured by a different waiter to the one who took your orders. You have a sip, tasting the subtlety of the fruit. It really is quite refreshing and smooth on the way down.

"D'you like it?" You ask Caleb as he sets down his glass (he won't pick it up again for the remainder of the evening).

He shrugs. "It's a bit bland for my liking, but it's alright. How's the duck?" You pick up a tender slice with your fork and pop it into your mouth. Savoury-sweet bursts on your tongue. You can taste the onions it was roasted with. There's this slightly gamery undertone that you don't mind. Overall—

"It's pretty good. D'you wanna try it?" You hold out a slice to Caleb. Leaning forward, he bites it off your fork, sitting back and tasting the duck.

"Mhm. It's nice," he says, beginning to cut into his own meal. You sample the toothfish you ordered for him and find it to be similar to king crabs with a hint of cucumber and honey. It's a delicacy. But you end up preferring your own dish to his.

"Told you you'd like the roast duck." Caleb smirks. His plate is empty, save for any spilt sauce.

"Yeah, yeah," you sigh offhandledly, reluctant to admit that he was right all along. After finishing your meal, you head to the bathroom to clean up. In the meantime, Caleb pays for your date. When you emerge from the ladies room, certain your makeup still looks good, you find him waiting for you nearby with the bottle of wine in hand.

As soon as you make it out of the restaraunt, you're slung over his shoulders, laughing giddily and kicking your feet while he walks back to the car. He sets you down in the passenger seat and fetches a blanket he conveniently had on hand, wrapping you up in it as you giggle uncontrollably. You only had a couple of glasses of that wine, but there's a buzz in your system. Your body feels hot, and the world moves slowly. You slip off your heels and get cosy as Caleb settles into the driver's seat and gets the car going.

Back at home, you stumble inside, barefoot, while Caleb nurses your heels, back-up shoes, handbag, and the wine. You dash over to the couch and collapse on it, your cheeks aching from smiling the entire ride home.

"Cayyy-leb," you coo. Mittens jumps down from the couch and runs off, probably to greet your date.

"Coming, honey." Within a minute or so, Caleb comes into view, holding the plate of banana bread he left at your place earlier and a glass of water.

Sitting next to you, he hands you the water and says, "Let's sober you up, huh?" You take a sip from the glass, eyes following Caleb's movements as he undoes the cling wrap covering the banana bread and places the plate on his lap. Picking it up, he aeroplanes the slice to your mouth, feeding you a generous bite between your chortles.

"How is it?"

"Yum-myyy." You grin, happily accepting the next bite he offers you. "Mhmmm, Caleb."

"Yes, honey?" You cover your mouth with your fingertips, intent on delaying the next bite.

"Caleb. I love you." Not an odd thing to say. But something you haven't said since that night all those months ago. The liquor has loosened up your tongue. You can't stop yourself from admitting, "And sometimes, I wish I didn't break up with you. You're so handsome and kind to me. But you've got a few screws loose, you know? Like… I think you're a bit fucked in the head. But I still like you." Caleb stares at you for a moment, mouth half-open, unsure of how to react. And then, he chuckles, shaking his head lightly.

"Is that so? Well, I like you, too, pipsqueak. I love you."

"I love how you take care of me," you counter. "And I love your cooking. And I miss your homemade lunches. I miss having you around and waking up with you by my side. And I miss our intimacy. I really miss it... I wish that we could rewind or something, that we could… I don't know. Be together again? Even if you're a little crazy, I still want to be with you. I just don't want to you to hurt me again."

Another bite of banana bread down the hatch. Only one little piece to go.

"Honey…" Caleb grasps your jaw, thumb swiping a crumb past your parted lips and onto your tongue. You taste the tip of his finger before it flees, hand falling down to your knee. "We'll talk about in the morning, okay?" So much he wants to say, lodged in the back of his throat. He chokes on it, lips sealed in an attempt to contain his heartfelt feelings.

You accept the final bite of banana bread Caleb pops into your mouth, munching on it calmy as you stare at him. The only man who's ever loved you like you were the very thing that kept him alive. With reverence. With respect. But also at times, with obsession. Your eyelids begin to feel heavy. That wine must have been stronger than you thought.

Quietly, you say, "I love you, Cay. I want…" You sway a little, finding it hard to keep upright. Caleb wraps his arms around you, pouting at the sight of his precious girl trying to fend off sleep after a long day (or rather, a teeny-weeny dose of valium). "I want to elope with you. Let's just get married. Somewhere in the moutains. Or maybe on an island. Just the two of us, and maybe a few friends." You yawn like a lion cub, adorable in Caleb's eyes as you snuggle into his warmth.

"Honey…" His tone holds a warning. He can't let himself fall prey to your sweet temptation. His fingers card through your hair, feeling the soft strands with a hesitant, yet elated smile on his face. Slowly, you drift off, knocked out real good before Caleb carries you to your bedroom. In true chivalry, he removes your makeup and changes you into a comfy pair of pajamas.

Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, he whispers, "'M sorry," before straightening up and booking it to your front door. He's out for the early hours of the morning, staining his hands and suit crimson with the blood of that friendly waiter. After ordering Liam to dispose of the body, Caleb returns to your apartment; orange burnishes the dark sky. The sun rises as he showers, burgundy like that damned wine trickling down your drain. Eventually, he joins you in bed, your bodies fitting seamlessly together; the underlying scent of body wash that clings to your skin are the same.

His therapist taught him a valuable lesson, probably because he wasn't a therapist but a cardiac surgeon instead. Rather than quitting an addiction, you should learn to hide it better (or at least, that's what Caleb heard during a 2am phone call with the esteemed doctor last week). He'll give you the perfect life and pick off anyone who dares to disrupt that one-by-one. That's what scared you away. But how can you be afraid of something that's hidden from your view, unknown until Caleb makes a silly mistake. But that won't happen, he's certain of it now. Your separation didn't teach him to let something breathe so that it may flourish. Rather, it taught him to keep something in a spacious cage so it believes it can flourish.

elle's notes: just in case you were confused, when caleb leaves the restaurant to take a phone call, he's actually arranging with liam to have the waiter that recommended you wine picked up. He also cooked the banana bread with valium (or diazepam), which calms your nervous system and induces drowsiness. thus, when you eat it later on, coupled with the alcohol in your system, you fall asleep relatively quickly after the valium takes effect.

@starkissedxav - it's been a while, but i hope you like this!

side header images from pinterest (not mine, obviously). but i did take the centre photo of caleb when playing his myth ages ago. sword divider at the end is from fairytopea, and pearl dividers by anitalenia.

“helloooo im still on the call y’know,” your friend brings you back to reality. you giggle, apologizing before focusing at the task on hand once more. “what’s his address? send it, let’s see what kind of neighborhood he lives in,” your friend wiggles her brows at you and you immediately screenshot the house and send a link over.

your fingers move quicker than your eyes, too used to her contact being the first to pop up on the share button. you’d forgotten how often you’d been sending things to caleb.

“did you get it?” you ask, already scrolling down the street of his house in skyhaven.

“no? you haven’t sent me anything yet,” she replies easily. the color drains from your face as you open your message app.

[1 screenshot sent]

[1 link attatched]

all sent to caleb.

“oh my god, I’m so fucked dude,” your eyes widen, heart falling through your ass as the one word you now dreaded the most appeared in conversation. read.

“why what happened?”

“I sent him his own address. I’ve never once been over.” the mortification is obvious in your face, your friend immediately mirrors your expression.

“maybe you can unsend it?”

me: oh my god i swear this isn’t what it looks like

“he read it- fuck he’s typing oh my god I’m so fucked it’s so over for me, I’m so fucking—”

caleb :P : i live in the next house over not that one. 104, not 105

“holy fuck,” you mumbled, heart racing as you read his text over for the nth time, your friend shrieks over the phone. okay maybe you’re not completely done for.

caleb sits in bed, smiling at his screen.

you’d finally taken the bait, followed the trail he’d left of himself online. pretty posed pictures, a perfectly curated account. everything you liked and everything you wanted. he put just enough information for you to find everything you’d wanted if you dug juuust a bit, if you were like him. and now he knows you were like him.

caleb is relieved, shutting the live feed off from the camera he’d installed in your bedroom. you’ll be over at his tomorrow, he’ll make sure of it.

masterlist

With your breakfast growing colder by the second, you plop down in the opposite chair and finish it off, your bites rough like sandpaper and chewing menacing like it's not the right grit. Your brow heads inch toward each other, forehead creased and shoulders tight as you eat. He has to stop doing this, you think…

Finishing your breakfast, you wash up your plate and other dirty dishes. Drying yourself off, you dive for your phone and scroll through your contacts, searching for the name with the love hearts only to remember you removed them a few weeks ago. Pressing the call icon, your phone starts to ring. Almost instantly, the line connects.

A rather chirpy voice comes through the speakers, "Good morning, pipsqueak. How are you feeling today—?"

"I told you stop sending me flowers, Caleb," you ground out, your mood thoroughly soured by his unwanted generosity.

"Did you?" He chuckles awkwardly, definitely remembering your last phone call to him a week ago. "It must have slipped my mind. Whoopsies."

"Caleb," you grumble. There's no winning with him. His love is like the fresh air, fuelling your flame. But his warped ideals are the glass placed over the candle, snuffing it out until only grey tendrils and hardening wax are left behind. Your simmering heat dies. Ashes in your heart. You release a defeated sigh. "At least, send them every fornight, okay? They don't wilt that quickly…"

"You got it. Oh, and by the way, how are your cramps? Your period should start in a couple of—"

"Caleb, oh my god! You still track it?!" You exclaim, affronted. It's bad enough that you couldn't recover all of your panties from his abundant collection. Must he track your cycle as well? You suppose it's better for your lover to care more about your reproductive health then not care about it all. But that doesn't apply to exes.

"'Course I do. I can send you some chocolate if you're having cravings. Do you want dark or nutty? That brand you like also came out with an orange flavour if you wanted to try it." You pinch your brow, settling down on the couch as you feel this stabbing pain in your stomach, like some demon slipped out of hell, twisting your guts in its grotesque hand. You're rendered speechless.

"Do you have enough pads?" Caleb asks, continuing to obsess over you the way you wish he wouldn't. "Why don't you text me the ones you need and I'll pick them up for you? I was heading to Linkon this afternoon, anyways."

"No, you weren't, Caleb…" You mutter, growing more exhausted by the minute. "Just give it a rest, okay? I already have all of the chocolate and pads I could ever need. And you don't need to come over."

"Didn't you say your tap was leaking? I can fix it while I'm there. And I'm sure your cat misses me, too. I bought her some treats while I was at the pet store the other week. I should be there about three. Oh, and I can buy some groceries on the way. How about I make us some braised chicken wings for dinner? My treat." You don't even get a chance to respond as he continues on, "Alright, I've gotta get going. Fleet stuff. But I'll see you later, alright? And don't worry about cleaning your place up. Just take it easy."

"Fine. Bye," you utter, quickly hanging up and slamming your phone down on the coffee table. Leaning back, you clutch your abdomen. God, that guy is such a pain in the ass. Just barges in on your life whenever he wants. Giving and giving until you can't take anymore. That's the main reason things fell off between you two. The Fleet was stressing him out, and rather than keeping that stress at work, he'd let it out on those who threatened your relationship. Threatened as in offered to grab something from the top shelf for you, or even smiling at you just a little too much to the point where Caleb became worried they would try and take you away from him.

When he became like this, you can't say. But the man you walked away from most certainly wasn't the one you ran toward. He understands that you're not a possession that can be stolen, or a naive girl that can be misled by creepy older men. But despite his understanding, he still clings to this archaic idea of protection. Your radient light shouldn't be dimmed by the stains of humanity. It should be kept pure. In the palm of his hand.

Moving out and finding your own place was challenging enough. Of course, Caleb wouldn't let you carry any of the boxes or handle any of the white goods. Nor would he let you pay for the rent or utilities. But at least he let you decorate. Oh, and gave you this illusion of space with his recent absence. But your address is ingrained into his mind alongside bittersweet memories of your time together. Your laughter is sewn into his soul, your intellect the sparks that set his neurons alight. Your body is branded into his.

Quiet meows pull you from your daze. You cat, Mittens, stretches before you, paws spread and rear high before her spine curves into an arc. She must have heard Caleb's voice and grew curious. Brushing up against your leg, she meows again, her soft fur sticking to your lounge pants. You give her few head scratches, spouting utter gibberish in a baby voice about how Caleb will be coming over later today. She perks up at the mention of his name, a purr starting in her chest.

Unfortunately for you, your sweet kitty, Mittens, loves your ex-fiancé. She's never been as affectionate with you as she is with Caleb. And he spoils her rotten. The most expensive treats, the prettiest pink collar with her name embroidered into it. Her cat tower remained at his place in Skyhaven because of its size, but you brought along the numerous cat beds, scratching posts, dangly toys and other bizarre cat things Caleb bought for her to your new place; they fill an entire bedroom. And to say she loves them would be an understatement. But the little plushies and other items you've given her over the years? She couldn't be less disinterested.

Resigned to your fate, you fetch a heat pack and chuck it in the microwave, letting it get nice and toasty while you choose a movie to watch. Thankfully, it's your day off, so you have no objections to taking it easy. You end up picking a comfort film and settle back onto the couch, pouting as Mittens goes to sit on her fur-covered cushion that also has her name embroidered into it, but this time, with a crown (guess who bought it?).

The time flies by, 3pm steadily approaching between films and grabbing snacks. There's no knock on the door when Caleb arrives, just the jangle of keys and shameless thud behind him before he removes his work boots. You don't even turn around. He's still in his colonel uniform, you can smell it. Guns, sweat, and unreported violence. The rustle of grocery bags overpower your senes.

Caleb leaves them in the kitchen before stalking into the living room, a big grin on his face as he comes over to you. "Hey, honey." He wraps you in his arms, your face smushed against his shoulder as he squeezes you tight. "I missed you." Drawing back, he cups your face, the heat of his hands soaking through his gloves, into your cheeks. "Where's my kiss?"

"Ca-leb," you groan. "We're separated. Sep-ah-rated. I'm not kissing you."

"Oh, come on, baby. I've had a long day. And besides, it'll make you feel better." His boyish charm is difficult to resist. But you must. As you're about to say no— "Please." Your ancestors must be looking down upon you with disdain as you begrudingly lean in and give him a peck.

"One more?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Fine, fine. But I expect something a little more generous after dinner." Releasing you, Caleb retreats to the kitchen, going through his overnight bag you knew he'd end up packing.

"I'm not sleeping with you, fuck wit!" You call out to him, remaining on the couch to sulk. His laughter rings off the walls, geniune amusement. You bet Mittens has her tail curled around his calf right now, seeing as she's disappeared from her cushion.

He doesn't shout back. He knew you never liked it when he shouted. And his voice is loud enough, unmistakeable in the quiet of your apartment as he says, "I never implied you should. All I meant was that you're being a little curt. Breaks my heart, you know?" You can envision his sad pout, those cunning, puppy eyes staring at you.

Every retort dies on your tongue. Pushing off the couch, you head to the kitchen and see Caleb feeding Mittens a pureed treat. She laps at it happily, excited every time he pinches the packet and sends another meaty curl springing up from the opening.

"Can you get changed, please? Don't tell me you're gonna fix my tap in that." Your eyes roam over his uniform, noticing the small splatter of blood on his sleeve. The sight causes you to gulp.

"Why not? I thought you liked it when I wear my uniform," he teases, squeezing out the last of the treat for Mittens. Once she finishes eating, he pats her head and cooes gently, "There we go. That's my good girl."

"Caleb." You fold your arms across your chest, your patience wearing thin. He should be saying that to you. "Just hurry up and get changed, okay? You can use my shower or whatever. But don't use all of my body wash. I don't have much left."

"Don't worry. I bought you another bottle just in case." Caleb stands up, Mittens pawing at his leg while he unveils an extra large pharmacy-exclusive bottle of your go-to body wash. Of course, he had time to go to the pharmacy and buy that for you. No! Of course, he made time to go to the pharmacy and buy that for you.

Without another word, your ex-fiancé begins unpacking the groceries he bought, putting them away without any difficulty (he has pictures of your kitchen on his phone, all of the drawers and cupboards labelled accordingly). You help him with maybe one of the bags. He's awfully fast. Sunlight streams in through the windows, illuminating his dark locks. It feels like old times. Noon grocery shopping or after work convenience store runs. Delicious home cooked meals. Lazy Sunday morning sex with breakfast to follow. You miss those times. You miss who Caleb was back then. Who he never stopped being. But not who he ended up becoming.

Your kitchen is spotless by the time he ducks off to your bathroom. You rest against the coutertop, your fingers pressed to your lips, mind off in the clouds. There's a weight that's missing. He kept your engagement ring. You remember that conversation like it was yesterday, though the wound is but a scar left behind.

"I'm not taking it back. It's yours." Caleb huffed, incredulous as to how you could offer up your ring to him like that, the ring he gave you to symbolise the lifetime you'd spend together.

"Caleb! I'm serious. We're over!" You held out the ring to him, inching it closer despite his obvious hesitation. All he had to do was take it from you, and then your soul would finally be freed. You'd be finished with him. For good—or so you thought.

"I told you, I'm not taking it back. I don't care if we're over. I don't care if you pawn it off or throw it in the ocean. It's yours."

"Then keep it safe for me, will you?" You countered, grabbing his wrist and placing the ring in his palm. All your love, in his hand. His to protect. Forever more.

You wonder what happened to it—the ring, that is. If he still has it. He definitely still has it. Probably keeps it in his bedside drawer and stares at it longingly before bed each night like the pathetic loser he is. Your loser… (un)fortunately.

A traitorous grin stretches across your lips, concealed by your hand. You immediately scowl at yourself, mumbling like a mad woman about getting your head in the game. But it's difficult to when you see a fluffy tail swaying until its out of your sight, obscured by the wall. You bet Mittens has wandered down the hall to sit outside bathroom… Yep, you can hear her scratching at the door.

Sighing, you trudge down the hallway, eyeing your precious little baby who must get inside that steamy room with Caleb. Oh, how you wish that was you—! Stop it! You shake your head, intent on banishing those thoughts before they take root and fester. Reaching the bathroom, you go to open the door when the handle turns. The door opens. Not just a little ajar thing, no. Like some freak of nature Caleb opens the door wide, chilly air flooding his soaking wet body, your towel haphazardly slung around his hips.

"Hi ba… by." His voice drops from high-pitched to his familiar resonance, expression turning from over-excited to bewildered in seconds.

"I was. Getting the door." You glance down at Mittens who happens to be licking the water droplets off Caleb's ankle, your cheeks heating up at the speed of light.

"Riiiiight." He quirks a brow at you, mischievous smile on his lips.

You gesture to his (or rather, your) towel. "You couldn't grab a clean one?"

"There were none left in the linen cupboard." He shrugs, quickly catching the edges of the towel as it begins to slip. All you can see is wet, rippling contours. Taut skin. Veins running up his hands and forearms, those on his hips disappearing beneath the pink, Egyptian cotton. It's been a little while…

"You're such a liar, Caleb," you mutter. "You didn't even look! I put fresh ones in there the other day."

"Really?" He says as if he's surprised. His hand comes to his chin. Everyone talks about ovulation cravings, but none dare speak of the beast you become as your period approaches. "Hm… I can't remember seeing any—"

"Because you didn't look—"

"But you don't have many, right? Isn't it better to save them, anyway? We might need them for later tonight." You gasp at his insinuation.

"Caleb!"

"What? You're thinkin' about it, too. There's no need to be shy about it. I thought we got over that a long time ago—"

"Oh my god, shut up!" You groan, your frustration palpable as you stomp away from him, fingers pressed to your temples. You've got a headache coming on. And Mittens will be all damp by the time she and him emerge from the bathroom. You'll have to dry her off while Caleb works on your kitchen tap. The agony that persists. Must life only bring suffering?

Only once the sun kisses the horizon is Caleb finally fiddling with your kitchen tap, twisting it, unscrewing it, examining it while you struggle to keep Mittens away from him. Since you dried her off, she's been strutting through his legs, flopping over and demanding belly rubs almost every minute he works on your tap.

As she does it again, you slide her across the floor and scoop her up in your arms, bouncing her like a restless baby as Caleb flashes you a grin.

"She's really missed me, huh?"

"Yeah. She used to start meowing at like 2am when we first moved in here. And she wouldn't stop until I got up to feed her. But now, she's calmed down a lot." You release her on the ground, watching as she inevitably bounds over to Caleb.

"That's good to hear. But I wish you told me she was giving you trouble. I would have visited if I knew she was keeping you up at night." Caleb dismantles your tap with ease, laying each part out on your sink so he can assess them one at a time.

"That's why I didn't tell you, dummy. I needed some space. I still need some space, actually," you remark.

"I've given you plenty of space, honey."

"You still track my cycle," you grouch.

"Okay, yeah." He picks up one of the parts, sniffing it like that rusty scent will tell him something other than that your apartment is overdue for a reno. "But it's not like I'm reviewing your discharge nightly."

"Anymore," you quip. "I bet you miss doing that, freak."

"You don't have to be so mean, you know? Especially not to the person who's doing you a favour right now." That shuts you up. You glare at him as Mittens begins to meow, anxious for an ounce of that handsome man's attention. As she stretches up, paws on his shorts, hind legs and torso elongated, he bends down and lifts her beneath the underarms. His fingertips overlap. You forgot just how large his hands are. Merely seeing them is different to seeing them wrapped around something. You gulp.

Caleb places her arms over his shoulder, one hand beneath her rear as he continues going through each part of your tap. You don't say anything else as he works, intent on watching her drift off to sleep with her little furry head on his shoulder. Your chest pangs. Everything you've tried to convince yourself you don't need is before you… It's times like these that make you forget those moments when you were curled up in bed, crying as Caleb just had to put another innocent person in their place for 'flirting' with you (showing basic kindness). If he would just change—

You stop yourself. There's no use relying on someone else to change. For someone cannot change unless they truly wish to. And Caleb, you're sure, feels justified in his actions. He can't see his wrongdoings, only how his 'righteous' actions upset you. What he does is not the problem, but he himself is. Or at least, that's how you understand him to be. If his perceptions have changed in the short time you've been apart, then you'd welcome that with open arms. But…

"Looks like it's your o-rings," Caleb says, holding up four little rubber rings.

"My what rings?" Your brow furrows. They really need to rename those to something else.

"Your o-rings. They create a seal between parts, so water doesn't leak out of places it shouldn't. It looks like one of them was loose. But to be safe, I'll replace all four." He sets them down and stalks off, returning with a packet of assorted replacement rings. It doesn't take him long to find the perfect match, and it's all too soon before he's re-assembling your tap, attaching it back to the sink like it hadn't been touched in the first place. He turns it on then off, waiting for any leaks. But there are none.

"Thanks, Cay," you murmur, gracing him with a sweet smile. A high unlike any substance can give him. He beams back at you, attempting nonchalance and thoroughly failing at it.

"It's alright. Wasn't too complicated or anything. But if you have anymore trouble with it, let me know. I can try replacing the washers next time to see if that'll do it." He packs up his few tools and leaves the kitchen, likely heading to his bag which he undoubtably left in your bedroom. You scoff. There's no way he's sleeping in your bed tonight. The couch is calling his name.

It's a little early for dinner, but seeing as Caleb hasn't returned for a minute longer than he ought to, you start pulling out the ingredients he meticulousy packed away earlier in the afternoon. He's probably going through your dirty laundry basket. If you're missing a pair(s) of panties, you'll know who the culprit is that's for sure.

By the time he waltzes back into the kitchen, Mittens trailing behind him, you're already measuring out the ingredients for the sauce.

"Hold on there. Are you starting without me?" Caleb pouts, clasping his heart like it hurts. You roll your eyes at him, snapping the lid back on the soy sauce.

"What does it look like I'm doing, dummy?" Now where is that darn hand grater when you need it? You start pulling open drawers, a bulb of ginger in your other hand as you frantically skim through knives and spoons. It's not long before Caleb is by your side, magically retrieving the grater you swear wasn't there a second ago.

"Looking for this?" He can barely contain his smirk.

"Thanks," you mutter, your eyes narrowed as you take the grater from him. Returning to your array of little bowls, you grate the ginger into one before mincing garlic into another. Meanwhile, Caleb soaks the chicken wings in water and a pinch of salt. But of course, braised chicken wings simply aren't enough for dinner. He also bought your favourite noodles, bean sprouts, and other yummy ingredients to make stir-fry noodles.

Easily, you and Caleb slip into a familiar routine, him at the stove while you man the chopping board. Mittens is off rubbing her scent all over Caleb's work boots. All that's missing is oldies jazz playing in the background. You wonder where you put your speaker as you chop the spring onions. A bit of music wouldn't hurt, right?

The onion slips, but your clouded mind doesn't react fast enough. The blade comes down and pierces your skin. A thin red line appears. A whimper escapes you. Caleb is beside you within a second, prying your hand off the knife and setting it down so he can examine your finger.

"You alright?" He asks, his voice slightly gruff.

"Mhm," you hum, trying to pull your hand back, but he won't let you. His grip is like a vice, clamped up in concern.

"Go sit down." He finally relents, releasing your hand. "I'll grab the first aid kit."

"I'm fine, Cay—" He's already stormed off, en route to your bathroom to grab the bandaids and disenfectant. Petulently, you throw yourself into one of chairs at the island bench, groaning about how he's making a big deal out of nothing (even though he can't hear you right now).

When he comes back, he sits beside you and diligently patches up your finger, chastising you lightly for not being more careful. After all, it's not the first time you've done this when cooking with him. His presence can be so distracting… But it's not like there's anything else for you to do in the kitchen other than chop. There's no way he'll let you near the stove when he's around. Maybe he'll put you on dish duty next time. How exciting.

You're banished to the couch while Caleb finishes up with dinner, your sweet kitty oblivious to your indignation as she finds a way to sit inside of your ex's boots. To leave her scent all over them simply isn't enough. She must infuse herself with the lining, coat the insole with her fur until he's forced to recall her every time he gets dressed for work.

Once Caleb finishes cooking, you help to set the table, watching with keen eyes as he plates everything. It looks delicious, steam rolling off crunchy fried noodles and tender chicken wings sparkling beneath the overhead light. Before digging in, you set out a bowl for Mittens, the clang of the metal on the floorboards enough to rouse her from her cosy spot.

Caleb's shoulder brushes against yours as you sit down, the cotton fabric of his t-shirt catching on yours. You can feel his heat, fabric sliding over skin. An ephemeral touch, replaced by hairs on edge as you yearn to close that small gap between you. He loads up your plate first, giving you the best looking chicken wings before dishing himself out a couple.

You start with the noodles, and oh boy are they divine. Perfectly crisp. The bean sprouts go so well with the salty flavour. Picking up a chicken wing, you bite into it and find that Caleb's cooking has only improved since you last saw him. Taking another bite, it dawns upon you that you forfeited a man who's good both in bed and in the kitchen. You should be ashamed of yourself!

As the silence stretches on, you decide to break it with, "How's therapy going?" Caleb nearly chokes on his chicken wing's bones.

"The-rapy?" He coughs out, clearing his throat before chugging half a glass of water.

"Yeah. Remember? I said that if you wanted to get back together, then you'd have to start going to therapy."

"I know, but I… didn't think you were being serious." Caleb's brow puckers in thought, his hand on his chin as he recalls that fight you two had in the days leading up to your separation.

You sigh dramatically. "Of course, you didn't."

"Hey…" He turns to face you, expression slightly pouty yet undeniably serious. "Look, pips, I don't need to go to therapy—"

"Princess, you're deranged." You twirl your chopsticks in your noodles, gathering them up in a bundle. "You need to go to therapy."

"I'll have you know I'm not deranged." He says, defensively.

"Yes, you are, Caleb. And even if you weren't, I'd still want you to go to therapy or at least maintain a journal or something."

"I have a journal." You cast him an 'oh, really?' look, which he nods at. "I'm serious. I have a journal. I write in it nightly."

"What do you write about?" You ask, pointing your noodle-ladden chopsticks at him antagonistically.

He chuckles in awkwardly. "Uh, it's a secret. There's no point having a journal if I tell you everything I write in it."

"I didn't ask you what you wrote, dummy. I asked what you write about. Work stuff, airplane model stuff, daily life stuff. What? What goes in there?" He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, suddenly avoiding your gaze. You've got a bad feeling about this.

"Don't tell me it's a log of my discharge." His eyes widen. Caught red-handed. "Caleb!" You nearly shriek.

"What?" He winces, acting as if his unspoken admission is competely normal and natural.

"At least tell me it's in a physical journal." You silently pray his answer is 'yes'.

"Of course, not. I can't visualise patterns and trends in a physical book," Caleb says like that's painfully obvious and absolutely essential to the nature of his journaling. "I've got it on a spreadsheet. I can show you sometime, if you'd like. Actually, I noticed as I was going through your laundry that your recent discharge was slightly yellowish. Has that been happening for long or—?"

"Caleb!" You exclaim, almost dropping your chopsticks.

"If it persists, it could be a sign of an STI. Have you been having sex with other—?"

"No!" Your eyes are like those of a deer in headlights, heart pounding defeaningly loud in your ears, and chest heaving. When did you get so worked up? Quiet ensues, neither one of you sure what to say next. Eventually, you utter, "Okay, one, gross—"

"That's not gross—"

"Two, you don't even keep a journal. A journal is supposed to be for mindfulness, Caleb!"

"Well, I would say that tracking your cycle is pretty mindful, wouldn't you?"

You groan, clearly frustrated with his smart ass attitude right now. "You see, this is why you need to be going to therapy."

"You don't want me to track your cycle?" He pouts, ready to turn on the puppy eyes should your temper rise. Of course, that's all he got from what you just said.

"No, you fuck wit. Just listen to me," you grit out. "Yes, I want you to track my cycle. But also, we're not together anymore, so you can stop tracking it now. But even if you do track it, you can just use an app. You don't need to be going through my underwear on a daily basis to figure out where I'm at in my cycle. It's not normal, Cay."

"Well, dating is pretty rough these days." He shrugs, cupping his chin pensively. "I can't imagine many men going to the lengths I do to take care of their partners."

Setting your choptsticks on your plate, you run your hands down your face, exhausted by his antics. "What I'm saying is that it's weird, Caleb. God, you never listen to me."

"Don't say that, baby. You know I always listen to you." He leans over, palm on your shoulder to comfort you. But you push him off.

"No, you don't. You never listen to what I say. You always just do what you think is best for me without asking what I want." Your words hang in the air, floating atop wispy steam. The food's getting cold.

In a gentle voice, Caleb murmurs, "Let's not do this anymore, okay? This conversation isn't going anywhere, and it's only upsetting you."

"You're upsetting me!" You lash out, on the verge of tears. Unexpected, they crept up on you. Your appetite shrivels up and rots in your stomach. Sniffling, you grab your plate and take it to the kitchen counter, wrapping it in aluminium foil and turning on the oven. After placing it inside to keep your half-eaten dinner warm, you dash down the hall, making it to the bathroom to wash your greasy lips.

"Honey…" You hear Caleb coo. Why does it always have to end like this? You, balling your eyes out. Him, unwaveringly oblivious to the pain he's caused you. And your steadily approaching period doesn't help either. Your hormones are out of wack. But at least he doesn't tip toe around you. That would be worse. To be treated like some bomb about to explode any minute. At least respects you enough to argue with you like you're his equal. As if you could call that spat a true argument.

Ducking into your bedroom, you see that indeed, you were correct; his overnight bag rests at the foot of your bed. With tear-filled eyes, you grab it by the handle and drop it on the floor, climbing under the covers to cry in peace. But it doesn't last for long. You're only graced with five mintues before there's a knock on your bedroom door. Caleb doesn't bother to ask for permission to enter, he simply slips inside, sitting on the edge of your bed and stroking where your head is beneath the quilt and blankets.

"I'm sorry," he utters, regret in his voice.

"For what?" You grumble, muffled by the layers between you. But he hears you all the same.

"I'm sorry for making you feel you like I don't listen to you. And I'm sorry for making you cry. It was never my intention to do either of those things." He pauses for a moment, waiting for you to accept his apology. But those magical words never come. With a deep breath in, he concedes, "I know that I can be a little overbearing sometimes. But it's for your own good, I swear." You push the covers back, fresh air swarming your red, puffy face.

Sitting up, you wipe your snotty nose on your arm, swallowing thickly before mumbling, "If your overbearing nature is making me feel unheard and upset, then how is it good for me?" He opens his mouth, retort ready when it withers away. That look in your eyes—it's as if he's been thrust back in time to a month ago—broken. All he succeeded in doing by coming here (besides from fixing your tap) was to shatter your spirit. And even worse, up until this very moment, he felt justified in doing so. But now…

"I'll go to therapy, okay? If it's that simple to make you smile again, then I'll do it. I'm sorry I didn't start sooner." You shake your head. The perfect answer rejected.

"You have to go to threrapy because you want to. You have to want to change. You have to want to get better. It's not about me, Caleb. It's about what you want," you stress. He licks his lips, inredulous, tasting the metaphorical saltiness of your tears. Don't you understand? Caleb can't exist without you. Whatever you want—as long as it's good for you—Caleb wants, too.

"I want to. Go to therapy—"

"No, you don't—"

"Well, I'm going to go anyway, alright? Whatever helps get us back on track. I want you to know that I haven't given up on us. And I'm pretty sure you haven't either." Caleb grabs a tissue from your bedside table before inching closer to you, carefully patting away the wetness of your cheeks. Your lips are swollen, quivering slightly as you feel your tears renew from his sweet affection.

With his hands on either side of your face, tissue in his lap, Caleb leans down and plants a kiss on your forehead. He trails down your temple and cheekbone, coming across to the reddened tip of your nose and then dipping to your lips. His kiss is light and fleeting, nothing too overwhelming as your emotions spill over. Resting your head against his shoulder, you snake your arms around his torso and squish him like a teddy bear. A soft chuckle arises. He embraces you just as tightly if not more.

"You're the worst ex." You mumble into his shirt, a big sniffle following behind.

"Yeah?" He replies, teasing lilt to his tone.

"Yeah." You rub your face against him like a feline; Mittens doesn't deserve to have all the fun. Speaking of the devil, she jumps up onto the bed, nuzzling at Caleb's side in an attempt to make your sacred cuddle a group hug.

"Caleb."

"Mhm?"

"I love you," you murmur, squeezing him a fraction tighter. He chuckles quietly, big warm hands rubbing circles into your back soothingly.

"I love you, too."

That night, you reluctantly let him sleep in your bed, his warmth lulling you into the deepest sleep you've had since separating.

Your heart is racing, jitters crawling up your spine as you futz with your hair. You're supposed to be going on a date tonight in—you tap your phone screen. It lights up. 17:52—8 minutes. More precisely, it'll be your first official date with Caleb since you two separated. He's been good for the past six months, going to therapy and keeping his distance (thanks to the cameras he installed all over your place when he was minding Mittens (you were away on a short business trip)). Slowly, you've been growing closer, falling back into old patterns you never really shook off. He's taken care to listen to any problems you've raised, and learned to let you initiate (for the most part).

But of course, Caleb is still Caleb. You can hear him enter through the front door from where you stand in your bedroom, hunched over your vanity.

He coos to Mittens, "How's my favourite girl?" You hear the rustle of treats. Must he feed her? She just ate an hour ago… Huffing, you give up on your hair, resigned to accept the awkward curve of your fringe. Grabbing your perfume, you rip off the cap and douse yourself in that luxurious scent.

"Pipsqueak?" Caleb's footsteps grow louder. He opens your bedroom door. "There you are, honey." You gaze at him through the mirror, eyes roaming over his tailored suit with delight and settling on his orange striped tie. A smile breaks out across your face.

"I'll be done soon, okay?" You tell him, heading over to your wardrobe and unveiling your shoe collection, many of which, Caleb bought for you on a whim. 'I thought these would go with that cream dress you like.' 'The bow reminded me of you.' 'Weren't you searching for a pair of heels just like these?' Skimming through your options, you settle on a sleek pair. Thankfully, you taped your toes together in advance. Slipping the heels on, you wobble a bit when standing up. But Caleb's there to catch you. He grasps your forearms and holds you steady, leading you forward like a parent does to their toddler. That's what you feel like in these fuckers anyways. A wittle baby.

"You okay? You know, you don't have to wear these if they're too hard to walk in," Caleb reminds you. But you shake your head, intent on surviving the next few hours in these beautiful (tortuous) heels.

"I'll be fine, Cay. I wanna look pretty for our date tonight." You tell him. He chuckles lightly, halting and stepping closer to you. His hands trail across to your waist, gripping you firmly.

"You look very pretty, honey, with or without heels." He grins at you, leaning in for a kiss, but stopping short of your lips. He wouldn't dare to ruin your lip combo before you've even reached the restaurant. "Tell you what, I'll keep a second pair of shoes for you in my car. How does that sound? You can change into those once you get tired of these."

"Mhm, yes, please." You nod, scampering off to retrieve your comfiest sneakers. Handing them to Caleb, you follow him out your bedroom door, grabbing your handbag on the way out. Mittens is happily munching on some gourmet treats as you two lock the apartment up. On the kitchen counter, you notice a small plate with a delicious looking slice on it.

Pointing to it, you say, "For me?"

Caleb whips around, a big grin on his face. "Yeah, I made some banana bread this morning. Thought you'd like to try it."

"I'm watching my weight—"

"I know, I know. That's why I only brought you a slice. Try it, won't you?" Staring at him for a few seconds, you eventually sigh.

"Fine. I'll try it later tonight." You abandon the treat and rejoin Caleb's side, ready to leave for your date. Mittens is oblivious to your departure, unperturbed by the lights going out as she finds the jacket Caleb left on the couch for her to sleep on.

The drive down town is short, accompanied by some nice jazz and light chatter. Caleb gets the door for you once he's parked the car and keeps an arm around your shoulders as you walk up to the restaurant's entrance. Heading inside, the hostess greets you both and leads you to a quiet table at the back Caleb specifically reserved. Ever the gentleman, he pulls out your chair for you and pushes it in before taking his seat opposite you.

"You don't have to be so chivalrous, you know?" You remark. Table water and two cups are placed in front of you. The hostess leaves you both to go through the menu.

"I wanna make a good impression." Caleb shrugs, a little shy. You chuckle at that.

"I think we're past that stage, don't you?" You flip the menu open, the insanely high prices jumping out at you. Gulping, you read through the offerings. Weird pairings. Beijing this, Parisan that. You remind yourself that Caleb can afford this kind of fine dining.

"Well, it never hurts, does it? And I've always been chivalrous, pipsqueak." You glance up. He hasn't even opened his menu.

"Aren't you going to read the menu?" You gesture to it, bemusement creeping into your voice. He graces you with a reassuring smile.

"I'll have what you're having."

"Cay-leb," you grumble. It's always these little bullshit games when it comes to him. You thought he got past that months ago. "What if I want a salad?" You challenge, the menu pressing awkwardly against the sides of your fingers. It's rigid. The binding is stiff. Perhaps, they were freshly printed? But these aged pages tell a different story.

"You're not having a salad, honey. We're at a nice place. Why don't you have the roast duck instead?"

"You been here before?" You ask, wondering if he's brought other girls here during the time you've been apart. But as soon as that thought enters your mind, you cast it out. Caleb wouldn't. He's not like that. And neither are you. But he doesn't have to be so smug about this all.

"Well, I had to make sure you'd like it," he replies off-handedly, signalling to a nearby waiter that you're ready to order. You expect Caleb to do the talking once the server arrives, but instead, he nods at you.

For a moment, you stare back at him, the gears slowly turning in your mind. And then—"Hi, um, I'll have the Beijing roast duck and my partner would like—" You glance down at the menu, saying the first dish you see, "The teriyaki glacier 51 toothfish, please." The waiter smiles at you and gathers up your menus.

"Any drinks?" You turn to Caleb and find him to be rather unhelpful. He's wearing this proud smirk, enjoying seeing you struggle like this.

You stutter, "U-uh, yes, please. Just a bottle of red wine."

"Which one, miss?"

"U-uh." You hadn't even gone through the drinks menu! Of course, a place like this has about 30 different varieties of red wine to choose from. "What. Do you recommend?" You ask, your words clunky like this is your first time speaking to a waiter.

Flipping open the extensive wine list, the server points to the reds section. "The 2017 Côte D'Or Bourgogne by Benjamin Leuroux is my personal favourite. The fruit fades into the background, allowing a lightness to take centre stage. Very refreshing and moderately affordable." You eye the $380 next to the wine's name. Very affordable, indeed. "But if you're looking for something premium." The waiter directs your attention to the next page. "I'd suggest the 2013 Chambertin Grand cru by David Duband. Only two barrels were produced from vines over 50 years old. It's beautifully balanced with a broad range of earthy notes complemented by florals and a wild berry that creates a smooth finish. A truly exquisite wine, I can assure you." For over $2,500, you'd be expecting a pretty exquisite fucking wine, yeah.

Again, you meet Caleb's eyes, figuratively on your knees and pleading for him to utter a few words. But now, he seems distracted. He looks at you without really looking at you, smiles at you without smiling.

"Um. We'll have the first one you suggested. Thank you." You grin at the waiter, watching as he retreats before facing Caleb. "Hello-oh? I could have really used your help back there, dummy." He seems to recover from his daze, blinking back to reality at the sound of your clipped/irritated tone.

"On the contrary, I think you did great. I should let you take the lead more often," he says playfully.

You roll your eyes at him. "Yeah, yeah. I never wanna do that again. You didn't even give me enough time to look at the menu! And now I just ordered a $400 wine—" His phone buzzes, promptly shutting you up. With a grimace, Caleb pulls out his phone and checks the notification.

"Sorry, honey. Work stuff. I'll be back in a minute, alright?" He pushes his chair out, rising to standing. Your eyes widen, your lips forming into a pout.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah," he breathes out, quick to reassure you. "Let me handle this and then it'll just be you and me, okay? No more interruptions." You nod earnestly, watching with sinking shoulders as Caleb weaves through the tables to the exit. He's a busy man, you know. But it's hard to remember that when he always prioritises you. If he's not on a mission, then he'll be at your doorstep at the first sign of trouble, no hesitation, no 'Sorry, honey, I have a meeting' or other commitments coming between the two of you. You wonder what's so important that it could disturb him during your date. Maybe something went wrong at the HQ and he'll have to return right away. You sincerely hope not.

As you wait for him to return, you admire the patrons surrounding you. You see glittering pearls and shiny bald spots, beer bellies and opulent diamond rings. The overhead chandeliers are warm and cosy. A pianist in the corner plays, their fingertips agile and skilful. It isn't too long until Caleb sits before you once more, his phone out of sight.

"You okay?" You murmur, your brow puckered from concern.

"Yep. Everything's been taken care of. So where were we?" Caleb replies, sounding rather chipper. Your conversation comes easily, slipping into something comfortable. There's a push and pull, the two of you on the edge of your seats as you lap up the other's words like excited puppies. The food arrives all too soon, the wine poured by a different waiter to the one who took your orders. You have a sip, tasting the subtlety of the fruit. It really is quite refreshing and smooth on the way down.

"D'you like it?" You ask Caleb as he sets down his glass (he won't pick it up again for the remainder of the evening).

He shrugs. "It's a bit bland for my liking, but it's alright. How's the duck?" You pick up a tender slice with your fork and pop it into your mouth. Savoury-sweet bursts on your tongue. You can taste the onions it was roasted with. There's this slightly gamery undertone that you don't mind. Overall—

"It's pretty good. D'you wanna try it?" You hold out a slice to Caleb. Leaning forward, he bites it off your fork, sitting back and tasting the duck.

"Mhm. It's nice," he says, beginning to cut into his own meal. You sample the toothfish you ordered for him and find it to be similar to king crabs with a hint of cucumber and honey. It's a delicacy. But you end up preferring your own dish to his.

"Told you you'd like the roast duck." Caleb smirks. His plate is empty, save for any spilt sauce.

"Yeah, yeah," you sigh offhandledly, reluctant to admit that he was right all along. After finishing your meal, you head to the bathroom to clean up. In the meantime, Caleb pays for your date. When you emerge from the ladies room, certain your makeup still looks good, you find him waiting for you nearby with the bottle of wine in hand.

As soon as you make it out of the restaraunt, you're slung over his shoulders, laughing giddily and kicking your feet while he walks back to the car. He sets you down in the passenger seat and fetches a blanket he conveniently had on hand, wrapping you up in it as you giggle uncontrollably. You only had a couple of glasses of that wine, but there's a buzz in your system. Your body feels hot, and the world moves slowly. You slip off your heels and get cosy as Caleb settles into the driver's seat and gets the car going.

Back at home, you stumble inside, barefoot, while Caleb nurses your heels, back-up shoes, handbag, and the wine. You dash over to the couch and collapse on it, your cheeks aching from smiling the entire ride home.

"Cayyy-leb," you coo. Mittens jumps down from the couch and runs off, probably to greet your date.

"Coming, honey." Within a minute or so, Caleb comes into view, holding the plate of banana bread he left at your place earlier and a glass of water.

Sitting next to you, he hands you the water and says, "Let's sober you up, huh?" You take a sip from the glass, eyes following Caleb's movements as he undoes the cling wrap covering the banana bread and places the plate on his lap. Picking it up, he aeroplanes the slice to your mouth, feeding you a generous bite between your chortles.

"How is it?"

"Yum-myyy." You grin, happily accepting the next bite he offers you. "Mhmmm, Caleb."

"Yes, honey?" You cover your mouth with your fingertips, intent on delaying the next bite.

"Caleb. I love you." Not an odd thing to say. But something you haven't said since that night all those months ago. The liquor has loosened up your tongue. You can't stop yourself from admitting, "And sometimes, I wish I didn't break up with you. You're so handsome and kind to me. But you've got a few screws loose, you know? Like… I think you're a bit fucked in the head. But I still like you." Caleb stares at you for a moment, mouth half-open, unsure of how to react. And then, he chuckles, shaking his head lightly.

"Is that so? Well, I like you, too, pipsqueak. I love you."

"I love how you take care of me," you counter. "And I love your cooking. And I miss your homemade lunches. I miss having you around and waking up with you by my side. And I miss our intimacy. I really miss it... I wish that we could rewind or something, that we could… I don't know. Be together again? Even if you're a little crazy, I still want to be with you. I just don't want to you to hurt me again."

Another bite of banana bread down the hatch. Only one little piece to go.

"Honey…" Caleb grasps your jaw, thumb swiping a crumb past your parted lips and onto your tongue. You taste the tip of his finger before it flees, hand falling down to your knee. "We'll talk about in the morning, okay?" So much he wants to say, lodged in the back of his throat. He chokes on it, lips sealed in an attempt to contain his heartfelt feelings.

You accept the final bite of banana bread Caleb pops into your mouth, munching on it calmy as you stare at him. The only man who's ever loved you like you were the very thing that kept him alive. With reverence. With respect. But also at times, with obsession. Your eyelids begin to feel heavy. That wine must have been stronger than you thought.

Quietly, you say, "I love you, Cay. I want…" You sway a little, finding it hard to keep upright. Caleb wraps his arms around you, pouting at the sight of his precious girl trying to fend off sleep after a long day (or rather, a teeny-weeny dose of valium). "I want to elope with you. Let's just get married. Somewhere in the moutains. Or maybe on an island. Just the two of us, and maybe a few friends." You yawn like a lion cub, adorable in Caleb's eyes as you snuggle into his warmth.

"Honey…" His tone holds a warning. He can't let himself fall prey to your sweet temptation. His fingers card through your hair, feeling the soft strands with a hesitant, yet elated smile on his face. Slowly, you drift off, knocked out real good before Caleb carries you to your bedroom. In true chivalry, he removes your makeup and changes you into a comfy pair of pajamas.

Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, he whispers, "'M sorry," before straightening up and booking it to your front door. He's out for the early hours of the morning, staining his hands and suit crimson with the blood of that friendly waiter. After ordering Liam to dispose of the body, Caleb returns to your apartment; orange burnishes the dark sky. The sun rises as he showers, burgundy like that damned wine trickling down your drain. Eventually, he joins you in bed, your bodies fitting seamlessly together; the underlying scent of body wash that clings to your skin are the same.

His therapist taught him a valuable lesson, probably because he wasn't a therapist but a cardiac surgeon instead. Rather than quitting an addiction, you should learn to hide it better (or at least, that's what Caleb heard during a 2am phone call with the esteemed doctor last week). He'll give you the perfect life and pick off anyone who dares to disrupt that one-by-one. That's what scared you away. But how can you be afraid of something that's hidden from your view, unknown until Caleb makes a silly mistake. But that won't happen, he's certain of it now. Your separation didn't teach him to let something breathe so that it may flourish. Rather, it taught him to keep something in a spacious cage so it believes it can flourish.

elle's notes: just in case you were confused, when caleb leaves the restaurant to take a phone call, he's actually arranging with liam to have the waiter that recommended you wine picked up. He also cooked the banana bread with valium (or diazepam), which calms your nervous system and induces drowsiness. thus, when you eat it later on, coupled with the alcohol in your system, you fall asleep relatively quickly after the valium takes effect.

@starkissedxav - it's been a while, but i hope you like this!

side header images from pinterest (not mine, obviously). but i did take the centre photo of caleb when playing his myth ages ago. sword divider at the end is from fairytopea, and pearl dividers by anitalenia.