Sugarplum

back to where the air inside the car felt choked by the stench of stale iron—like an old toolbox left out in the rain. he hadn't said a single word to you, had he? that was the part that made your heart thrash against your ribs. monsters in the movies always growl, always give you a reason to fear them, but this one just had those quiet hands. when his leather-gloved fingers shoved you back against the passenger seat, it felt like being tucked into a coffin by someone who was simply doing their chores.

“get off—ugh, let me go!” the words were nothing but little scraps of sound, bouncing uselessly off the dashboard.

you weren't a delicate creature who knew how to faint on cue, though. no, you were wilder than that. 

your boots found the floorboards, digging in until the rubber groaned, and you lunged forward with your teeth bared. when you bit down on the rough canvas of his sleeve, you tasted a faint hint of peppermint. it was an ugly, frantic thing. he didn't even flinch, not even when your knee drove hard into the center of his chest. he just tilted his wrist, and that sharp little silver tooth of a dagger bit down into your thigh. one. two. three. four times. a sickening prickle of heat that turned the dark woods outside into a blinding flash of pure white canvas.

“aaagh!!”

but it bought you a second. just enough for your numb fingers, tied, to catch the cold metal of the door latch.

and then, tumble. crack. you were down in the dirt, out in the five o'clock air.

running when your hands are bound tightly behind your back with plastic zip-ties is such a silly childish sight, isn't it? you looked like a little bird with its wings clipped, tilting dangerously forward as you leapt over the mossy roots of the acacia trees. behind you, the heavy thud of the car door closing wasn't loud, but it settled deep in your chest.

run, run.

the sky above was throwing a tantrum, bleeding out into a bruised palette of deep violet and charcoal clouds. the acacias hung their heads low, their massive branches whispering secrets to each other as the first few drops of cold rain began to prickle the air.

“help! please, is anyone out there?” 

your jeans were soaked through now, the dark denim turning heavy and stiff as the warm ribbons of red ran down your shins. every step was a blind guess. you couldn't see the sharp stones hidden beneath the carpet of dead leaves, couldn't tell where the earth simply dropped off into the black throat of the ravine. you were just a panicked thing breaking through the brambles, your heart drumming a frantic little rhythm against your ribs, running from a hunter who didn't even have to chase you to keep you moving.

but the universe is a playful storyteller, and it loves to toy with its favorites.

with a sharp gasp, your boot caught the slick underbelly of a wet log. the earth rushed up to meet you, knocking the air right out of your lungs with a miserable huff. you stayed there for a moment, your cheek pressed into the rotting mulch. stay down, the mud seemed to whisper. it’s easier if you stay down.

everything was gone. your purse, your keys, the small trinkets of your ordinary life—all left behind on that leather seat. but there was still a reassuring weight pressing against your hip. your phone was still there, tucked away in the closed pocket of your jeans.

you twisted your torso, your purple-tipped fingers scratching uselessly against the thick fabric behind your back. but with your wrists clamped together so tightly, your hands were nothing but clumsy weights. you couldn't even reach the metal teeth of the zipper. you wanted to cry out again, to scream for a savior, but the woods had grown eerily quiet. if you made a sound, you’d be giving the man with the knife a perfect map straight to your hiding place. so you just lay there, grinding your wrists against the plastic ties until the skin split, hot tears finally cutting clean paths through the grime on your face. please, just break. please.

snap!

only it wasn't the plastic that broke. it was a twig, just a few feet away.

instantly your head jerked up, eyes wide and glassy with a primitive sort of horror as you pressed your spine hard against the rough bark of the log. through the misty twilight, a silhouette stepped out from between the acacias. a tall, familiar frame. an oversized hoodie that looked entirely too ordinary for a nightmare like this.

a boy.

for some reason, your brain gave a dizzy little hiccup—a spark of memory that felt like looking at a blurred high school yearbook through a window. wait... do i know those eyes? but your survival instinct didn't care about names. it just screamed at you to crawl, and so you scrambled forward on your knees like a broken doll, throwing your weight toward him.

“please,” you sobbed, your voice breaking into pieces. “please, you have to help me... there’s a man... he has a knife...”

the boy stopped dead in his tracks. for a heartbeat, his face went completely blank—a sort of stillness that felt a bit too quiet. then, like a curtain being pulled back, his expression shattered into pure breathless panic.

“oh my god—hey, hey, stop moving, what the fuck happened to you?”

he dropped heavily into the leaves, his knees sinking into the damp dirt. his hands hovered over your shaking shoulders, trembling slightly as if he were afraid that touching you would make you fall apart into smaller pieces.

you knew this guy. it was... calvin. wait, no, clark? cal... caleb! 

caleb from senior high. the boy who used to sit just two rows ahead of you in class. what was he doing out here in the deep woods? why now? 

none of it mattered, anyway. he wasn't the man in the mask. he was safe. and you have to ask for help. 

“jesus, your legs... you're bleeding so much,” he stammers, his eyes wide and swimming with concern while he takes in the state of your torn denim. “are you okay? can you hear me? who did this to you?”

isn't it beautiful how the world works? out of all the corners in this forest, the universe dropped a safe familiar boy right into your path. you could finally let go of the breath you’d been holding. everything was going to be fine now.

the tiny click of his pocketknife was the sweetest sound you’d ever heard. the moment the plastic tie snapped, your hands flew forward like trapped birds escaping a cage. your fingers were stiff, burning with a painful rush of pins and needles, but you ignored it, shoving your hand into your pocket to pull out the small rectangle of your phone.

your thumb left a dark smudge of dirt across the glass as the screen flashed to life, illuminating your pale face in a harsh square of digital light. no service. the little gray bars in the top corner were empty, a row of hollow lines laughing at your desperation. you dialed the three emergency digits anyway, your thumb shaking so violently you could barely hit the glass, but the screen just spun a uselessly endless circle before dropping into nothingness.

“no, no, no... please, work,” you whispered, the tears finally spilling over your lashes. you instinctively reached out, your fingers bunching into the fabric of his jacket before you even realized you were gripping him. “please—your phone. try your phone. we need the police. we need an ambulance right now!”

he looked down at you, his features soft and utterly helpless, heavy with pity. he slowly pulled his own phone from his pocket, his thumb tapping the glass with a worried crease between his brows, before turning the empty screen toward you. “there's nothing,” he said softly, voice dropping into a comforting murmur meant to soothe your rising hysteria. “we’re too deep down in the valley. the reception doesn't really reach out here...”

“w-we have to walk then,” you babbled, a spike of adrenaline forcing you to try and push yourself upward. you pressed your palms against his shoulders, trying to force your legs to bear your weight, but the moment you put pressure on your right thigh, the cuts ripped open with a blinding flare of agony. your knee buckled instantly, the world tilting sideways as your vision went fuzzy.

if he hadn't caught you, your head would have cracked right against the rotted log.

but caleb’s arms were right there, locked around your waist to keep you from falling. “hey, hey, hey easy. please stop trying to move,” he coos, his voice falling right back into that familiar one you remember from years ago, though he looked at you with the detached worry of a stranger who had simply stumbled upon a tragedy. “you can't run in this state, ma'am. you're losing too much blood, and the main highway is miles away. if you try to walk, you're going to collapse before we even make it past the ridge.”

then, he fell silent.

his hands stayed planted firmly on your hips, placing you against him. for a long second, the frantic panic on his face settled into something else—something unreadable, calculated, and entirely too still. his violet eyes slowly dragged down the length of your torn jeans, watching the way the wet crimson was staining the fabric. he took in the shivering curve of your exposed throat, the way your breath came in terrified little hitches.

“please, ma'am, listen to me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your freezing cheek. “my cabin is just over the crest. it’s not far, maybe a five-minute walk at most. i can wash these cuts, bind them up so you stop bleeding, and let you rest. once the storm passes and you're stable, i'll get you out of here. okay?”

no, no, you wanted to fight him on it. you wanted the safety of a hospital room, the comfort of the lights, the security of walls that didn't belong to a lonely house hidden in the middle of nowhere. but your body was giving up. the blood loss was drawing a curtain over your mind, making your eyelids feel like lead weights. 

the air was turning freezing cold, and caleb was the only warm thing left in the whole world.

before you could even mutter a protest, he shifted his weight, slipping one strong arm under the crook of your knees and the other behind your shoulders. he lifted you effortlessly, pulling you tightly against his chest as if you weighed nothing at all.

“hospital...” you managed to slur, the word breaking apart on your lips. “take me... to the hospital...”

“no need for now, alright? i’ve got you,” he murmured back—the very last thing you heard. 

—

you open your eyes. slowly.

and there, you find yourself—

tucked away so neatly, blanketed on a sunken couch that divots deeply under your weight, right within the quiet premises of the cabin caleb promised an hour ago. the orange glow of a crackling fireplace dances across the exposed timber walls, casting playful shadows that stretch across the floorboards like reaching fingers. you’re still wearing the same clothes, dried into uncomfortable creases against your skin, and the iron tang of your own blood has cooked into a heavy musk under the warmth of the wool thrown over you.

just as the fog in your mind begins to lift, a rhythmic scuff of socks echoes from the far end of the hallway.

out steps caleb—carrying a candlestick, the small yellow flame haloing his face in a way that makes him look almost saintly, a golden boy stepping out from the shadows to check on his patient. the moment his eyes find yours open in the firelight, his entire posture softens, with shoulders dropping into a visible sigh of relief.

“oh, thank goodness,” he rushes to you, his steps hurried but careful, setting the candlelight down on a small wooden side table where it flickers against the polished grain. “you're awake. i... jesus, i am so sorry about all of this. the situation, the... the place. it’s a bit rustic, i know, and it probably feels terrifying waking up somewhere, you know, after what you've been through.”

you try to swallow, but your throat feels like it's coated in sand. 

your head is still heavily fogged, swimming with the lingering aftereffects of shock and blood loss, so all you can do is look around cautiously, wordlessly, and tiredly. 

the cabin is small, wrapped in dark wood, the corners swallowed by a cozy gloom. on the table beside the candle, a white plastic medical kit sits waiting, its red cross staring back at you like a clinical eye...

“oh, uhm- i wanted to wait until you woke up before i did anything,” caleb explains gently, kneeling down by the edge of the couch so he's at eye level with you. “i didn't want to start treating your wounds while you were unconscious. i thought... well, given everything, waking up to a stranger touching you would be a nightmare.”

you try to shift, pulling your legs inward to sit up, but the movement drags the dried denim against the raw gashes along your thighs. so the cuts sting fiercely, a sharp reminder of the dagger that makes you wince. “ugh—”

“hey, hey—don't move, please,” caleb says instantly, moving closer and sitting on the very edge of the cushion beside you. his hand hovers over your knee, twitching slightly as if he wants to press you back down, but he keeps his distance to maintain that careful boundary. “you're going to tear the edges of the cuts open again. just... stay still.”

he looks down at your legs, and a subtle awkward tension thickens the air between you. 

with your tight jeans still on, it’s obvious to both of you—it would be incredibly hard to treat cuts that high up without getting the fabric out of the way. he clears his throat, his cheeks catching a faintly boyish flush in the firelight as he pulls the medical kit a little closer, though he doesn't make a move to touch you.

you ignore his gentle commands, your brain completely bypassing the medical kit, because of a cold prickle of reality beginning to chip away at the warmth. your eyes travel past his shoulder, fixing onto the dark pane of the window. outside, the rain is persistent and incredibly loud.

“...what time is it?” your voice comes out rough, cracking against the quiet of the cabin.

caleb blinks, shifting his weight as he awkwardly clears his throat again, his gaze deliberately facing away from your legs, staring instead at the flickering hearth. “it’s... just past seven, the storm really rolled in fast. it's coming down pretty hard out there.”

“seven?” 

two hours. 

you’ve been away for two hours. 

and your bag is gone. 

and your phone is fucking dead. 

you turn back to him, your eyes growing more frantic as the questions begin to tumble out of you, one after another, getting faster and more panicked by the second. “where exactly are we, caleb? how far is the road? did you see anyone else out there? did you hear a car? my family—someone is going to notice i'm missing, they're going to call the police, we need to try the phones again, there has to be a landline here, right? caleb, is there a landline?”

there was a tiny microscopic hitch in his shoulders, the sort of stillness that makes the fire crackle just a little louder in the silence. he doesn't answer right away. instead, his head turns slowly back toward you, the candlelight catching the genuine confusion written across his brow. his lips part, a faint perplexed half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he points a finger at his own chest.

“wait, how... how do you know my name? have we... met before tonight?”

you stare at him, your own panic temporarily short-circuiting into bewilderment. 

huh, how did he not remember you? 

your mind races, digging through the fog. sure, you two were never close—never the type to hang out after the final bell or trade text messages—but you sat right behind him during senior year calculus. you watched him doodle in the margins of his notebook for an entire semester. you walked the same stage at graduation. granted, it had been years, and people change, but to be erased from someone's memory while you were currently bleeding out on their couch felt like a joke.

“a-are you serious?” you ask, your voice cracking slightly as you look at him. “caleb. caleb xia, right? we went to senior high together, we graduated from the same school.”

caleb blinks, his brow furrowing deeper as he genuinely seems to search his brain, looking at you with clueless eyes. “i—yeah, that's my name, but... high school? sorry i'm trying to place you, but my head is kind of spinning right now with the whole... you know, finding you in the woods thing.” he bites his lip, that was a bit too insensitive? “uh did you go to the main campus?”

“yes!” you burst out, frustrated by the sheer absurdity of the timing. “we were literally in the same department. we took the same core classes. think about it—do you remember section three? mr. harrison's homeroom? the room right at the end of the second-floor hall next to the old laboratory?”

there is an agonizing stretch of silence where caleb just stares at you. 

the rain hammers against the windowpane, loud and persistent, filling the gap between your desperate breaths. and then he looks at your face, eyes tracing your features with a deliberate attempt that makes the hairs on your arms stand up, though his expression remains perfectly and innocently blank.

then, his eyes widen—

“oh!” he lets out a breathless gasp, his hand flying up to rub the back of his neck in sudden realization.

“oh my god, to think that you still remember me...” he breathes, shaking his head as a self-deprecating smile breaks across his face. “wow. you're... you're that girl. you're [name], right? from the back row? wow, jesus, i am so stupid. sorry, [name]. it’s been what, four, five years? what are the odds?”

“clearly very high.” you mutter, rubbing your temple as a fresh wave of exhaustion hits you. a chill ripples down your spine despite the heat of the fire—something about the seamlessness of his realization feels just a fraction too neat, but you shake it off. you don't have the mental capacity to analyze high school politics right now. “look, it doesn't matter. the point is, i need to get to a hospital, caleb. or a police station.”

“right, right, obviously,” caleb slides off the edge of the cushion, kneeling back down on the floorboards and pulling the white plastic medical kit toward him. the latch pops open with a snap. “but like i said, the storm is terrible right now and you're actively bleeding through your clothes. we need to clean these cuts before they get infected. let me just get the antiseptic and the gauze, and i can—”

“i can do it myself,” your hand extends to block his path, palm flat against the cool plastic lid of the box.

caleb stops, his fingers hovering over a roll of white bandages. he tilts his head, looking up at you through his eyelashes with a look that is too innocent. “are- are you sure? you can barely sit up straight without wincing. it's really no trouble, i can just do it for you. i took a first-aid course back in college, i promise i won't mess it up.”

you look down at him, one of your eyebrows slowly arching as the reality of the situation settles between you. 

“caleb,” you say, deadpanning. “they're thigh wounds. you're... implying that you're going to sit there and watch me take off my jeans?”

immediately, caleb’s cheeks catch a bright furious flush, the boyish color rushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. 

“no! no, oh my god, obviously not,” he mumbles, you could clearly hear his voice cracking while he scrambles backward an inch or two on his knees. “i swear i wasn't thinking about it like that. i just saw the blood and kinda panicked. i am so sorry, didn't mean to make you... uncomfortable at all.” 

you remained quiet, looking at the medical kit, then down at the dark crimson patches drying high up on the denim of your thighs, and then right back into his eyes.

“look, i'll—i'll just give you the supplies. i can leave the room, i'll go to the kitchen, get some water, whatever you need. and you go ahead.” he looks so genuinely flustered, so thoroughly embarrassed by his own lack of foresight, that a tiny part of the tension in your chest actually loosens. he’s still the same harmless, easily flustered guy from senior high. 

safe... 

respectable...

—

the bathroom of the cabin had been a cold sort of mercy. peeling the copper-scented denim away from the raw gashes on your thighs had brought tears to your eyes, the hot water from the showerhead stinging the freshly bandaged wounds until your hips throbbed in rhythm with your pulse. but the clothes caleb had left hanging on the brass hook outside the door were clean. they smelled deeply of laundry detergent and cedar, though they were too large—the soft grey sweatpants bunched heavily over your ankles, and the oversized flannel shirt hung low enough to clip the backs of your knees. it made you look small, swamped, and ridiculously fragile.

you stepped back out into the main room, twisting the damp ends of your hair into a white towel. 

but as your eyes swept the room, you froze.

caleb wasn't by the couch. he wasn't tending to the fire, nor was he standing awkwardly by the kitchen counter like you’d expected. it was something far much more unexpected, because instead he was sitting exceptionally straight in a heavy wooden chair by the small dining table at the end of the room. 

his broad shoulders were squared, large hands resting flat against the dark wood in a posture that felt way too rigid, too deliberate. on the table between his hands sat a dark bottle of red wine, two tall-stemmed glasses catching the amber firelight, and a large ceramic plate piled with perfectly seared cuts of meat that were still glistening with warm fat.

you stopped in your tracks, one hand still holding the towel over your shoulder with your eyebrow slowly crawling upward. 

how... domestic? 

it looked like a dinner date. a romantic little setup prepared solely for you, laid out in the middle of a literal survival nightmare. it was so incredibly and profoundly awkward that you didn't even know how to orient your mouth to speak.

caleb caught your expression.

“oh—hey! you're out,” he stammered, his voice jumping a half-octave before he gestured vaguely toward the table. “i... uh, i hope the clothes fit okay? and, i’m sorry if this looks... weird. or sudden. i just thought, you know, you’ve been through a lot out there earlier, and your body probably needs the protein. i had some steak in the cooler, and... well..."

he broke off, clearing his throat awkwardly as he picked up the wine bottle, thumb nervously tracing the edge of the label.

“and the wine, it’s... it’s been sitting in the cabinet for months,” he rambled on, his violet eyes darting to your face and then quickly dropping back down to the polished wood. “it’s a really nice vintage, honestly. my dad gave it to me, and it just felt like... it would be a total shame not to share it with someone. and since you’re here, and it’s raining, and we’re stuck... i just thought it might help take the edge off the shock, no?”

you watched him tumble over his own words, your mind working through the surreal nature of the moment. you walked over to the edge of the dining area, your bare feet making no sound against the floorboards. deliberately, you unraveled the towel from your head and began folding it into a neat square, draping it over the high back of an empty chair.

“...do you have any cigarettes?” you had asked.

caleb blinked up at you, his thumb freezing against the wine bottle. as if the concept of a cigarette had never crossed his mind in his entire life. “cigarettes? oh. uh... no. no, sorry, [name]. i don't smoke.”

“shucks.” you let out a humorless little breath, dropping your hands from the chair.

you didn't pull out the seat, though. you didn't sit across from him at the neatly set table, and you certainly didn't lean into the cozy and intimate atmosphere he had so carefully constructed. you felt more comfortable with reaching across the dark wood, fingers wrapping around the stem of one of the wine glasses, and then taking the heavy ceramic plate of meat right out from the center of the table.

caleb watched you, his mouth parting slightly as you simply turned on your heel, walking away from the dining setup entirely.

you walked back over to the fireplace, the heat hitting your face in a comforting wave. with a soft grunt, you lowered yourself directly onto the floor near the hearth, tucking your oversized sweatpants around your ankles. you set the plate in your lap and the wine glass beside your knee, content to eat like an exhausted animal on the floor and miles away from the polite constraints of a dinner table.

“are you... comfortable down there?” caleb’s voice drifted over from the dining area, sounding faint and distinctly hollow.

“perfectly,” you replied, picking up a piece of the meat with your fingers, not even caring about silverware. “the fire is warm.”

“right. yeah. the fire is good,” 

“and thank you, for the food.” from where you sat, focused on the crackling logs and the heavy comfort of the red wine coating your throat, you couldn't see his face. you couldn't see the way caleb remained seated at that table, a few meters away in the shadows. you couldn't see the utter, freezing disappointment that washed over his features, the soft curve of his mouth twisting into something odd while he stared at the back of your damp head.

the scent of the wine was just beginning to blunt the raw edge of your nerves when you decided to break the silence. you chewed slowly, swallowed, and leaned your head back against the edge of the couch. “so, what is this place, anyway? and why do you quite literally live in the middle of nowhere?”

at the table, the tension in caleb’s shoulders evaporated. it was like watching a wilted flower catch a drop of water—he lit up, immediately grabbed his own finished plate to discard it down the sink with an easygoing smile returning to his face.

“oh, this? it’s actually my grandfather’s old hunting lodge,” caleb answered, his voice rich and fluid while he stepped out of the dining area with the wine glass and walked into the warm radius of the firelight. “he left it to me when he passed away a couple of years ago. it was pretty run-down, but i've been fixing it up by myself whenever i get a break from work. it's quiet. and really nice.”

with ease, caleb lowered his large frame directly onto the floorboards, sitting a few feet away from you. he kept a careful distance—close enough to share the warmth of the hearth, but far enough that your knees wouldn't brush. 

“must be a long drive to work if you're living out here permanently,” you remarked, poking at another piece of meat. you’d always been a slow eater, but tonight the exhaustion made your hands heavy.

“well, i don't live here full-time, just most weekends,” he swirled the dark red liquid in his glass, his eyes reflecting the orange tongues of the fire. “and my job isn't exactly local. i'm actually based out of the regional airfield near the coast now. aha, i went into aeronautical engineering after graduation.”

you paused, a piece of meat halfway to your mouth. you turned your head to look at him. “aeronautics? i figured you’d end up in business or something corporate. you always looked like the type.”

caleb let out a boyish chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah, everyone thought that. my dad wanted me to take over his agency, actually. but i don't know... i like things that are precise. there's a weird comfort in that kind of control.” he pursed his lips inwards, stealing a glance from you. “like- like if a plane stays in the air, it’s because you engineered it perfectly. no room for variables.”

“sounds tedious,” you muttered, taking a sip of the wine.

“it can be,” he agreed, his gaze shifting from the glass straight to your face again. “but it pays well. and it gives me enough free time to come out here and disappear for a few days. but uh, what about you, [name]? last i heard, you were finishing up your degree city-side. what brings you back to the outskirts? and... working at that restaurant by the highway?”

“it's just supposed to be temporary until i figured out my next move. then the shit earlier happened.”

“jesus, [name]...” caleb’s voice dropped into a sympathetic murmur. “i still can't believe it. when i heard the screaming through the trees, i thought i was losing my mind. to think you were just working a normal shift and then... some psycho...” he trailed off, shaking his head as if the weight of the reality was too much for his sensibilities to handle. “have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around the restaurant lately? any weird customers? stalkers?”

“no,” you said, your eyes fixed on the flames. “it's a quiet place. mostly truckers and old couples. the man... he didn't say anything. just grabbed me from the alley behind the kitchen while i was taking out the trash.”

“that's insane,” caleb whispered, his expression darkening with a protective sort of worry. “the world is getting so fucked up. but hey... you're safe now, you're here. he's not getting through that door.”

“i know,” 

you turned your head to look at him, intending to ask about the old high school crew, but as your eyes met his, a strange feeling established itself.

you held his gaze for a second, two seconds—but caleb’s eyes on yours didn't waver. they were perfectly and intensely still, holding your stare with an unblinking confidence that felt entirely out of character for the stuttering, flustered boy from minutes ago. after a moment, the weight of it felt too heavy, and you were the one who blinked your eyes back to the fire.

“do you ever hear from anyone else?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation flowing naturally. “like... gideon? or that girl who used to sit next to you—tara?”

“tara moved to the capital, and gideon... well, gideon and i lost touch after he started getting into some sketchy stuff. people drift, you know? you think you know someone in high school, and then years later, they’re a completely different person.”

“yeah,” you murmured, cutting another piece of meat. “people do change.”

“or maybe they just stop hiding who they always were,” 

you looked up again, caught by the odd phrasing, and once more, his eyes were already there waiting for you. they were dark, absolute, and perfectly locked onto your own. again, an instinctual prickle of discomfort made you break the contact first, your eyes dropping down to your glass. maybe he was just like that, you reasoned. some people just had intense eye contact. it didn't mean anything.

“either way,” caleb said, his tone warming up as he raised his wine glass toward you in a silent toast. “i'm just glad i was the one who found you tonight, [name]. out of everyone else who could have been in these woods... i'm really glad it was me.”

the warmth of the red wine had just begun to settle in your stomach when the words finally caught up to your brain. working at that restaurant by the highway.

you paused, your fork hovering a few inches above the ceramic plate. “wait a minute... how did you know i worked at that restaurant?”

for a fleeting second, his shoulders went rigid, and his gaze dropped from your face, breaking eye-contact to stare down at the dark remnants of wine in his glass. it was the first time tonight he had been the one to look away first.

then, just as quickly as it had vanished, the sheepish smile slid back onto his face. he let out an amused huff, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “oh, that? well, i drive past that stretch of the highway all the time when i'm heading out to the airfield. i've seen you through the front windows a couple of times while i was stopping for gas across the street. it’s hard to miss a familiar face, even if it’s been years.”

you raised an eyebrow, “and you didn't bother stopping in to say hi?”

“well...” caleb chuckled, his cheeks catching that familiar flush in the firelight as he looked back up at you through his lashes. “we weren't exactly friends in high school, you know? i didn't want to be that weird guy who bursts into your workplace like, hey, remember me from highschool? i figured it’d just be awkward for both of us.”

you stared at him, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. your fingers tightened slightly around the stem of your glass. “so you did recognize me. which means when you found me out in the woods... you already knew my face?”

caleb’s hand froze against the back of his neck.

“but earlier,” you continued, “you acted like you had no idea who i was. you asked if we'd ever met. you even made me list out our old high school section just to get you to remember my name.”

caleb stopped rubbing his neck. he didn't stumble over his words this time. he just sat there on the floorboards, staring right into your eyes with that stillness you had noticed earlier. then, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nodding slowly to himself. a breathy laugh escaped his lips.

“okay,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a smoother and an entirely unbothered tone. “fine. you caught me. i kind of lied.” he swirled his wine, watching the dark liquid catch the orange glow of the hearth. “i did recognize you when i pulled you out of the brush, [name]. but it’s true that i genuinely couldn't remember your name right away. my... brain was in full panic mode seeing all that blood. but as for the rest of it... yeah. aha. i played dumb for a second.”

an uneasy spike of suspicion bloomed right in the center of your chest. your survival instinct, the one that had been temporarily put to sleep by the warm blankets and the steak, suddenly jolted awake. “why... would you lie about something like that, caleb?”

“because think about it,” caleb answered instantly, turning his head to face you full. “it’s already an incredibly high-stress situation. you’re running for your life, you’re bleeding, you’re... traumatized. then you stumble upon a guy you used to know, but barely talked to, living in a secluded cabin. don't you think it would feel just a little bit... awkward? or weirdly intense if i immediately went, oh hey, [name], wild seeing you here!?” his eyes searched your face as he momentarily placed the glass on the floor. “i thought it would be easier on you if we just focused on getting you safe first, without the weird high school baggage. you know, i was just trying to keep things low-key.”

you remained quiet, eyes dropping down to your empty plate. you didn't nod. you didn't tell him it was fine. you just left the explanation hanging in the air between you, letting it rot.

it’s not safe out here. 

it didn't matter that he had sat two rows ahead of you five years ago. it didn't matter that he had an aeronautics career or a nice smile. you were a wounded, exhausted girl trapped in a damn cabin in the middle of a raging storm, miles away from civilization, alone with a man.

you looked away, your gaze fixing onto the persistent sheets of rain lashing against the windowpane, your mind frantically trying to map out a way to stay awake until dawn.

“hey.”

you turned your head back toward the hearth, your breath catching in your throat as you realized caleb had moved. he had inched closer across the floorboards while you were lost in your thoughts. now, he was resting his elbow directly on the plush edge of the couch right behind your shoulder, resting his temple against his fist, tilting his head slightly so he was looking up at you from under his thick lashes.

“what are you thinking about there so hard?” a small, almost teasing smile played at the corners of his lips. “you aren't... suspicious of me, are you, [name]?”

“no,” you forced a shrug of your shoulders, keeping your palms perfectly loose against the floor. “why would i be suspicious? you saved my life... i-i’m just tired. my head feels like it’s full of cotton.”

it was the safest play. 

if he really was someone you needed to fear, showing your teeth now—when you could barely stand without your thighs screaming in agony—would be nothing short of suicide. 

caleb stared at you for one more second, his eyes searching the micro-expressions on your face from beneath his lashes. 

“good,” he let out a relieved chuckle, pushing himself up from the floor. “because if you were, i’d have to start questioning my hospitality skills. my ego wouldn't be able to take that tonight.” he reached down to gather the empty ceramic plates and the two wine glasses, turning toward the small kitchen alcove. “you've been through a lot tonight, [name]. i think it's time to call it a night? you can take the bedroom,”

“i can sleep here.” you said quickly, gesturing vaguely toward the plush couch near the hearth. “you ...don't have to give up your room for me. i've already taken up enough of your space.”

“absolutely not,” caleb called out over his shoulder, the sound of running water echoing from the sink while he rinsed the dishes. “i am a lot of things, but a bad host isn't one of them. you're wounded and you need a proper bed, so i'll take the couch.”

he turned off the tap, drying his hands on a dishtowel before walking back over to you. 

he extended a hand, fingers open and waiting. “come on. let's get you sorted out.”

—

caleb guided you down the short, dimly lit hallway toward the back of the cabin. when he pushed the wooden door open, the space that greeted you was surprisingly large—far more spacious and clean than the rustic exterior of the lodge suggested. in fact, it looked a bit too clean. the dark wooden dresser was pristine, the bedside table completely bare, and the large queen-sized bed was stripped down to a simple fitted sheet. 

it almost looked like a room that had been meticulously prepared for a guest who hadn't arrived yet.

“sorry it’s a little bare in here,” caleb broke the silence. “i usually just crash on the couch myself when i'm working on the place, so i haven't really decorated the bedroom yet- oh, let me get the comforter out of the closet.” he crossed the room, pulling a massively thick comforter from the built-in wardrobe. it was a heavy plush thing, clad in a crisp grey duvet cover.

“alright,” he grunted, shaking it out. “help me spread this out so you don't freeze to death tonight.”

you limped over to the opposite side of the mattress, catching the corners of the heavy fabric as he tossed them over. but it was incredibly thick, and the duvet seemed to have a mind of its own, bunching up inside the cover like a stubborn weight. when you tried to pull it toward your side, your foot caught on the edge of the bed frame, making you stumble slightly. caleb lunged across the mattress to catch the fabric before it slid off, his own weight dragging the entire comforter into a tangled knot right in the dead center of the bed.

you both froze, staring at the absolute disaster of crumpled grey fabric between you.

this is... awkward. 

“well,” caleb said, his voice deadpan as he looked from the tangled mess up to your face. “i did mention i went into engineering, right? clearly, that does not translate to making a bed?” 

a sudden laugh bubbled up from your throat before you could stop it—a genuine sound that cut clean through the lingering web of suspicion in your chest. it was just so ridiculous. you were running for your life a few hours ago, and now you were having a tug-of-war with a blanket.

caleb’s face immediately lit up at the sound of your laughter, his eyes crinkling into crescents before he let out a loud chuckle of his own. “don't laugh at me! this is a two-person job, [name], you clearly pulled too hard on your end.”

“i pulled because you were hoarding the entire left side,” 

“i was not hoarding!” he protested playfully, finally managing to untangle the knot and smooth the heavy comforter across the mattress with a satisfying whack. “there. perfect. good job, caleb.” he stepped back, dusting his hands off with a satisfied smirk before turning his attention back to you. “...you should be good now. the pillows are fresh. if you need another blanket, just yell, 'kay? i’ll be right outside.”

“...thanks, caleb,” despite of your head telling you to stay alert, you allowed your own voice to show the small thread of gratitude weaved into it. “really. for everything.”

“don't mention it,” he stepped toward the doorway and caught the brass handle, pausing for a moment to look back at you over his shoulder. “lock the door from the inside if it makes you feel better. i won't mind. just get some sleep and we’ll figure out you going home first thing in the morning.”

“okay. goodnight.”

“goodnight, [name].”

and finally, he closed the door with a click. 

you stood in the quiet room for a long moment, listening to the muffled sound of his retreating footsteps when he walked back down the hallway toward the living room. meanwhile, the rain continued to beat a persistent rhythm against the bedroom window. 

slowly, you walked over to the door and turned the small thumb-lock, the metallic snap providing a fragile shield against the dark. you crawled beneath the cedar-scented comforter, your exhausted body sinking into the mattress as you stared up at the dark ceiling. 

he was safe. he had to be. he was just caleb—just the same boy from before.

—

tick. tick. tick.

the sound of a small wood-framed clock somewhere in the shadows is the first thing that bites through your sleep. 

you hadn't even realized you’d drifted off, but the blackness of the midnight hours has already swallowed the evening whole. you wake with a faint groan catching in your throat, your eyelids being heavy with the residue of exhaustion and red wine.

you turn your head to the side, expecting the warm flicker of the candles caleb had left on the bedside desks.

nothing.

the room is ...pitch black. 

the candles are entirely gone—not just blown out, but absent. 

adrenaline instantly slices straight through your groggy brain, melting the last remnants of sleep. and then your eyes travel to the foot of the bed, only to see that—

the door is open.

it isn't really wide open, just slightly ajar, a narrow slice of dim orange light cutting through the darkness from the hallway outside. a thin sliver of the living room’s dying hearth dances across the floorboards like a warning. 

how...? 

you distinctly remember the weight of the little brass thumb-lock turning under your fingers....

a lock doesn't just undo itself in the dead of night.

gone was the cozy and domestic quiet of a boy hosting an old classmate; now it’s a tight breathless suspense, like the air inside a room right before a balloon pops. every instinct you possess—the cold-blooded survival code that got you out of that leather passenger seat—screams at you to move.

carefully, so carefully, you slide your legs out from beneath the heavy down comforter. the grey sweatpants caleb lent you sweep against the sheets with a hush that sounded more like a roar in your ears. the moment your bare feet touch the cold floor, the gashes along your thighs throb in protest, a burning ache that you force yourself to swallow. you don't wince. you don't breathe.

you creep toward the vertical slit of the door, fingers pressing lightly against the wood as you peer out into the hall.

all the candlelights have been shut dead, their little wicks pinched into cold black stumps. the only illumination left is the bleeding glow of the hearth in the living room, casting distorted shadows against the dark wood walls.

your bare feet make no sound while you steal down the hallway, and your eyes scan the darkness, hunting for a silhouette, a mask, the silver glint of a dagger. 

if your lock was bypassed... if someone broke in while you were unconscious...

you round the corner into the living room, your chest heaving in shallow and silent hitches.

there, on the plush couch near the fireplace, laid a shape. 

you freeze, your muscles locking instantly in place. but as you squint through the deep red gloom, you realize it’s just caleb. he’s wrapped entirely in his thick blanket, his large frame buried beneath the wool. his head is tilted back against the cushion with eyes shut. 

he looks completely peaceful, harmless.

but a fresh wave of horror washes over your skin.

if caleb is asleep right here... and the front door is still barred from the inside... then who the fuck opened your bedroom door? did the masked man find a way in without making a sound? did he look at you while you slept? 

your mind spins a terrifying web of variables, but you refused to just let yourself panic. there is no room for tears. there is no room for questions. there is only the necessity of getting out.

you turn away from the sleeping boy, your eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the room. you need a tool. a weapon. a map. a landline. anything.

as you glide toward the dark wooden cabinets flanking the stone hearth, your fingers were trembling slightly. you slide the first latch open, the wood giving a slow creak. you reach inside, your hands blindly rummaging through the contents—old decks of cards, manuals, boxes of matches, heavy iron tools for the fireplace. your fingertips scrape against the rough edge of a folded piece of paper. a map? a ledger? could it be? you immediately pull it out, trying to catch the faint red light of the dying embers to read the print.

please. just give me a direction. let me find the highway. i need to go home.

“[name]?”

you immediately jerked your shoulders back at the voice, the paper slipping from your fingers and fluttering back into the open cabinet drawer. 

shit, caleb is awake.

as you turned around to face him, he was already sat up on the couch, the wool blanket pooled in folds around his hips. and...

he was... shirtless.

you couldn't help your eyes from flicking down to the broad line of his shoulders and the manly expanse of his torso before you forced your gaze back up to his face. you knew plenty of guys slept like that, but the domesticity of it felt like a trap. there was no time to get flustered right now. your fingers curled into tight fists against the cabinet door.

“what...” caleb's voice came out thick, raspy with sleep. he blinked up at you while rubbing his left eye. “what are you doing up this late?”

you awkwardly cleared your throat, the sound dry and scratching against the quiet of the room. you needed an excuse that didn't involve the open bedroom door or the fact that you were currently hunting for a map to escape whatever it is you need to escape from.

“i'm just... looking for a cigarette,” fuck, that was such a bad lie. “i couldn't sleep. thought you might have some hidden in these cabinets.”

caleb could only blink at you, his head tilting slowly to the side while his brain tried to process the words. cigarettes? this late? he let out a huff that sounded like a sleepy laugh, rubbing the back of his head where his hair was slightly messy.

“a cigarette...?” he looked from you to the open cabinet drawer, then back up to your face. “you really must have an addiction, huh? i told you earlier, [name], i don't smoke. my grandfather didn't either.”

you had no choice but to nod, keeping your posture stiff against the woodwork. “right. worth a shot, though...”

caleb let out a sigh, the sound long and loose as he shifted his weight on the cushions. he swung his legs out from under the rest of the blanket, his bare feet hitting the timber floor. he stayed there for a second, hunched over with his hands dangling between his knees, just staring at the floor as if waiting for his head to stop spinning from the sudden wake-up.

“look,” his voice drops into a more grounded register while he looked up at you through his bangs. “if you're that restless, i can go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. make you some chamomile tea or something? my dad swears by it for shock.”

“i-i don't need tea,” you muttered, shifting your feet.

but the movement was a mistake. 

the sudden twist of your hips dragged the loose fleece of the sweatpants directly across the gashes on your right thigh. and it fucking stung.

he seemed to have notice it, as his eyes abruptly snapped down to your legs. the sleepiness have also seemed to vanish from his posture by the way his broad shoulders squared when he slid off the couch and stood up. 

“hey,” he gestured vaguely toward your lap. “you're limping again. did you tear the bandages when you got out of bed? you shouldn't even be walking around right now.”

“...they're fine,” 

“they don't look fine,” caleb pointed a thumb back toward the couch. “sit down. let me actually look at them this time. if you bled through the gauze while you were sleeping, we need to change it before it sticks to the cuts.”

your throat felt incredibly dry as you swallowed, your hand lingering on the edge of the cabinet door. “seriously, it really is fine. you don't need to do all this...”

he didn't argue immediately. instead, he simply turned toward the side table where the white first-aid box still sat under the dying light of the hearth. his fingers wrapped around the handle, lifting it with a clack. but as he turned back to face you, he froze, his eyes dropping down to his own chest, then flicking rapidly back up to your face. 

“oh—jesus,” he mumbled, his hand flying up to rub the back of his neck. “i... i am so sorry. is it because i don't have a shirt on? let me just... go grab something from the room. give me a second.”

“it's not about that,” you said quickly, the words slipping out before he could turn away. 

am i just losing my mind?

you asked yourself, your fingers gripping the soft flannel of the oversized shirt he’d lent you. is this just the trauma? you had been kidnapped, almost stabbed, and chased through the dark by a literal monster. it made sense that your brain was treating everything—even the creak of a floorboard or a slightly ajar door—as a mortal threat. you were painting a sinister caricature over a guy who had literally dragged you out of the mud, sliced his own knuckles to free your hands, and offered you his bed. if he wanted to hurt you, if he wanted to do anything to you at all... he’d had hours while you were unconscious, dead to the world under his roof. 

but you had woken up untouched.

and yet, that voice in the very back of your skull refused to fully quiet down. stay on guard, it whispered. always stay on guard.

still, the sheer weight of the guilt was starting to make your chest ache. he was trying so hard to be the helpful guy, and you were treating him like the monster in the woods.

with a slow sigh, you crossed the small distance between the cabinet and the couch. 

“fine,” you lowered your weight onto the edge of the cushion. and unceremoniously, you began to pull the hem of the sweatpants up, the fleece dragging against your skin until it bunched up in folds around your upper thighs. the movement exposed the white gauze wraps—now messy, slightly unraveled at the edges, and blooming with wet spots of red where the cuts had split back open from your midnight walk.

caleb stood perfectly still.

as you focused on adjusting the bunched fabric around your lap, you missed the way his breathing hitched. his eyes lingered, carefully, on the exposed line of your ankles, climbing up the curve of your calves, on the skin behind your knees, and finally settling on the wounded skin of your thighs. 

but before you could look up and catch that, he was already moving.

in one motion, caleb lowered himself onto his knees right beside your legs. he popped the latch on the medical kit, fingers pulling out a fresh roll of gauze and a packet of antiseptic wipes with a faint smile. “i hate to say i told you so, [name], but... you did a total hack job on these bandages.”

“i was working with one hand and a lot of adrenaline,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice even while he brushed his fingers against the side of your knee to steady your leg.

“clearly,” he teased, his thumb lightly pressing against your skin to test your reaction, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that playful grin. “you wrapped them up all wrong. it's too loose at the top and too tight at the bottom...”

the crinkle of the wrapper was the only sound for a moment as caleb tore open a fresh pad of gauze, but you kept your face resolutely turned toward the stone hearth, watching the orange embers pulse and die in the ash. 

he didn't say anything for a while, his fingers working with a touch while he peeled away the blood-soaked cotton from your skin. his thumb caught the edge of a fresh strip of medical tape, tearing it with a sharp rip with his teeth.

“you know,” caleb murmured, breaking the quiet without looking up from his work. “you're giving the fireplace a really intense stare. if it's because i'm still missing half my clothes, i can really just go grab a shirt.”

“i'm fine,” though you kept your eyes locked on the brickwork. “i'm just tired.”

he let out a breathy laugh, fingers gently smoothing the edge of the clean white pad against the meat of your upper thigh. “you should've just let me handle the first round of bandages earlier. would've saved you the trouble of bleeding like this.”

you decided not to reply.

and he didn't mind your continued silence, pulling the roll of gauze to tighten the dressing. but as he went to tuck the loose end, his thumb pressed down—just a bit too hard—directly into the swollen edge of the fourth laceration.

“shit, that hurts-” your hands instantly flew to the leather cushion to push yourself backward.

caleb gulped, the prominent line of his throat moving sharply in the dim red light when he stole a glance at your face. “sorry,” he whispered, a little raspy. “you okay?”

“be careful.” you choked out, your breath coming a little faster now as you stared back at him. 

his palm remained resting flat against the curve of your knee, his thumb lightly, almost absently tracing the edge of the sweatpants' hem. he looked down at your legs for a quiet second before his eyes slowly crawled back up to meet your frown.

“is this your first time?” 

your brow furrowed deeper, “what?”

“seeing a guy half-naked this close,” caleb clarified, a knowing smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained perfectly steady and unblinking. “you look like you're holding your breath, [name]. i didn't think i was that intimidating...?”

“no, it's not my first time.” 

“oh yeah?” 

caleb tilted his head, his elbow resting on his knee to lean in further. “so there's been other guys then? past boyfriends?”

“...what does that have to do with anything?”

“nothing,” letting out a low chuckle, he finally pulled his hands back, capping the antiseptic bottle along the way. “just making conversation. we're catching up, aren't we? five years is ...a long time. i figured a girl like you would've had someone.”

caleb slowly sat back on his heels, eyes tracking the way your fingers dug into the fabric of your flannel shirt. 

“there was... someone,” you muttered, wanting to shut the topic down. “a while ago. it didn't last.”

“really?” his voice carried a strange satisfaction as he picked up the discarded bandages. he didn't look disappointed at all. in fact, his shoulders seemed to loosen even more. “why's that? he didn't know how to appreciate what he had?”

“he was just too much, too possessive. always wanted to know where i was.”

caleb stopped moving for a split second, his back to the fire. “hmm, can you really blame him?”

“yes, you can blame him.” you reached down, your fingers catching the hem of the grey sweatpants to slide the heavy fleece back down over your calves. “how would you feel if you had a partner like that? someone constantly demanding to know every single person you talk to?”

caleb stared up at you from beneath his fringes.

“i don't-” a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head accompanied the words. “i don't think i'd mind it at all.”

you let out a humorless click of your tongue, pulling the fabric down past your ankles. “you're just saying that because you've never actually experienced it.”

caleb simply laughs, “well... you've got me there, [name]. i guess i haven't really had the chance to be in a relationship yet.”

that caught your attention. 

“really? in five years? i remember girls in high school lining up to slide letters into your locker. you're telling me you never got into anything like that?”

“never,” he snapped the lid of the medical kit shut. “a few talking stages that fizzled out after a couple of weeks, maybe a blind date or two that my friends dragged me into because they felt sorry for me. but nothing too close. nothing that lasted.”

“that's pretty hard to believe.” 

caleb xia was the definition of the golden boy back then, as far as you could remember—approachable, attractive, naturally charismatic, and the exact type of guy most people wanted to take home to their parents. it didn't make sense that he was so utterly single. “what could possibly be the reason? are your standards just impossibly high or something?”

caleb stood up from the floor, lifting the medical kit in one hand. but instead of walking away to put it back on the side table, he stayed right there, standing over you in the dim glow of the hearth.

“hey, my standards aren't high at all, i think i'm actually pretty simple. when i find something- or someone- that actually catches my attention, i tend to, just, keep my focus entirely on them. i don't see the point in looking anywhere else if... if- the perfect thing is already right in front of me.” he tears his gaze away to put the first-aid back into its place.

“well, good luck finding that in the city. people change their minds every two weeks out there.” goddamn it, the pain below is really getting unbearable. you were far too focused on the throbbing ache in your thighs, your brain already drifting back to the logistics of tomorrow morning's drive to the police precinct. 

“maybe... but luckily for me, i'm a very patient guy. i don't mind waiting for- for a long time.” you hear him murmur. with his back faced to you like this, you can't really help yourself but trace the beautiful definition of his back muscles with your eyes, and the ridiculous ratio of his broad shoulders down to his waist. 

with that physique, he might be a liar, he definitely have some situationships going on.

caleb suddenly turns around to meet your eyes, making you instinctively avert them. “you still want that tea?”

“no thanks, i'm really... fine 'nough now.”

“i see. well, i think you probably couldn't sleep back there because of the cold,” he walked towards the hearth to throw more logs into the pit. only now you realized how dim the room had been getting when the fire crackled back into its fiery light. “you need the warmth here in the living room, no?”

you sheepishly smile. “would that be okay?”

“of course, [name].”

—

“you're kidding me.”

under the sun through the acacia trees, you squinted your eyes. 

the words didn't even have the energy to carry a real edge. they just fell out of your mouth, evaporating into the cold morning mist that hung thick between the towering leaves.

meanwhile, caleb didn't bother looking up from under the rusted hood of his dark blue pickup truck. he was hunched over the engine bay, the fabric of a sleeveless hoodie stretched tight across his shoulders. his hands, grease-stained and calloused, were buried deep near the battery terminal with a wrench catching the daylight.

“i wish i was, not gonna lie.” caleb muttered, his voice muffled by the metal hood. he let out a frustrated sigh that blossomed into a little puff of white steam in the damp air. “i've tried priming the pump, i've checked the spark plugs... nothing. the starter won't even click.”

you had woken up with a spark of renewed relief in your chest, because finally, finally, you can go back to where you feel the most safe, you can finally report whatever bullshit that happened to you yesterday. 

but instead, you were met with an apologetic boy trying to fix his truck because, apparently, the engine decided to end its own life overnight. 

“how does a truck that was running fine yesterday just die overnight, caleb?” you walked closer, your knuckles white as you shoved your hands deep into the pockets of the flannel shirt. 

he finally pulled his head out from under the hood, wiping a thick smear of black grease across his forehead with the back of his forearm. he looked at you through his messy fringes, and you caught the way his eyes looked a little bit too... puppy-like. 

“the storm,” caleb vaguely gestured. 

the ground was completely saturated, littered with fallen leaves and broken branches from the torrential downpour that had finally died down to a drizzle just before dawn. “with this much humidity and the drop in temperature, moisture probably got into the distributor cap. or a wire shorted out. these old engines are finicky as hell, [name]. i'm sorry.”

you stared at the truck, your jaw locked so tight it made your temples throb. 

a miracle. 

a perfect little miracle for a guy who had just told you last night how much he loved precise systems where nothing was left to variable.

“...i can't stay here,” you insisted, your voice rising just a fraction. “my family is probably contacting the police right now. and my manager... caleb, they're going to think i'm dead. i need to get to a phone. i need to get to the highway.”

“i know that.” he replied, stepping away from the bumper. “i know you do. but, we can't drive this thing until i figure out what's wrong with the ignition.”

“then i'll walk.”

caleb’s hand froze mid-air as he went to wipe his wrench with an old rag. his dark eyes narrowed. “walk? [name], you can barely take three steps without a limp.”

“i don't care. you have a map, or- or a compass. i know you do- this is a hunting cabin after all.”

“no.”

“what?”

caleb tossed the wrench onto the truck's battery cover with a clank that made you jump. “it's not just about the distance,” he took two steps toward you, his large frame instantly blocking out the morning light. “the highway is nearly seven miles from here, and there are ravines out there that are flooded right now from the storm. one bad slip and you'll tear those stitches wide open, and then you're bleeding out in the mud with nobody to help you.”

“i'll take my chances.” you muttered.

caleb raised a brow. “and what about the man with the knife, [name]? he could be sitting behind a tree just half a mile from here, waiting for you to walk right back into his arms. do you really want to risk that?”

your fingers curled into the rough cotton of his top, the cold reality of his words settling into your stomach like a block of ice.

he had a point. 

a terrifying, undeniable point. the monster was probably still out there.

“it's better to be safe,” caleb murmured, his tone softening back into that sweet cadence. “i'm not trying to keep you prisoner here, i swear. i want to get you home just as much as you want to go. but you have to trust me on this. it'll take me a few hours, maybe 'till noon.” he turns back to the hood of the truck with a frustrated frown. “just go back inside and let me do my job. okay?”

you let out a trembling sigh, looking away from his face to stare at the woods surrounding the clearing. you hated the situation. you hated how logical his arguments were, and you hated the warmth where his eyes had just been.

“fine,” you whispered, your shoulders slumping in defeat. “just... hurry up, please.”

“i will, promise.” 

you went back inside.

hours had bled away into the sluggish afternoon, and you had done nothing but count the knots in the pine ceiling and flip through the moldering pages of three-decade-old hunting manuals you found in the dusty cabinets. 

they got you nowhere. 

no phone numbers scribbled in the margins, no hidden emergency radios, no secret landlines. just instructions on how to field-dress a deer and diagrams of traps.

it was past two in the afternoon now. and this was getting ridiculous.

you paced the creaking floorboards of the living room, your bare toes digging into the cold grain of the wood. through the window pane, you watched caleb. he was still out there. his sleeveless hoodie was damp from the mist, broad back bent over the open hood of the truck with a disciplined concentration that should have been comforting. 

he looked like a saint, honestly. a boy working himself to the bone in the cold just to get an old classmate back to safety.

but the timing was too perfect. the dead engine was too convenient. and you couldn't afford to spend another night here, isolated in the middle of nowhere, wrapped in his clothes and eating his food.

your eyes drifted from the window, turning slowly toward the hallway.

there was a second door down there. it sat right beside the bedroom he had given you last night—a wooden door with no brass lock on the outside, completely quiet and unassuming. but it had been poking at the back of your mind since you woke up. and for some reason, a hum of intuition told you that behind that specific piece of wood lay the missing piece of the puzzle.

you glanced back out the window to see caleb having his back turned, and reaching for a socket wrench from his toolbox.

quietly, holding your breath until your lungs burned, you padded down the hallway. the floorboards seemed to hold their breath with you, refusing to creak just as you stopped in front of the door, your hand hovering over the cold brass knob. 

until, eventually, you stopped hesitating and twisted it. 

it wasn't locked. 

with an agonizingly slow click, the latch gave way, and the door swung inward.

you stepped inside, ready to find a dusty storage closet or a pile of old lumber. 

instead,

the room was... dark, the only light filtering through a heavy black curtain drawn tight over the single window, but it was enough to reveal a space that looked less like a cabin bedroom and more like the inside of an... obsessively structured mind.

you didn't know why, but your legs felt suddenly weak, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead as you stepped deeper into the gloom. the walls weren't bare wood. they were covered in large corkboards, maps of the county and hand-drawn diagrams. and in the center of the main board, pinned with color-coded pushpins, was you.

it was a photo from your high school yearbook, your smiling face circled in faded red ink. but next to it were newer photos, candid shots. 

you walking to the vintage restaurant. 

you holding a trash bag in the alley behind the kitchen, captured from the treeline. 

you sitting by the register.

then, scrawled beneath the photos in a precise draftsman's print—the hand of an engineer—were pages of notes.

> [name]'s shift: 9:00 AM - 4:00 PM

> route predictability: 94%

> vulnerability point: rear kitchen exit (blind spot from highway)

your hands began to tremble so violently you had to press them against your thighs to keep them still. your eyes darted across the board, picking apart the timeline he had constructed. there were outlines of schedules, maps of these very woods with red ink tracing the exact path you had run last night. there was even a drawing of a leather passenger seat with a detailed list of strap measurements.

so, he hadn't really saved you...? 

your eyes swept to another section of the wall, where photos of other people were pinned—friends you used to know, people you were still connected with in the city, and even your ex boyfriend. across his face, a line had been drawn in black marker, with a note written beside it: easily removed.

your brain screamed at you to run, to get out, to lock yourself away. but your eyes were drawn to the far corner of the room, where a smaller, shadow-draped board hung.

you took three slow steps toward it.

there were no yearbook photos there, there were polaroids instead. raw and flash-lit pictures of coldly pale skin, bloodshot eyes staring at nothing, and wet earth. 

dead bodies. 

people who had gone missing from the county over the last few years, their faces preserved in caleb's organized archive.

“what the fuck—...”

you stumbled backward, your heel catching on the edge of a small wooden stool. it caused you to hit the floorboards hard, the jarring impact sending a fresh flare of agony through your wounded thighs, but you barely felt it. you scrambled back on your hands and knees, your palms smacking against the cold wood as you frantically covered your mouth with both hands to choke back the sob of pure terror rising in your chest.

what the fuck is this? 

what the fuck did he do?

don’t scream. if you scream, he’ll know exactly how much of his little theater you’ve torn apart.

there was no time to feel the dizzying slide of panic in your veins. your body, now operating on a raw survival code, simply forced you up. you scrambled off the floorboards of that room, your numb fingers catching the edge of the doorframe to drag yourself out. and immediately, you pulled the wooden door shut behind you.

you stood in the hallway, your chest heaving in ragged hitches, your hands pressed flat against your ribs to keep your heart from bursting out of your skin. calm down. calm down. if you pass out now, you're dead.

you gulped down the air of the hallway, forcing your legs to carry you back to the living room. you limped to the windowpane, your fingertips pressing against the cold glass as you peered out into the misty clearing.

the truck hood was still open. the wrench was resting on the battery.

but caleb was gone.

shit. 

shit, where is he?

a cold prickling wave of dread washed down the back of your neck, and you abruptly turned around—

and there he was.

caleb was leaning casually against the laminate kitchen counter, holding a clear glass of water and slowly drinking from it. his violet eyes watched you over the rim, perfectly still, perfectly calm, tracking the frantic movement of your shoulders. he then lowered the glass, setting it down on the counter with a hollow thud, before using the back of his hand to wipe a stray drop of moisture from his chin.

“what's wrong?” he asked, a sweet smile touching the corners of his mouth. “why do you look so pale, [name]?”

you couldn't even bring yourself to answer. 

is he... is he the one with the mask? 

no, it didn't make sense. you had bitten the masked man's sleeve, you had wedged your knee into his chest, you had run while caleb found you. but the room... the photos of you and your friends with a black line through their face... the dead bodies...

it was an orchestration, wasn't it? 

a sick, meticulously trap designed to drop you right into his waiting arms. and he was playing the savior so perfectly. 

this sick bitch.

caleb's brow furrowed, his expression changing into a soft look of pure concern. “hey, are you alright?”

he looked so soft. he looked like the kind of boy you could rely on when the world was falling apart. it was disgusting. it was terrifying.

your eyes darted wildly around the room. a weapon. i need a weapon right now. your gaze flicked to the fireplace tools—the heavy iron poker—but it was too far. you looked to the kitchen counter, but caleb was blocking the knives. you were trapped.

caleb’s brow raised slightly, his tone softening even more. “are you hurt? did the wounds on your thighs start bothering you again? let me see, i can—”

“stay back!” you screamed, the sound tearing out of your throat, raw and jagged. you pressed your back hard against the wall near the window. “i'm getting out of this house! don't you dare come near me! stay the fuck back!”

caleb stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in what looked like genuine fear. the sudden outburst actually seemed to startle him. he quickly raised both of his hands in front of his chest, palms open and facing you in a classic gesture of surrender.

“whoa—whoa, [name], okay! easy,” he stammered, his voice trembling slightly as if your anger was physically hurting him. the safe-boy mask was still pinned so perfectly to his face. “i’m not coming closer. i swear. please, just breathe. the engine... i’m almost done fixing it, okay? just ten more minutes. please, just sit down, calm down, and let me make you some tea—"

you didn't let him finish.

you didn't care about his hands, or his voice, or the pathetic, frightened look in his eyes. you just lunged toward the front door, your feet slipping slightly on the timber—

“don't open that fucking door, [name].”

you stopped.

the hand you had stretched toward the brass deadbolt froze, hovering barely an inch from the metal. you couldn't move. your feet felt as though they had been poured into the floor, rooted by a sudden paralyzing instinct that warned you any sudden movement would end in violence. you didn't look back at him. you couldn't bring yourself to face whatever had just taken the place of the guy that had been so good to you.

then, you heard him sigh. 

it wasn't the frustrated breath of a man losing his temper, but an almost endearing sound, like a parent watching a child refuse to eat their dinner. the scuff of his socks against the wood started up again, drawing closer and closer.

“i'm sorry...” 

another step closer.

“you just... you've been acting so off since this morning, [name]. why won't you just trust me?”

the hypocrisy of it reeked. 

you didn't move as he stepped into your space. the heat of his chest pressed nearly against your back, casting his shadow completely over the door. slowly, his hand reached around your face, fingers remarkably steady while they caught the edge of your jaw, gently but firmly lifting your chin. his skin was hot against your cold face. and with his other hand, he reached past your shoulder, his fingers intentionally wrapping around the brass handle of the door.

your breath hitched.

god, what do i do?

your mind scrambled and dug into the walls of your brain, fighting to find a way out. you couldn't fight him—not with your legs this torn up, not in his territory. if you ran, he’d track you down in the timber in minutes. if you screamed, no one would hear you. so...

the only way out was to play the game. 

you had to dismantle him from the inside, lower his guard, and make him believe his perfect plan was working exactly as planned.

you gulped, forcing the frantic rhythm of your chest to slow down, forcing your hands to uncurl. then, slowly, you turned your head to meet caleb's questioning gaze.

his face was so close, eyes wide and looking down at you with a searching innocence that made your stomach twist with revulsion. he looked like he genuinely cared. he looked like he was waiting for you to tell him it was all just a bad dream.

“i...” 

you looked at his lips, then back up to his eyes. 

“i found it.”

caleb’s brow furrowed, his head tilting slightly to the side as his fingers finally removed themselves from your chin. “found what, [name]?”

“the... the pictures,” you whispered, letting your gaze drop to his chest, then slowly rise back to his face, just to make sure your eyes looked warm and convincing enough. “in that room. i... i found everything, caleb.”

the wind outside seemed to die down, leaving only the sound of your own breathing.

you just hoped to yourself that whatever it is you were planning would also work as perfectly as caleb's did. otherwise, the universe would be a sick, unfair thing.

caleb just blinked down at you, and you couldn't seem to figure out what look he had on his face. his eyes, reflecting the dim light of the cabin, stared into yours without a single shred of readable emotion. it was like looking into a pair of deep wells.

he smiled, then.

a screeping tilt of his mouth that crinkled the edges of his eyes, blooming into a face of what seemed like euphoric disbelief.

“you found them?”

“yes,” you forced a shaky laugh to escape your lips, playing the part of the girl who had finally found her savior. “and i... i just wish you would've told me sooner, b-because... i've been waiting.” you gulped. “i've been waiting for you, too.”

caleb put on a frown. “really? you... you aren't disgusted? you accept me?”

you swallowed hard, nodding your head. “yes, i accept you.”

“even if i've been plotting this since high school, [name]?”

“even then,” you whispered, nodding again.

“even if it took me this long to finally find the courage to speak to you?”

“yes.”

“even if...” you watched the way his eyes narrowed, lingering just right below your neck. “i killed people for you?”

your stomach did a sickening flip, but you forced your expression to remain compliant. “even then.”

“even if it thrilled me when i cut your thighs?”

when i cut your thighs...?

so the man in the car... the monster with the knife...

it really was him.

but how? where was the car he had used? how had he chased you through the mud, sliced your legs, and then somehow circled back to “find” you and carry you to his cabin without a single drop of mud on his clothes? how had he flawlessly executed a sequence that should have been physically impossible? and if he was this dead-obsessed with you—if he had built a literal shrine to your existence in his spare room—why would he hurt you? why would he carve into your flesh?

is he really that fucked in the head? 

he wasn't just an obsessive stalker. he was a sadist. a monster who needed to break you, to bleed you, just so he could be the one to stitch you back together and play the hero.

you had to answer. you had to.

forcing your eyes to soften, forcing the horror back into the darkest corners of your mind, you let out a trembling sigh. 

“yes.” 

the shuddering breath that left caleb’s chest was shaky, thick with an almost pathetic relief. 

he let his eyes slip shut, his shoulders finally dropping when he leaned forward to rest his forehead directly against yours. it's like he left only the boy who looked entirely drunk on your submission.

only now you realized that his fingers were already on your neck, sliding up to tangle into the strands of your hair and cradling your head like a piece of porcelain. “such a pretty, pretty little thing... i knew you'd understand. i knew it had to be you.”

but behind your closed eyes, your mind was nothing but a machine. you gulped, the sensation of his hand on your throat still making your skin crawl, but you forced your pulse to steady. keep it together. you needed to break this stalemate. you couldn't stay in this cabin for another hour, let alone another night. if you kept playing the passive victim, he would keep you here forever.

you needed him weak. you needed him distracted, his guard completely shattered, so you could find an opening, grab whatever heavy object was closest, and run.

and the fastest way to blind a boy like caleb was to give him exactly what he’d been dreaming about since high school.

without saying a word, you reached up, your fingers wrapping slowly around the side of his jaw. 

caleb perked up instantly. 

his eyes snapped open, pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the deep purple of his irises. he looked down at you with a breathless, desperate anticipation—like a stray puppy waiting for a hand to finally feed it.

and then, dreadfully, you leaned in and pressed your lips against his.

it's the perfect distraction, and–

you had experience. you knew the rhythm of it, how to tilt your head, how to apply just enough pressure to make a man lose his focus. but caleb was an entirely different story.

the moment your lips met his, his entire body went rigid. for a split second, he didn't even seem to know how to breathe, his lips dry and unmoving against yours as if the sheer shock of the contact had short-circuited his brain. it was the kiss of a boy who had never done this before—clumsy, hesitant, and utterly terrified of breaking the illusion.

but the innocence didn't last.

“mhmm—” 

as the realization of what was happening finally sank into his brain, caleb got completely carried away. another needy groan vibrated deep in his throat—a desperate sound that echoed in the cabin. before you could even pull away, his large hand slid down from your neck, arms wrapping tightly around your waist like iron bands.

and with a sudden tug, he pulled you backward. his bare thighs hit the armrest of the nearby couch, and he sank onto it, dragging you with him until you were standing flush between his knees.

he didn't let go of your mouth for a single second. the kisses became heavier, deeper, and uncomfortably loud as his lips parted against yours. a deep frown was etched across his brow, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as if he were trying to force himself to wake up from a dream he couldn't quite comprehend. 

the sound of his mouth against yours suddenly cut off as caleb pulled back. he didn't go far—just a fraction of an inch, just enough for the cold draft of the cabin to rush between your lips, leaving them chilled and slick. his chest was heaving, torso expanding and contracting in heavy hitches while he stared directly into your eyes. 

from this close, the bruised purple of his pupils looked almost black, dilated so wide that the iris was nearly gone.

slowly, a cruel smirk carved its way across his mouth.

“you're good,” caleb whispered, his voice a low vibration that brushed against your wet lips.

“you're really, really good, [name]. but i'm not an easy guy to fool.”

your hands, still resting against the sides of his neck, went cold.

“you saw everything. of course you're terrified of me.” his smirk widened, and his fingers tightened around your hips. “you even wanted to run out that door the second you realized what i did. so... what are you kissing me for, huh?”

your eyes widened slightly, your breath catching in your throat. he knows. the universe was indeed a sick, unfair thing, but you should have expected this. as irreversibly sick in the head as caleb xia was, he wasn't stupid. he was an engineer. he spent his life calculating variables, measuring tolerances, and anticipating failure points. of course he had planned for the possibility of you trying to manipulate him.

you couldn't speak. your tongue felt like lead in your mouth as you simply stared at him, the carefully crafted mask of compliance slipping away to reveal the terror underneath.

seeing the fear finally return to your face, caleb let out an amused sigh. he pulled back a bit more, putting a physical distance between your faces, though he remained sitting on the armrest with you standing locked between his knees. deliberately, his hands slid off your hips, his arms dropping to his sides in a gesture that looked mockingly like surrender.

“if you're really that scared of me... then go. run away. the door is right there.”

he nodded toward the exit behind you.

it felt too good to be true. it was a trap—it had to be. but as you stared at the brass deadbolt just feet away, your survival instinct screamed at you that staying here, trapped between his knees, was a guaranteed death sentence. it would be incredibly stupid not to take a chance in a desperate situation like this. if you could just get the door open, if you could just reach the misty treeline...

you inhaled a sharp breath, gathering every ounce of strength left in your aching thighs.

then, you turned on your heel and lunged for the door.

but you didn't even make it a single step.

before your foot could fully plant on the floor, caleb’s hand abruptly wrapped around your upper arm like a steel cuff. and with a violent surge of strength, he tugged you harshly backward. the world instantly spun in a blur of gray as your feet lost their grip, and your body was slammed hard down onto the cushions of the couch. 

“ah—!”

and before you knew it, caleb was already over you.

it was indeed too good to be true. 

his frame completely pinned you into the deep cushions, blocking out the light, the room, and the air. and immediately, as if afraid that he might also lose a chance, his mouth was already devouring yours from above.

it wasn't the clumsy kiss of a boy anymore. it was a rabid, starving thing. he pinned your wrists to the couch on either side of your head, his calloused hands locking over your joints with a crushing force that left no room for struggle. you writhed beneath him, trying to turn your head away, trying to keep your neck angled high to escape the suffocating heat of his face, but he simply used his weight to hold you down, lapping at your mouth, his lips parting yours with a wild hunger.

“god— hmm...” he was kissing you as if he were trying to pull the very breath out of your lungs, his head tilting from side to side to drink you in deeper, harder, completely losing himself in the taste of you.

finally.

that was the only word echoing through the hollow spaces of his head as he crushed your body beneath his. finally.

your fingers, pinned flat against the couch, twitched helplessly beneath the crushing weight of his palms. you tried to keep up. you tried to keep your head above, trying to maintain the distance that had kept you alive since last night. but the overwhelming reality of him was starting to dissolve the boundaries of your own mind.

why were you keeping up? 

all of this, all of it—it was a visceral assault on your senses. it felt gross. it felt incredibly, deeply gross to be the literal centerpiece of a sick years-long blueprint, to have your body subjected to the whims of his twisted fantasies. but as his weight settled more heavily beside your thighs, pinning you down until you couldn't move an inch...

it felt... good?

it felt good.

you found yourself ghost-blinking, your vision swimming as a sudden feverish warmth crawled up from your chest, flooding your throat and burning across your cheeks, before pooling into an ache in your lower body. you were completely paralyzed by it, caught in a terrifying tug-of-war between your survival instincts and a thrill you had never felt before. but you didn't dare kiss him back. you kept your lips stiff, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, even as your body betrayed you.

caleb, still lapping hungrily at your mouth, finally and unwillingly began to pull away.

the transition was painfully slow, his lips dragging against yours with a heavy reluctance. as he lifted his head just a few inches, a glistening string of saliva stretched between your parted lips, bridging the tiny gap between you before it finally snapped.

your chest hitched. 

the sight of it made a burning blush erupt across your face. you couldn't explain it to yourself. you didn't know how to place the sudden, wild drumming of your pulse. it felt like discovering a hidden corridor inside your own house, a door you had never known existed, and you had absolutely no idea what to do with the monster waiting inside it.

above you, caleb stared down. his eyes narrowed, glassy, and wild, like a lovesick dog that had finally been thrown a scrap of meat but was still starving for the whole meal.

his fingers tightened around your wrists with a sudden bruising force, pinning your arms so hard against the leather you could feel the pulse in his own palms hammering against your skin. 

“i didn't do any of this to hurt you, [name],” he whispered frantically, eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of comprehension in your gaze. “you have to believe me. you have to understand. i've been so quiet for so long. for five years- five years of watching you from afar, watching you walk home, watching other people take your time, watching them treat you like you were just... normal.” a breathless laugh escaped his lips. “like you weren't the center of the fucking universe.”

his forehead dropped for a split second to press against yours, closing his eyes shut.

“the people who tried to touch you, the ones who thought they had a right to you—” then, he opens his eyes ajar, pulling away just an inch. “i had to clear them out. i had to. because no one else could love you like this. no one else would go this far for you, [name].” 

he gulps, letting out a small grunt. “no one.”

his grip on your wrists tightened even more, the bones of your hands aching under his hold, but his expression was so incredibly, terrifyingly soft. 

“tell me you understand that. please. tell me you see it now.”

he didn't look away, he couldn't. his entire body trembled with the weight of his own confession, desperately waiting for you to say something. to curse him, to scream, to agree—anything.

but you remained flush beneath his grip.

you lay there, pinned to the couch. the words washed over you in a dizzying wave, but you couldn't process a single one. you couldn't think. you couldn't move. you could only listen to the rhythmic beating of your heart against your chest. only that. 

caleb watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracking the silent rhythm of your breath as you lay trapped beneath him. you weren't screaming. you weren't trying to tear your wrists from his fingers anymore.

a drop of satisfaction settled into his features. to a mind as twisted as his, the absence of a fight wasn't fear—it was an invitation. it was consent.

slowly, his gaze drifted away from your face. his eyes traveled down the column of your throat, sliding past the open collar of his oversized flannel shirt, before tracking the line of your torso. and finally, his eyes landed specifically on your thighs.

even beneath the sweatpants, the muscles in your legs were locked rigid, your knees pressing together so tightly that the fabric was bunched and strained between your joints.

caleb raised a single brow. his eyes flicked from your locked knees back up to your face.

fuck.

the warmth that had pooled in your lower body was a physical weight now, and the fact that he was actively studying it made a sudden surge of panic flare up in your chest.

“let go,” you choked out, twisting your hips and jerking your wrists in a frantic effort to hide yourself from his stare. 

his palms remained locked over your wrists like iron clamps, while he just watched your struggles with a curiosity, his head tilting slightly. “why are you doing that?” 

you stopped twisting, your teeth clicking together as your glare turned into a frown. “doing what?”

then, without warning, the suffocating weight above you vanished.

caleb simply let go of your wrists. he rose from the couch in one motion, his bare feet hitting the timber floor without a sound. 

he turned his gaze entirely toward the front door. and when he turned his face back toward the couch, the sadist from a second ago was gone. his eyes were bright, his face soft, and that sweet, reliable smile was pinned neatly across his lips. “the engine is finally fixed. the moisture cleared out of the distributor cap while we were... catching up.”

you sat up slowly, your elbows trembling as you propped your weight up on the cushions. what the actual fuck?

“i can drive you home now,” caleb continued, walking over to the side table to pick up his truck keys. “or the police precinct. or anywhere else you want to go. let's get you sorted out, yeah?”

you just stared at him, completely bewildered, your brain grinding to a screeching halt. he couldn't just do this. he couldn't build a literal shrine to you, kiss you like that, pin you to a couch until you were wrecked, and then just pull back and offer to take you to a drive-thru the next second. it was insane. the sheer whiplash-inducing absurdity of his behavior was breaking your ability to process the situation.

caleb turned on his heel, turning his back to you as he took two easy strides toward the wooden exit.

fuck it.

your survival instinct was screaming at you to just let him open the door, to get into the truck and never look back, but the chaos of the entire afternoon had pushed you past the breaking point.

“caleb,” you called out.

he paused, his hand hovering just inches away from the door handle. smiling, he turned his head back over his shoulder.

“hmm?”

“what are you doing?” 

caleb fully turned his body away from the door, his hand dropping loosely to his side with the truck keys giving a jingle in his palm. “what do you mean?” 

a spike of frustration flared up in your chest, mixing dangerously with the adrenaline still lingering in your veins. what was he trying to pull? did this look like a joke to him? the absolute whiplash of his behavior—switching from a dead-obsessed guy on top of you to a polite, helpful one in the span of thirty seconds—was maddening. 

you took a slow breath, your fingers digging into the cushion of the couch. “replace the bandages,” you told him. “before we go anywhere. they're bleeding again.”

caleb blinked at you, a momentary flash of surprise crossing his features, but it was gone just as quickly as it came. 

“of course,” he murmured, setting the keys down on the kitchen counter. “give me a second.”

minutes later, the quiet of the cabin was broken only by the pop of the first-aid box latches. you sat on the edge of the couch, your spine rigid, watching caleb lowering himself onto one knee on the floor directly in front of you. he was focused, broad shoulders hunched forward while he neatly laid out the fresh rolls of gauze, the medical tape, and a packet of antiseptic wipes onto the small wooden coffee table.

you pursed your lips inward, your fingers reaching down to the elastic waistband of the grey sweatpants, preparing to roll the heavy fleece back up your thighs.

“actually,” caleb said, without looking up from his neat arrangement of the medical supplies. “take them off this time.”

your fingers froze against the fabric.

“the blood's probably soaked through to the inner lining by now,” he explained, before he lifted his eyes to meet yours through his bangs. “if you keep them on, the fabric's just going to rub against the fresh dressing while i'm driving. i'll just grab you a new pair of pants from my room before we walk out.”

you hesitated for a long, heavy second. every sensible instinct in your brain told you to refuse, to maintain whatever boundary you had left. but there was something else shifting beneath the surface—a pull of submission, a curiosity that quietly nudged you to just see how far this would go.

keeping your eyes locked on his face, your hands gripped the waistband. you slid the fleece down past your hips, down your thighs, and kicked the sweatpants away, leaving your legs bare, covered in nothing but your underwear.

but caleb didn't look.

he didn't lean in, he didn't smirk, and his eyes didn't wander down the exposed line of your hips. instead, he kept his gaze entirely focused on the task at hand, his fingers moving with a careful discipline as he reached out and gently peeled back the blood-stained cotton from your torn skin.

“sorry,” his thumb lightly brushed the undamaged skin just above the laceration to steady his hand. “sorry about these.”

even with the pants gone, you couldn't help it—your knees were still locked together, your inner thighs pressing flush against each other in an instinctive attempt to hide the dampness ruined into your underwear.

with a fresh roll of gauze held between his fingers, caleb looked up at you from his knee on the floor. his expression was entirely too innocent, brow tilting up with that infuriatingly boyish look.

“if you keep pressing your legs together like that, i won't be able to wrap the tension properly. they're just going to split again.” he let out a quiet chuckle. “come on. relax for a second.”

the audacity of the sound made your jaw tighten. you didn't know what was happening to you anymore. the logic of the world had unraveled within the span of an hour. you knew who he was now; you knew what lay behind that closed door down the hall. you should have been frozen in pure, unadulterated terror. you should have been vomiting from the revulsion of sitting naked in front of a monster.

but you weren't. 

instead, that heat was turning into a literal ache between your hips. your pulse was hammering directly into the cushion beneath you, your skin hyper-aware of the cool air traveling over your bare skin. why are you like this? why do you want him to do something?

with a gulp, you slowly let your muscles give way.

you spread your legs just an inch or two, exposing the wet patch blooming right through the center of your cotton panties.

caleb’s eyes dropped down.

he stared at the damp fabric for one long, unblinking second, but he just wordlessly forced his gaze back down to the lacerations on your right thigh, his throat moving as he swallowed hard. his hands became incredibly precise, almost stiff, as he rapidly laid the clean pad down and began winding the white gauze around your leg, securing it with three tight strips of medical tape.

once the final piece of tape was smoothed down against your skin, caleb didn't linger. he immediately picked up the discarded wrappers, dropping them into the white first-aid box and snapping the latches shut.

you blinked, the sudden withdrawal leaving you feeling strangely hollow. trying to shake the dizzying fog from your head, you leaned forward, your fingers reaching toward the floor to grab the discarded sweatpants.

“are you just going to leave it like that?”

caleb’s voice cut through the room, low and raspy. 

your hand froze on the fleece.

then, you looked up. he was still kneeling between your feet, his hands resting flat against his own knees. 

“do you want to take care of that too before we go?” he had asked.

the question left you staring at him, bewildered, with your mouth parting slightly. you felt yourself grow even wetter, the cotton clinging miserably to your skin as the ache intensified.

caleb didn't wait for a verbal answer, because your reaction was written entirely across your burning face.

he stared at you for one more second, and then, his hands reached forward, fingers wrapped firmly around the insides of your knees. with an unyielding pressure, he pushed his arms outward, spreading your legs even wider, just to leave you open and exposed to him.

he kept his dilated eyes locked directly onto yours from below, his mouth curving into a small smile. “i guess that makes the two of us, then.”

his thumbs swept slowly across your skin, tracing burning circles right over the edges of the fresh white bandages, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“you're shaking,” the contrast was dizzying—the innocent smile still pinned to his face while his pupils were dilated so wide they looked like pools of leaked ink. “is it because it's cold in here, [name]? or is it because you're finally realizing you belong right here?”

“shut up.” you choked out, your knuckles turning white as you dug your fingernails into the cushions beneath you. your brain was screaming at you, a siren warning you that this was the man who had carved into your flesh, the monster who had mapped out your entire life on a corkboard down the hall. 

but your body was operating on an entirely different command. the dampness between your legs had soaked through the cotton, and the cool air of the cabin rushing over your exposed skin made the ache unbearable.

caleb let out an amused hum, the sound vibrating against your bare knees as he slowly lowered his head. he leaned in close to your right leg, his warm breath fanning across your skin a second before his lips pressed down against your inner thigh.

god.

the kiss was slow, heavy, and searingly hot. he dragged his mouth upward, his lips parting slightly as he nipped at the soft skin just an inch away from the white gauze wrap. you let out an involuntary gasp, your hips jerking slightly against the couch.

“caleb—stop—” the protest was weak, entirely devoid of any real force.

“can't do that,” he whispered against your skin. “you're too wet, [name]. it's messy. let me clean it up for you.”

he shifted, dropping fully to both knees between your feet while his hands slid up from your knees, his palms flattening against the outsides of your hips, anchoring you into the cushions so firmly you couldn't move an inch even if you tried. he looked up at you one last time, a lovesick gaze taking over his features before he bent his head down completely.

his nose nudged the edge of your panties, pushing the damp cotton aside with a single finger until he found you.

when his tongue first made contact, a broken sob immediately tore right out of your throat.

“hngh-!”

it was slow. agonizingly slow. caleb wasn't rushing to finish, it was like he was testing you, studying the way your breath hitched, measuring just how much you resisted him. his tongue was broad, hot, and thick as he swiped it upward, tracing the sensitive length of your clit with his mouth. it made your toes curl inside his wool socks, your back arching off the couch.

“you can't... just...” your logic was losing the war, shattering into pieces under the heat of his mouth.

caleb let out a rumble of satisfaction against your skin, his hands gripping your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh. he began to pick up the pace, his tongue lapping at you hungrily and drinking in the sweet taste of your cunt with an uncomfortably loud sucking. 

he was testing himself too, learning the exact angles that made you writhe, the specific way that made your breathing turn into desperate pants. every time you tried to pull away, tried to reassemble the logic that told you he was dangerous, he would use his tongue to push you right back over the edge, lapping you down from below until you were helpless under his control.

“you taste so good,” he gasped out, pulling away for a mere fraction of a second, his lips shiny and wet in the dim light before he buried his face right back between your thighs. “so perfect. i knew you would. i knew it.”

the heat between your thighs suddenly vanished, leaving the sensitive skin tingling and cold against the drafty air of the cabin. you let out a whine, your head tossing against the cushion as you blinked through the dizzying haze of pleasure.

but caleb didn't give you room to breathe.

he crawled up your body like a shadow, his large frame blocking out the rest of the room as he pinned you back down into the couch. he was panting, his purple eyes fixed on your face with a rabid hunger.

“you're... so loud for me, [name],” he rasped, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that brushed against your burning cheek. “i love it. i love hearing what i do to you.”

before you could even gather the breath to respond, his hands slid up your torso, his fingers hooking into the front of the oversized flannel shirt. with one tug, he parted the fabric to bare your chest to the cool air and his scorching gaze. your breath hitched sharply as his eyes locked onto your breasts.

“...so beautiful. so perfect.” he breathed.

and immediately, caleb leaned down, his mouth targeting your left breast while his large hand cupped the right one, his calloused thumb rubbing over the sensitive tip with a pinch that made you arch off the cushions. when his hot tongue finally swiped across your nipple, a broken gasp tore out of your throat.

he took your nipple into his mouth, his lips locking around it as he sucked deeply, pulling the sensitive nub against the roof of his mouth. 

“caleb—ah! wait—” you whimpered, your hands flying to his broad shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle to push him away.

your logic was screaming at you, a fading voice telling you how humiliating this was, how deeply wrong it was to be falling apart under the touch of the man who had orchestrated your capture. the shame burned hotter than the blush on your face. but even as your hands pressed against his shoulders to push, your hips instinctively tilted upward, begging for something more, for something else. 

caleb switched sides, his wet mouth dragging across your chest to devour your other breast, his tongue lapping and swirling around the stiff peak until you were panting.

“...you like it,” he murmured against your skin, “you want more, don't you? tell me.”

“no... i don't—ah!”

the lie died instantly in your throat, turning into a ragged sob as a sudden intrusion stretched you open from below.

while your mind had been entirely consumed by the sensation of his mouth on your tits, caleb had slid his hand back down your abdomen. his fingers had touched the cotton of your underwear, and without a single word of warning, he had buried two of his fingers deep inside your tight warmth.

the suddenness of it made your toes curl once more, your fingers instantly gripping his hair to pull him hard against your chest. his fingers were so long, stretching you open before he immediately began to pump them inside you, his knuckles rubbing hard against your clit with every thrust.

caleb's tongue dragged flat over your wet nipple, his teeth catching the peak just hard enough to make your hips jerk off the cushions. he sucked it deep into his mouth, chest expanding with a rough breath while his two fingers drove all the way into you, bottoming out against your tight walls.

the sliding sound of his knuckles against your soaked panties filled the space between you, sharp and uncomfortably loud.

caleb pulled his mouth away from your breast, his eyes locked onto yours with his messy bangs brushing your forehead. a slow, small smile crept across his lips—that same dependable expression he used when he was tending to you last night, now utterly curdled by the sight of you pinned beneath him like this.

“shh, it's okay,” he whispered, suddenly pulling his fingers out of your heat. “i'm just taking care of you, [name]. we can't have you getting into the truck all wet like this,” and then, he plunges them back into you much, much deeper again. “that'd be something, wouldn't it?” 

“fuck you,” you choked out, the curse losing all its weight when he suddenly hooked his fingers and drove them faster, hitting your spot with a punishing pace.

“ah—! caleb—”

you were a complete hypocrite. 

your brain was screaming at you that this was the man who had planned your isolation, the monster who had cut your legs, but your body was entirely detached from your sanity. shame burned hot in your throat, a nauseating weight in your stomach, but as he drove his fingers in even faster, your knees instinctively fell further apart.

you spread yourself wider for him, your thighs loosening and opening your pussy to his hands as you chased the pressure of his knuckles.

caleb let out a grunt that was followed by a chuckle, “hmm, look at you. look how wide you're opening up for me.”

he drove his hand in harder, his thumb pressing firmly against your clit, rubbing in circles with every wet thrust. 

“caleb, please—fuck—stop, it's too much—!”

“no, it's not?” he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath blooming against your skin. “you want this. just take it, [name]. let me finish taking care of you.”

the friction inside you became too much, the pressure of his knuckles building into a wave that you couldn't fight anymore. your breath caught in your chest, your fingers clawing uselessly at the fabric of his hoodie as you felt something tightening into a knot in your lower abdomen. your logic, your shame, the memory of the room down the hall—everything completely shattered as the sensation pushed you over the edge.

you fell straight into an orgasm.

“caleb—ah! caleb!”

your thighs convulsed, legs trembling against the cushions as you came hard right against his hand, the muscles inside you clamping down around his fingers in pulses. you were utterly mortified, tears of pure overstimulation stinging the corners of your eyes, but your body was utterly out of your control.

and caleb didn't stop.

even as your hips bucked and your legs shook, he kept his fingers inside you just to continue to pump his hand. he didn't slacken the pace for a single second, driving his hand in deep, forcing you to ride out the hypersensitive waves of the climax. 

“aw, look at that,” he squeezed and grunted his voice. “look how much you're cumming for me, [name].”

he gave two more deep, dragging thrusts, bottoming out against your walls one last time before he finally and slowly curled his fingers and pulled his hand out of you.

the sudden withdrawal left you feeling empty, shivering instantly as the cool air hit your wet skin. you lay there helpless, your arms thrown back against the cushions, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. 

you watched the way caleb lifted his wet hand, how his fingers were coated in your orgasm, shining in the low light. keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he brought his hand to his mouth and wrapped his lips around his middle fingers, sucking the slick moisture off his skin.

you widened your eyes, “hey, that's-”

he suddenly reached up, his palm resting gently on the top of your head. his fingers smoothed through your messy hair, patting you with a smile that felt terrifyingly domestic, like a pet owner rewarding a good animal. 

“there,” caleb murmured. “is that already better, [name]? did i take good care of it for you?”

he let his hand slide down from your hair, his thumb lightly brushing the side of your knee where your legs lay loose and parted against the cushions.

“no more legs tightening now, right?”

“shut up.”

caleb stayed kneeling between your feet for a few moments longer, his serene smile never wavering as his thumb traced a gentle circle on the side of your knee. “i'll get those pants for you now.” 

he stood up, his bare feet making no sound against the floor while he walked toward the hallway. you watched his broad frame disappear down the corridor, heading toward the bedroom—past the heavy wooden door that held the corkboards, the maps, the candid photos of your life, and the polaroids of the dead.

the second he was out of sight, the spell broke.

the fog in your brain cleared with a sudden, violent snap. the shame was a bitter taste in the back of your throat, but you couldn't afford to sink into it. your legs were loose now, the tight tension gone, replaced by a cold adrenaline. you sat up, your bare feet hitting the floor. 

you didn't wait for the new pants, instead you grabbed the discarded ones on the floor and put them back on again. 

then, your eyes locked onto the kitchen counter.

there, resting on the laminate wood right next to the empty glass of water, was the heavy metal keyring. the keys to the truck.

holding your breath, you stood up on your trembling, bandaged legs. every step was a sharp flare of agony against the fresh gauze, but you pushed through it, padding silently across the living room. your fingers closed around the cold metal of the keys, wrapping tight to keep them from jingling.

you turned toward the front door, before your hand gripped the brass deadbolt.

click.

the sound of the latch releasing felt as loud as a gunshot in the cabin.

“[name?]”

you didn't look back. you threw the door open, the air of the misty afternoon hitting your bare skin like a physical blow. you lunged out into the gray light, your wool-socked feet slipping on the wet grass as you sprinted toward the open hood of the truck.

slimming into the driver's seat, you jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. the engine roared to life, coughing violently before settling into a rumble.

through the grimy windshield, you saw him.

caleb had stepped out onto the porch of the cabin. he didn't run down the steps. he didn't scream your name. he just stood there in the mist, holding a pair of neatly folded red flannel pajama pants in his left hand. his eyes locked onto yours through the glass, his face entirely expressionless as the wind whipped his messy bangs across his forehead.

you slammed the truck into reverse, the tires spinning and spraying thick mud into the air as you backed out of the clearing. you threw the gear into drive, stamping your foot down on the gas pedal, tearing down the overgrown dirt track that led toward the highway.

the trees blurred past in a sickening rush of green and gray. you were breathing hard, tears finally spilling over your hot cheeks as you gripped the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turned white. 

finally, you were escaping. you were going home.

but as your eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, watching the silhouette of the cabin disappear into the dense timber behind you, a sickening realization settled deep into your chest.

you had the truck. you had the keys. but he had the blueprints. he had your schedule, your routes, your predictable blind spots, and the black line drawn neatly across the face of everyone you loved. you were driving back to the city, back to your life, but you knew—with a certainty—that you were just moving along the exact path he had already paved for you.

he can't seem to stop himself from responding to the plushness of your lips, to the apple flavored gloss that you are too fond of wearing, to the warmth of your body pressed against his.

he should have stopped after one night. he should have declined the invitations that followed.

he made a rule to only oblige the other officers once a month but after that night, after telling himself so many times to stop, he finds himself coming back.

there was something special about you.

something special that somehow keeps the nightmares at bay on nights he lets you stay over, your breathing steady beside him in the dark.

something special that sometimes lets him pretend a life of normalcy. 

a life without ever's shadow. without the fleet.

a life of not needing to protect his adoptive sister. 

a life where there is only you and him, tangled in sheets that smelled like your shampoo.

but it was not this life.

this could never be this life.

wish you made me stay

wish you didn't let me run away

guess you knew that i would never change

'cause i'm no good at lying

to someone as good as you

you seem to understand though.

despite the obvious feelings that you have for him. 

despite the obvious love in your subtle actions, in the way you would leave his favorite coffee on his desk without being asked, in how you would squeeze his hand twice under the table during briefings when you noticed his jaw clenching. 

despite the hope in your eyes, the hope that lived stubbornly every time you looked at him, you understand why he cannot name your relationship anything.

you don't ask questions, even when your things started to fill his apartment or his in yours.

you don't demand answers even when your toothbrush appeared next to his, when your books started filling his shelves, when your clothes started filling half of his wardrobe and his jacket became a permanent fixture in yours.

you seem to understand his silence, his secrecy in the things that he does in the dead of night when he thought you were sleeping. 

you don't ask about the nightmares that plague him, about the nightmares that made him wake up choking on screams he wouldn't let escape. 

you are simply giving yourself to him as he would take you. 

and he took and took and took until he felt hollowed out with guilt.

you make yourself available when he needs you outside your work at the fleet.

when he gets rough in bed, lost in something dark and desperate, you let him. 

you hold him after as tears and apologies leave his lips.

"it's okay," you would whisper. "i got you. i'm here."

but he knew you shouldn't be.

he feels guilty with every lie, every text he ignores.

guilty when you would brighten seeing him in the halls and he would force himself to nod curtly, pretending those weren't the same lips he had kissed raw the night before. 

guilty when you would laugh at something another officer said and he would feel that sick, possessive twist in his gut, because he had no right to feel possessive over something he refused to claim.

he wishes he could give something back, but he does not want you to be part of his already troublesome and dangerous life.

in another life maybe. 

in another life, he would keep you. 

he would marry you. 

he would give you everything you deserved and more.

but not this one.

never this one.

when he finally reunites with his little sister after she and the hunter association tried to infiltrate the fleet, he makes up his mind to end it.

his heart and mind quarrel. 

he does not want to let you go.

not really. 

but he was only one man. 

his little sister will always be his priority.

he cannot protect the two of you.

it's not that he doesn't try to find a way. 

he lies awake for weeks, running through scenarios, contingencies, plans within plans, but every path leads to the same conclusion. 

eventually, ever will notice you.

eventually, they will realize what you mean to him.

and eventually, they will use you to make him comply.

or worse, they will simply just eliminate you.

better to break your heart now. 

better to have you reassigned far away where you will be safe, where you will hate him but live.

better that than to be forced to choose between you and mei.

better that than watching you die because of him, because he was selfish enough to keep you close. 

better not see you again than be put into a spot where he chooses mei over you and see you suffer because of ever.

he cannot live a life like that, no.

no he can't.

he won't.

so he makes the call, pulls strings, arranges your transfer.

and then he has to tell you.

he remembers the unshed tears you fight when he tells you about your reassignment, about the end of you and him.

remembers how you stood in his apartment, the apartment that had become partly yours, with your arms wrapped around yourself.

"when?" your voice barely a whisper.

"two weeks."

you nodded.

you just nodded, like he only told you about a schedule change instead of ripping your heart out.

he knows you want to say something, to fight, to ask why, to ask what you had done wrong, to ask if any of it had been real.

he wants to tell you you did nothing wrong, that you had been perfect, too perfect, too good.

too everything he did not deserve.

he wanted to tell you that yes, it had been real, more real than anything else in his godforsaken life.

but he can't. 

he already made up his mind.

and caleb xia always saw his missions through.

even when the mission was breaking both your hearts.

"okay," you said finally, and that one word hurt worse than if you had screamed at him. "okay."

when you turned to leave, and he almost, almost, called you back. 

he almost told you the truth.

he almost begged you to stay despite knowing it would doom you.

but he didn't.

the door closed.

within three days, all your things disappear from his apartment.

he comes home to find a box outside his door.

his hoodie you had stolen, his dog tags you had worn tucked under your shirt, the book he had been reading to you on lazy sunday mornings, a photo strip from that stupid booth you had dragged him to where you were laughing and he was almost smiling.

no note.

nothing.

you had erased yourself from his life as quickly and quietly as you had once fit into it, and that hurt most of all, that you made it easy for him. 

that you didn't fight.

why did you not fight?

why did you just let him go?

your absence is breaking him.

breaking him in ways the nightmares and the experiments never could.

your ghost is in his apartment. 

in every nook and cranny, despite the lack of your things there. 

he sees you curled on his couch with a book.

he hears your laugh echoing from the kitchen. 

he smells your perfume on the pillows even after he already washed them three times.

he finds one of your hair ties on the bathroom counter and has to brace himself against the sink, breathing hard, his reflection staring back with hollowed eyes.

your absence makes it hard for him to breathe.

at night, the nightmares return with a vengeance, he wakes up gasping, his hand automatically seeks the side of the bed you favor, seeking warmth that isn't there. 

he wishes that he could still feel you there, seeking the soft reassurance of your breathing, the way you would sleepily curl into him and murmur "i'm here, i'm here," until he could breathe again.

but you're not here.

you are gone, and he has no one to blame but himself.

work becomes unbearable.

he sees you in every aide who hands him reports. 

he hears your voice in every status update.

the coffee on his desk tastes wrong because it's not from you, made exactly how he likes it even though he never told you, you just knew.

mei notices. 

of course she does.

"you look terrible," she says bluntly one evening she stayed over, finding him sitting in the dark, staring at that photo strip he keeps in his desk drawer.

"i'm fine."

"you are not." she sits beside him, her expression softening as she sees the photo strip he is holding. "this is about your assistant, isn't it? the one who was transferred."

he doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

"caleb... did you love her?"

the question punches the air from his lungs.

love.

such a simple word for something that feels like it's killing him.

did he love you?

does he love you?

"it doesn't matter," he says finally.

"of course it matters—"

"no." his voice comes out harsher than intended. "it doesn't. she's safe now. that's what matters."

mei looks at him with pity, and he can't stand it.

he can't stand the reflection of his own misery in his sister's eyes.

"you can't protect everyone by pushing them away," she says quietly.

but he can try.

he has to try.

even if it destroys him.

three months later, he's in a different city for a classified operation when he sees her.

just a glimpse, a woman with your hair turning a corner in the station marketplace. 

his heart stops. 

his feet move before his brain catches up, pushing through the crowd, desperate and pathetic and not caring who sees.

but when he reaches the corner, it's not you.

of course it's not you.

you are in a different place now, safe from ever's reach, probably hating him, probably healing, probably learning to smile at someone new who isn't broken and lying and too cowardly to choose you.

he leans against the wall, breathing hard, feeling like he's been shot.

this is what he wanted. 

this was his choice.

so why does it feel like dying?

i tried, i tried to love you

i swear i tried

but how can i love you if you're not here?

late at night, when everything is quiet and mei is asleep and there's no one to see him fall apart, caleb lets himself remember.

he remembers the first time you fell asleep on his couch during late-night mission planning, your head on his shoulder, completely trusting. 

he remembers the morning you made him breakfast and he realized no one had done that for him ever since the explosion and his death. 

he remembers you patching up his split knuckles after a training incident, your touch so gentle he wanted to weep.

he remembers every time you looked at him like he hung the stars, like he was someone worth loving instead of a weapon pretending to be a man.

he tried.

he tried to love you the way you deserved.

but how can you love someone when you have already decided to let them go?

how can you hold on when you know your grip will only drag them down with you?

it's breaking me

i'm not just losing you

i'm losing what you saw in me

the worst part is not losing you.

the worst part is losing the version of himself that existed in your eyes. 

the man you saw when you looked at him, someone good, someone worthy, someone capable of being loved.

without you, he's just what he has always been.

a soldier, a weapon, a man with blood on his hands and lies in his mouth.

you made him believe he could be more.

and he threw it away.

why'd you let me let you go?

some nights, when the guilt and longing become too much, he imagines calling you. imagines begging you to come back. 

imagines telling you everything. 

about ever, about his sister, about the impossible position he's in and letting you decide if he's worth the risk.

but he never does.

because you deserve better than a love that comes with conditions. 

better than someone who will always choose duty over you. 

better than a man who's too broken to love you the way you loved him—completely, without reservation, without fear.

so he lives with the ghost of you.

he lives with the memory of what he had and what he destroyed.

he lives with the question that haunts him every single day.

why did you let me let you go?

why didn't you fight for us when i was too much of a coward to fight for myself?

but deep down, he knows the answer.

you let him go because you loved him enough to respect his choice.

even when that choice broke both your hearts.

even when that choice was the biggest mistake of his life.

and now all he has are regrets, and an empty apartment, and the phantom feeling of your hand in his that he will carry until his last breath.

caleb xia wishes and wishes for a lot of things.

he wishes he could go back to that first kiss and walk away.

he wishes he had never learned what it felt like to sleep beside you.

he wishes he had been strong enough to keep his distance from the start.

he wishes he had been brave enough to keep you.

but most of all, god, most of all, he wishes he hadn't let you go.

✈︎ tags: @seraphineash, @loreleis-world

"We're out of green onions," he announced with his head inside the fridge. "And ginger. Grandma said we have to buy soy sauce and it has to be the right brand."

"Which brand?"

He turned around with an expression that said he had absolutely no idea.

"Great," you said. "Really helpful."

"She showed me once. It has a red label. Or maybe yellow." He pulled out a tote bag from the cabinet and dropped it on the counter in your direction. "We'll figure it out when we're there."

"The market is a fifteen minute walk in this heat."

"Then we should leave now."

"Caleb—"

He was already heading for the door. "Come on."

You grabbed the bag and your sunglasses and followed him out into the heat, which hit you like a wall the second you stepped off the porch.

The neighborhood was quiet on summer afternoons, everyone wanted to be inside with their fans on. You walked beside Caleb through streets you'd both known since childhood, past the park, past the corner ice cream store with the faded awning, past Mrs. Yuen's house with the wind chimes that had been making the same sound for fifteen years.

He was telling you about an incident with a new recruit that had happened at a training exercise last month and you were laughing.

"Did he get hurt?" you managed.

"Bruised his ego more than anything." Caleb pushed your sunglasses up. "Poor guy spent the rest of the session pretending it hadn't happened."

The market was cool and smelled like the same brand of air freshener they'd been using since you were ten. You grabbed a basket and split off toward the vegetables while Caleb wandered in the direction of the snack aisle, which —you'd learned over years of shared grocery runs— meant you were going to spend the next several minutes complaining about his choices.

You found the green onions. Found the ginger. Turned the corner into the snack aisle and found Caleb standing in front of the chips with two bags in his hands, deliberating.

"We don't need chips," you said.

"Yes we do."

"We have food at home."

"Chips are not food, chips are a separate category." He held them both up. "Salt and vinegar or barbecue."

"Neither. We're here for dinner ingredients."

"And chips." He put the barbecue in the basket.

You took it out. He put it back in.

"Caleb."

"It's for the walk home. You'll want some on the walk home."

"You are so—" You stopped, pointed at his chest. "Fine. One bag. And you're carrying it."

He was already reaching for a second one.

"One bag."

"Salt and vinegar for you, barbecue for me. That's technically one bag each which is—"

"That's two bags."

"One per person."

You let him keep both bags because the alternative was standing in the snack aisle for another five minutes.

The soy sauce took longer. You found the section, found approximately ten different brands, and stood there for a moment in silence.

"Red label or yellow?" you said.

"I said I wasn't sure."

"You said you'd seen it."

"I'd seen it, I didn't memorize it."

"Caleb, if we get the wrong one—"

He picked one up, turned it over, put it back. Picked up another. "This one looks right."

He put it in the basket and you picked up a different one, compared the labels side by side, and put his back and kept yours.

He switched them back the moment you turned away.

------

You were outside, bag on Caleb's shoulder, chips already open when your hunter's watch went off.

The sound cut straight through everything. Your hand was in the chip bag one second and at your holster the next, the muscle memory of it faster than conscious thought. The screen had gone red.

Wanderer detected. Class: High energy anomaly. Proximity: 100 meters.

Caleb stepped in close "Behind the market. Let's go."

You were already moving.

---

The alley ran behind a row of shops, narrow and shadowed, the air warping at the far end and that meant the Wanderer had already been there long enough to disturb local reality. You pulled your gun and kept your back to the wall, moving fast. Caleb came in on the other side, gravity already building at his hands, the air around his knuckles bending in a way that meant he was ready.

The Wanderer was enormous, the geometry of it not quite making sense no matter which angle you looked from. It moved fast for something that size, swinging a limb in your direction before you'd fully cleared the corner.

You fired twice. The shots connected and it shrieked, momentum redirected enough that the hit meant for you shattered a section of wall instead.

"Flank!" Caleb called.

You were already going wide. He pulled gravity in from the left, compressing the Wanderer's movement, slowing it just enough for you to get behind it and put three more shots into the joint where two of its limbs connected. It screamed and lurched sideways.

"Keep it off the street," you yelled over the noise.

"Working on it." He dragged it backward with a gravity pull that made the pavement crack under the force of it, steering it further into the alley.

It was not a clean fight. It kept redirecting, slamming into the walls, filling the alley with debris that you had to dodge while maintaining your sight lines.

Eventually the thing started to slow. Eventually it disappeared.

Then you saw it.

On the ground where the Wanderer had dissolved — a Protocore, small, throwing off an iridescent white that you'd never seen from a Wanderer before.

"That's not standard," Caleb said, coming to stand beside you. He crouched down to look at it without touching it. "I've never seen one this color."

"Me neither." You holstered your gun. "I should take it to HQ."

"Agreed." You crouched beside him, reaching for the core at the same time he did, and your hands closed around it simultaneously.

White light erupted.

It collapsed inward, pulling everything —sound, light, air, the alley— into a point of white noise and wind, and then nothing, a few seconds later there was a floor coming up very fast.

You hit the carpet with a thud that knocked the breath out of you.

Caleb landed beside you, one arm slamming down to catch his weight before he pushed himself up.

"Are you hurt," he said, breathing hard.

You did a fast inventory. "No. You?"

"No." He looked up. Looked around.

You were inside a huge apartment. Carpeted floor and warm light from the windows. A long couch. A coffee table with papers on it. A mug. A jacket draped over the back of a chair.

Someone's apartment.

You stood up slowly. Caleb was already at the bookshelf, and you followed, and then you saw the first photo and everything in your chest felt strange.

It was you. You and Caleb, standing somewhere sunny, laughing at something out of frame. You were wearing a jacket you didn't own. His hair was slightly different, grown out and pushed back.

There were more. The two of you at a restaurant, faces close across a small table. A shot of you asleep on a couch, and Caleb sitting at the other end with a book, but whoever had taken the photo had caught him looking at you and not at the page.

Your throat felt tight.

"This is my apartment," Caleb said quietly, from somewhere to your left.

You turned to look at him. He was looking at the leather jacket on the chair. His leather jacket, the one currently in his wardrobe back at the base. A pilot's manual on the shelf, the same one he'd been working through. A mug from the Farspace Fleet. A framed photo of your grandmother that matched the one at home.

"The photos—" you started.

"I know."

He crossed to the coffee table, picked up the newspaper and scanned the top page. He held it out.

The date at the top was two years from now. Exactly two years.

---

You spent the rest of the afternoon going through the apartment with careful attention, very aware you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be. You were trying to understand what the last two years had produced.

Caleb's future self left notes everywhere. Fridge, desk, bathroom mirror. His handwriting but with a different quality to it, more settled. There were more photos than you'd first noticed — tucked into the edges of the mirror in the hallway, stuck to the inside of a cabinet. A birthday card in your handwriting on the desk, standing open. A second toothbrush in the bathroom.

You both looked at that for a moment.

"I'm not going to say anything about any of this," you said finally, standing in the kitchen with your arms crossed.

"Good call," Caleb said, from the doorway.

"I'm —this is a lot of information."

"It is."

"And I'm not drawing any conclusions."

He went quiet.

The sun went down. The apartment went from warm gold to dark while you sat on the floor of the living room eating crackers you'd found in the cabinet, your backs against the couch, the Protocore sitting on the coffee table throwing faint white light across the ceiling.

"We'll figure out how to get back," Caleb said.

"I know."

"Same energy that brought us here should be able to—"

"Caleb, I know. I'm not panicking."

He looked at you sideways. "You're quieter than your normal quiet."

"I'm just thinking."

He nodded slowly. Ate a cracker. Didn't push it, he knew when to let something sit. Almost two decades of knowing each other and he'd learned exactly where the lines were.

You were about to say something else when you heard it.

Voices outside.

Both of you were on your feet before the door handle moved. Caleb stepped toward the entryway on pure instinct and you grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled.

"Don't," you said, low and fast.

"I just want to see—"

"You cannot make contact with yourself. Do you understand what that does to the timeline? Do you understand what happens if you alter something?"

"I wasn't going to —"

"Caleb." You got in front of him, hands on his chest, looking up at him with full seriousness. "We hide. Right now. We have to wait."

He looked at the door. The handle was starting to move.

"Fine," he said before he grabbed the protocore and then your wrist to pull you toward the hallway closet in two long strides, opening it fast and pulling you in after him, easing the door shut.

The closet was full. Coats, bags, a stack of boxes on the floor that immediately became a problem because you had nowhere to step back, which meant you were now pressed against Caleb from your shoulders to your knees.

You could feel every breath he took.

"This is very small," you whispered.

"I know," he said, directly behind your ear.

His arms were on either side of you because there was nowhere else for them. His chin was above your head. You could feel him making adjustments to keep whatever minimal distance physics was willing to offer, and it was working as well as you'd expect. Which was not well.

You were two childhood friends in a closet in an apartment that was apparently his, two years in the future, surrounded by photographic evidence of something neither of you had said out loud yet, and he was doing his very best not to press against you and his very best was losing badly to the laws of spatial reasoning.

The front door opened.

Through the slats of the closet door, the living room light clicked on.

"I told you." Your own voice, but looser, threaded through with laughter that had a very specific quality to it. "I told you we shouldn't have had that last drink."

"Yeah," came the reply. Caleb's voice, except it was rougher and stripped of the easy warmth you knew and replaced with something that made the back of your neck prickle. "You were flirting with the bartender just to watch me lose it."

"Maybe I was." Future you sounded unrepentant about this.

Through the slats you watched two people stumble into the living room and your brain took several seconds to process what your eyes were seeing. She was in a dress, form fitting, gorgeous, currently half unzipped down the back. Future Caleb had shed his jacket somewhere between the door and the living room, his shirt untucked with half the buttons open, chest visible, hair slightly wrecked.

Behind you, Caleb had gone completely rigid. You felt it happen, every muscle in his body locking up at once.

Then future Caleb grabbed future you by the waist and walked her backward into the living room wall.

The impact was loud. What followed was louder, the sound of them kissing, which was not the word for what was happening, kissing implied something with more restraint than this. Future Caleb had his hands in her hair and on her waist and sliding down to bunch the fabric of her dress up her thighs, all at the same time.

You made a sound you hadn't planned on making.

Caleb's hand came over your mouth so fast you didn't even see it coming, his palm pressing firm and warm against your lips, his forearm across your collarbone. His chest was heaving against your back and something else was pressing against the small of your back that you were both absolutely not acknowledging.

You made a muffled sound against his hand anyway.

His arm tightened.

Future Caleb pulled back just far enough to speak "You want to play games tonight?" A pause, heavy with intent. "Let's find out how loud I can make you scream."

He pushed his hand up her skirt.

You'd never made that sound in your life. Or apparently you would. In two years. Against that wall.

"Caleb—wait, wait—the couch—"

That was it. That was enough. Your hand shot out in the dark and found the closet door handle and you grabbed it.

Caleb's hand came off your mouth and closed around your wrist, pulling it back against you, his mouth dropping to your ear.

"Don't you dare," he breathed.

"We have to stop watching this—" you hissed.

"If you open that door they'll see us—"

"Then they see us—"

"And alter the timeline," he said. "Your words. Two minutes ago."

He was right and it was the worst possible moment for him to be right.

"Just—" His voice came out strained "Just don't move."

"Caleb—"

"I'm a guy, and you are literally grinding into me," he snapped softly, though there was no real anger in it. His forehead dropped briefly to the back of your head. "Just..." sigh "give me a second."

Outside the closet Caleb lifted her clean off the floor. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her the few steps to the couch and dropped her onto it.

His hands yanked the straps of her dress down, baring her breasts. He pinched a nipple, and she arched with a sharp cry. "You are so fucking wet already. Been thinking about my cock all day? Want me to stretch that pretty pussy out right here?"

"Yes—fuck, Caleb, touch me," she gasped, hips grinding up.

Your breath hitched. Heat flooded between your legs, sudden and embarrassing. Caleb's cock twitched against your ass and you had to bite your lip to stay quiet.

Future Caleb reached down and shoved his pants off. You couldn't look away. He was big, thick, flushed, veins standing out. Ready.

Panic hit you. "Don't look," you whispered frantically. "That's... me. Turn around or do something—"

"Like hell," he said against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. "You're the one staring. You like seeing him like that? Seeing what I— what he wants to do to you?"

"Caleb, shut up," you whimpered, thighs pressing together.

He didn't fuck her right away. He grabbed her ankles, yanked her to the edge of the couch, and spread her wide. Dropped to his knees.

"Caleb—" she started, but it dissolved into a broken moan as he buried his face between her legs.

The sound of his tongue working her was loud and messy, completely shameless. Her head dropped back against the cushions, fingers twisted tight into the fabric, her whole body shaking every time he dragged his tongue over her clit in greedy strokes. He licked broad stripes up her slit before focusing on her clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a low groan.

"Fuck, you taste so good,”Caleb growled against her pussy, voice muffled but clear enough to carry.

"Just like that baby” she moaned, one hand fisting his hair, the other still twisting in the couch cushion.

He pinched her nipple hard with his free hand, rolling it between his fingers as he sucked harder. Her thighs trembled around his head.

Behind you, Caleb let out a broken groan that made your knees go soft. His arm snapped around your waist, holding you steady, fingers digging into your hip the exact same way his future self was gripping her out there.

“Fuck,” you whispered, head falling back against his shoulder before you could stop yourself. Your pussy was throbbing, aching so bad it almost hurt.

“Listen to that. Listen to how wet you get for me.” Caleb shifted his hips, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against your ass through your jeans, dragging the seam right over your soaked cunt.

On the couch, she was losing it. "I need you inside me. I can’t wait anymore.”

Future Caleb pulled back, mouth shiny, breathing hard. He stroked himself once, twice, then lined up and drove into her in one rough thrust. Her legs wrapped around him as he started fucking her deep and hard, the couch creaking like it might give out any second. His back and ass flexed with every thrust, hips snapping forward. “Gonna come on my cock like a good girl?”

He leaned over her, one hand pinning her thigh higher as he fucked her. “Gonna fill you up. Want you leaking my cum the rest of the night. You love being my dirty little slut, don’t you? Say it.”

“Oh my god,” you choked, voice barely there. Watching yourself get railed like that—by him—was too much. The guy whose arms were currently locked around your waist, the same guy you’d known since you were kids, was pounding into a future version of you like he owned her.

She gasped between moans, nails now digging into his back. “Yes—your slut, Caleb—harder—”

“That’s my girl.” His hips snapped faster “Come on my cock like you did last night."

In the closet, Caleb’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, his cock twitched hard against your ass, hips making tiny, helpless thrusts.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away, every filthy word making the ache between your legs worse.

“Jesus,” Caleb whispered raggedly “We really talk like that?”

You twisted hard, trying to turn around in the cramped space so you wouldn’t have to see it anymore.

“Stop moving,” Caleb gasped, his control fraying fast as your ass rubbed right over the head of his cock.

“I can’t watch this—let me turn—”

Your foot caught on a heavy boot buried in the mess at the bottom of the closet. Balance gone.

“Whoa—” Caleb grabbed for you, but it was too late. Your combined weight slammed into the door.

The cheap magnetic latch popped open with a sad little click.

The squeaking of the couch cut off like someone had yanked the plug on the whole universe.

The silence that followed rang in your ears. You pushed up on your elbows, face so hot you were surprised you hadn’t spontaneously combusted. Caleb was beside you, shirt rucked up, the very obvious, very hard line of his erection pressing against your thigh.

You both slowly turned your heads toward the couch.

A few meters away, future Caleb was frozen mid thrust, hands locked on future you’s hips, his body still buried deep inside her. She had one leg hooked high around his waist, hair a wild mess, chest heaving. Both of them stared at you with identical expressions of what the actual fuck.

They were a sweaty, flushed disaster, very naked and very, very mid fuck.

“What the…” future Caleb started.

Future you blinked slowly. “Is that… us?”

You opened your mouth, brain offering the most useless sentence in history. “We were just looking for soy sauce—”

The white light from the Protocore exploded again. The apartment, the couch, your naked and extremely confused future selves—all of it ripped away in a roar of rushing air.

Thud.

You hit the dirty alley hard enough to knock the wind out of you again.

Caleb groaned beside you, flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. His chest rose and fell in sharp pulls. You could still feel the ghost of his hardness against you, the way his fingers had dug into your hip in the closet. Your own body was still buzzing, thighs slick, pulse pounding between your legs like a second heartbeat.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Caleb let out a shaky laugh that sounded half hysterical. “Soy sauce. Really?”

You rolled onto your side, wincing at the scrapes on your elbows. “It was the first thing that came to mind, okay? We just watched ourselves— I mean, they— we were—” You gestured vaguely, face burning all over again. “You know.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

He sat up slowly and ran a hand through his hair. The front of his shorts was still a bit tented. He didn’t bother trying to hide it. You weren’t exactly in a position to judge, your nipples were tight against your shirt, and you were pretty sure your face was the color of a ripe tomato.

The protocore gave one last weak shimmer and dissolved into harmless blue dust that scattered across the pavement.

Caleb looked at you. “So… two years from now, huh?”

You swallowed. “Apparently we, uh… figured some things out.”

He huffed another laugh, but it was softer this time. Almost wondering. He reached over and brushed a bit of alley dirt off your cheek with his thumb. The touch lingered.

“We should probably go”

You nodded, but neither of you stood up right away. The air between you felt thicker than the summer humidity, charged with everything you’d just seen and felt in that stupid closet.

Caleb’s gaze dropped to your mouth for a second, then flicked back up. “When we get back to the house…”

“Yeah?” you whispered.

He smiled, small and crooked and a little nervous, the same smile he’d given you a thousand times growing up, except this one felt different.

“I’m not waiting two years,” he said.

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

You grabbed his hand, pulled him up with you, and the two of you started walking out of the alley like nothing had happened.

But everything had happened.

And as your fingers brushed again while you walked, neither of you pulled away.

Nerd! Zayne Part 5 coming soon. I promise.

December 23rd, 2055.

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

You remembered waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, eventually, you stopped following.

Stopped asking.

Stopped expecting.

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

They were wrong.

You were not well behaved.

You were terrified.

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

She was not what you expected.

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

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

Not too close.

Not demanding.

Just there.

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

You stared at her hand.

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

Beside her stood a boy.

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

Then he looked at you.

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

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

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

The boy gave you a small smile, “hi.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your backpack.

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

“You like dinosaurs?”

You blinked.

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

You did not answer.

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

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

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

Your mouth did something strange.

It almost smiled.

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

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

You did not understand most of them.

You understood only this:

Gran was taking you home.

And Caleb was coming too.

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

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

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

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

Instead, he simply stepped a little closer.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Just that.

Okay.

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

You clung harder.

Gran noticed.

Of course she noticed.

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

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

Caleb glanced at you again.

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

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

“Yeah,” he said.

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

Caleb was safe.

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

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

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

The bedroom was too clean.

Too quiet.

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

You had not known what to do with that either.

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

“Night, Pipsqueak,” he had said casually.

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

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

And then the dream came.

It always came.

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

We’re going out for your birthday, baby.

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

She’ll love it. C’mon, birthday girl.

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

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

Farther.

Farther.

You tried to run.

Your legs would not work properly.

Like wading through glue.

“Mama?”

No answer.

“Dad?”

They kept walking.

Then the darkness came.

Not normal darkness.

It moved.

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

You screamed for them.

This time louder.

Desperate enough your throat hurt.

Your mother never turned around.

Your father never looked back.

The darkness rushed toward you.

And suddenly you were running from it instead.

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

“Please!”

The darkness touched your back-

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

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

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

Air would not go in properly.

You were crying before you even realised it.

Small, horrible sobs you could not stop.

Then footsteps.

Fast.

The door flew open.

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

You flinched so hard your whole body recoiled.

Gran stopped immediately.

Not offended.

Just careful.

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

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

Your hands were still clawing at your shirt.

Your lungs hurt.

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

But you could not.

The dream was still there.

Your mother walking away.

Your father not turning back.

The darkness.

The terrible certainty that everyone eventually left.

Then another figure appeared in the doorway.

Caleb.

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

You looked at him.

And something inside you cracked wider.

Because suddenly you wanted him.

Not your parents.

Not the police officer.

Not a foster parent whose name you barely remembered.

Him.

Gran noticed the exact moment your gaze locked onto Caleb.

Her eyes softened.

“Caleb,” she said quietly.

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

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

Your crying hitched harder.

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

“I get them too,” he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him through tears.

“The nightmares.”

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

“You don’t gotta be scared.”

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

Caleb nodded once.

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

Lonely.

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

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

From that night onward, you became inseparable.

Gran found it adorable.

Everyone else found it slightly concerning.

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

You rarely spoke to adults unless spoken to first.

But you spoke to Caleb.

Quietly.

In little bursts.

Small things at first.

“I like this cereal more.”

“That cloud looks like a fish.”

“I had a teddy once.”

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

And Caleb listened to everything like it mattered.

Even nonsense.

Especially nonsense.

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

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

“Hm,” he said seriously. “Probably.”

You stared at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Tiny little bug parties.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

“They probably eat crumbs instead of cake though.”

You thought about that for a very long time.

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

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

Where you shrank inward, Caleb expanded outward.

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

And Caleb got excited about everything.

Mostly airplanes.

God, he loved airplanes.

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

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

You would stare at the picture solemnly.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but I need the plane book.”

“You are holding three plane books.”

“It’s not the right plane book.”

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

Because to you, he was.

Caleb dragged you outside constantly.

You hated outside at first.

Outside meant strangers.

Noise.

The possibility of being perceived.

But Caleb never really gave you room to hide forever.

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

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

“I like the couch.”

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

“It’s soft.”

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

You looked hopeful.

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

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

Not rough.

Never rough.

Just determined.

“Caleb—”

“Outside. The sun misses you.”

“The sun doesn’t know me.”

“It told me personally.”

And somehow, impossibly, he got you laughing.

Not a full laugh at first.

Just tiny little bursts of sound.

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

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

Caleb never pushed too hard.

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

Sometimes aircraft.

Sometimes space.

Sometimes weird facts.

“Did you know octopuses punch fish?”

You blinked. “Why?”

“They’re haters.”

You stared at him.

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

Eventually he started coaxing you into things.

Small things.

“Touch this leaf.”

“No.”

“It’s not gonna kill you.”

“You don’t know that.” you’d scoff.

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

“You ate soap last week.”

“That was one time.”

Then there were bugs.

You hated bugs.

Caleb adored them.

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

You approached cautiously.

On the ground sat a large beetle, twitching slightly.

You stopped immediately. “No.”

“C’mon.”

“It looks evil.”

“It’s literally just standing there.”

“It knows things.”

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

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

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

And he did.

Carefully.

Like the tiny creature mattered too.

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

“It doesn’t hurt,” he promised.

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

Caleb looked ridiculously pleased. “See?”

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

“But you did it.”

You looked down at the bug again.

Then very quietly, “Yeah.”

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

And maybe, to him, you had.

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

Xavier's tongue was tracing the edge of his knuckle where your first release had coated him. His eyes had gone almost entirely black, pupils blown so wide there was barely any color left, every bit of that darkness was fixed between your thighs.

Behind you, Zayne exhaled, low and unsteady, the sound catching in his throat before it reached your skin. He hadn't moved back. He had moved closer, pressing his hard cock between your ass, the friction made it clear his medical textbooks hadn't prepared him for how much he actually wanted to ruin you right now.

"That requires an entirely different approach," Zayne's voice was thicker and rougher than it had been. His hands tightened on your waist before he said anything else. Then he bent his head, lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear.

"Are you alright with this? Do you want to show them?"

Your head had already begun to fall back against his shoulder and the whimper that came out of you wasn't something you'd planned.

"Yeah"

His patience didn't leave exactly, but it changed shape, it became something slower. His hand moved from your waist, sliding up until his palm curved around your breast again, broad, warm and unhurried. His thumb found your nipple without searching for it and he began to roll it between his fingers with a steady pressure that sat right on the edge of too much and didn't waver.

"The G-spot," he said, his voice settling back into something that almost resembled composure, "isn't about surface stimulation. It isn't about rhythm either." He pinched your nipple lightly, and your breath caught. He continued as though he hadn't noticed, or perhaps because he had. "Squirting isn't something you can rush. We've spent nearly twenty minutes on foreplay and that's perfect because the entire pelvic region needs time to fill with blood, to become fully engorged. Without that, it won't work."

His thumb moved in a slow circle around your nipple, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.

"The targets are the paraurethral glands. Small, about the size of a pea, sitting on either side of the urethra, close to her G-spot. Most people don't know they exist. Most people don't know what they're capable of." A pause. "You're about to learn."

Xavier's voice came quiet and low. "I want to try."

Whatever remained of the quiet, compliant boy from freshman orientation—the one who'd handed you a campus map and apologized for bumping into you—was gone. Completely. He moved forward until he was wedged between your legs, his thighs pressing firmly against your calves.

A cold spike of something, fear, want, the particular overwhelm of both arriving at once, shot straight down your spine. Your thighs tried to close on instinct, a reflexive flinch against the intensity of his gaze, the nearness of him and the reality of what was about to happen. Your knees had barely begun to move before something stopped them.

Caleb moved to the edge of the mattress and closed his hand over your right knee. Not gently. He pressed it down and out over Zayne's thigh, his grip immovable, the kind that didn't invite negotiation. You weren't going to close yourself off. He'd made that clear without saying a word.

Rafayel took your left. His fingers found the inside of your knee and held on with trembling pressure.

You looked down at them through the blur of whiskey and heat.

Caleb's jaw was locked, a muscle jumping in his cheek like he was chewing through something. The flush on his neck had darkened to something almost bruised, creeping up toward his jaw, his breath coming in audible hitches he wasn't bothering to hide anymore. Rafayel had his bottom lip caught between his teeth hard enough to drain the color from it, his eyes tracking every shiver that moved through your body like he was trying to memorize them.

And then lower.

A small, damp circle had bled through the gray of Rafayel's sweatpants. The front of Sylus's pants were pulled tight, a matching wet spot darkening the fabric, spreading slightly every time he exhaled.

"Keep her steady." Zayne's hips kept moving, that same slow roll against you, while his fingers worked both of your nipples at once, rolling and pinching until heat shot straight down through your stomach and didn't stop.

"Xavier." His tone shifted into something clinical "Two fingers, palm facing up toward her navel. Her arousal is sufficient as a baseline, but you need to use the lubricant on my nightstand. I don't want friction, I don't want any tissue irritation." A pause, weighted. "Once you're inside, feel along the anterior wall. There will be a ridge, different from the surrounding tissue. Think of the roof of your mouth."

Xavier reached for the lubricant and coated his fingers slowly, his hands were shaking. Then he brought them to your entrance, just the tips at first, barely making contact, and paused there for a breath that felt longer than it was.

He pushed in slowly.

Inch by inch, the stretch of it opening you around him, his fingers pressing through the heat and slick of you with patience. His eyes had gone wide by the time his fingertips swept up and found it, the ridge Zayne had described, unmistakable, exactly where he'd said it would be.

A cry tore out of you before you could stop it, fractured and too loud. It rang off the walls and you knew without question it had carried straight down the hallway outside.

Sylus shadow fell over you before he leaned down, face unreadable, there was a particular stillness of someone exerting tremendous control. His thumb caught your chin and pressed your jaw down, and then his fingers were in your mouth, muffling whatever came next. You closed your lips around them without thinking. Your tongue found his knuckles and you pulled him in, sucking hard, needing the solid reality of him to hold onto, something grounding while everything else was coming apart.

"Keep it down, sweetie." he said. Low. Almost gentle.

"Like this?" Xavier's voice came from below, strained thin.

He had begun to move, curling his fingers up, knuckles dragging against your entrance with every stroke while his fingertips pressed into the ridged wall above. He went deeper with each repetition. Not faster. Deeper, the hook of his fingers catching on the sensitive texture inside you and holding there just long enough before pulling back and doing it again.

"Slower."

Zayne's breath was scorching against your neck, his fingers never stopping, working your nipples with a precision that had stolen most of your ability to think. Behind you his hips pushed forward, heavier than before, a frustrated grind that he didn't bother to disguise.

"You're skimming the surface," he said. "Press into it. Maintain the motion and add external pressure to the clitoris, combine both. Increase as the tissue expands." His voice dropped slightly. "Can you feel how she's changing around you? How she's pulling you in?"

Xavier made a sound low in his throat, almost involuntary, his head dipping forward. His thumb came down against your pelvic bone and he adjusted his angle, pushing deeper until his knuckles were completely slick. His strokes slowed and firmed, each one pressing up into you with a patience that was clearly costing him something.

"It's getting tighter," he said, voice fraying at the edges. "It's... it's pushing back. She's so hot inside."

"She's engorging, the fluid is building in the glands. You cannot break the rhythm, not now, not for anything. If you ease up even slightly, the accumulation dissipates and you lose everything you've built."

He said it like a warning. Like he was saying it to himself as much as Xavier.

It was nothing like before.

Not the sharp, electric jolt of Zayne's thumb. this was something else entirely. Deeper. Heavier. A fullness that built with every stroke and didn't recede, coiling low in your abdomen like pressure with nowhere to go. Every time Xavier's fingers found that spot and pressed, a wave rolled through you, enormous and terrifying, making you want to beg for something you didn't have words for. You bit down on Sylus's knuckles without meaning to, eyes losing focus, your whole body tightening around a point you couldn't reach.

On either side of you, Caleb and Rafayel hadn't moved. Couldn't. Their knuckles had gone white where they held your legs open, and their eyes were fixed on Xavier's hand, on the way his fingers disappeared into you and came back slick, on the wetness that had gone past the point of containment. It was pooling at your entrance, spilling over and running down Xavier's wrist.

It was Rafayel who broke first.

"Zayne." His voice came out cracked, barely holding together. He swallowed hard, his gaze still locked on the fluid stringing between your skin and Xavier's hand, his body giving him away beneath the fabric of his sweatpants. "She's...fuck...it's leaking. Is she close?"

"She's almost there."

Zayne's voice had lost everything clinical about it now. Whatever composure he'd been maintaining had come apart completely, leaving only this—his fingers digging into your nipples, pinching hard, driving the sensation past the point of bearable while his hips pressed into you with desperation.

"Xavier. Fast circles on her clit, other hand, now." A beat. "Force it."

Xavier looked up at your face instead.

Your eyes had gone hazy, barely tracking, tears gathering at the corners from nothing but sheer overwhelm. Your lips were still wrapped around Sylus's fingers, your chest heaving in ragged pulls, small broken sounds escaping around his knuckles every time Xavier moved inside you. You were completely undone. Anyone could see it.

Xavier saw it too.

He didn't raise his hand to your clit. Something shifted behind his eyes, a flash of something reckless and deliberate, the look of someone who had been quietly calculating this exact moment and had finally decided to take it.

"You said anything I can do with my hands," he murmured, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "I can enhance with my mouth, right?."

His blonde hair fell across his forehead as he leaned down.

"Xavier—" Zayne's voice came sharp with warning.

Too late.

Xavier buried his face between your thighs.

The heat of his mouth hit you without warning.

Xavier's tongue sealed over your clit and the sound that came out of you was strangled, swallowed by Sylus's fingers, barely contained. He didn't tease. He remembered every word Zayne had said, flattened his tongue broad and wet against you, using the full weight of it to meet the pressure building from inside, while his fingers hooked harder and began to move in a rhythm that was merciless and gave you absolutely nothing to brace against.

"Breathe." Zayne's lips found your temple and pressed them there, warm and close. "What you're feeling, the fullness, the urgency, it will feel exactly like a need to release. That's correct. That's exactly right." His breath shook against your skin. "Don't fight it. Bear down. Let your pelvic floor go completely. Let it happen."

You stopped fighting.

You exhaled and let go. Your pelvic floor released and you bore down against the hook of Xavier's fingers, against the wet relentless press of his tongue, and for one suspended second everything went very still.

Then your body locked.

Every muscle seized at once, thighs convulsing against Caleb and Rafayel's grip. They leaned their full weight into your knees and held. Caleb let out a breathless "fuuuuck look at her". You bit down on Sylus's fingers hard enough to feel his knuckles against your teeth, vision narrowing to nothing.

It came in a rush, clear and forceful, spilling over Xavier's chin, across his cheeks, soaking into the fabric beneath you. His fingers stayed where they were, buried deep, riding out every contraction as your body clenched around him in waves that didn't stop, that pulled at him and wouldn't let go.

He didn't pull back. His tongue kept moving through it, his jaw working, his nose pressed to your skin while you sobbed through the aftershocks, open, head falling back against Zayne's shoulder again, with the full dead weight of someone who had nothing left to hold onto.

The room went quiet before you heard the slow, wet sound of Xavier withdrawing his fingers. Sylus drew his hand from your mouth just as slowly, his thumb dragging across your lower lip, catching a smear of saliva and wiping it away. He didn't look away from your face. The darkness in his eyes hadn't lifted. It had settled into something that made it very clear this wasn't over.

Xavier raised his head.

His face was flushed deep, his lips wet, a streak of fluid catching the lamplight as it ran down the line of his jaw and dripped onto his collarbone. He looked up at Zayne.

He looked like someone who had just discovered something he couldn't un know.

"Like that?" Xavier asked. The smugness in his voice was not even slightly hidden.

Zayne didn't answer right away.

He was staring down at the space between your thighs, at the soaked mattress, at the evidence of everything his careful, clinical framework had produced. His chest rose and fell hard against your back, his breath coming uneven against your neck, and you felt it before you fully understood what it was, a spreading warmth behind you, seeping through the fabric of his trousers, pressing into you. Unmistakable.

"Yes," Zayne said finally. His voice was stripped of every careful layer he'd spent the entire evening constructing "Exactly like that."

Perm tag: @thealunari @i-idk-i-guess @hopelesslala @pearlescenthoney @stillseiims @xavisastrophil @thelastpolarbear @groovyravenagain @nanaminsmuse @darkairenkagamine @lunahaswings @ks-collection @calebunny @aweebs @crimsonrubie @lemurian-girl @aiycnlyme

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Soooo, there will be more of this...if I forgot to tag someone I'm so sorry. Let me know if you want me to tag you on the next part.

Chapter 3:Rafayel

Chapter 4: Xavier

Chapter 5: Caleb

Chapter 6: Sylus

You find yourself transmigrated to Linkon City. At first, you are terrified. You know and remember all the battles and strains the MC of the game had. And you were unsure if you could actually handle all that.

You look exactly like how you customized your character...but behind it you can still feel the you that has always been there. You used your hunters watch to try and figure more about yourself, wondering just where in the story you landed. But you aren't a fighter, you're more of a paper pusher.

Fighting back home was never your forte, you weren't even sure if you ever remember actually throwing a punch. So sitting behind a desk all day was something you could work with.

The environment is much different at the Hunter Association than you thought. You see Xavier, but he is interacting rather intimately with a different Hunter. Someone who was very kind, warm, and friendly.

This must be the actual MC. You think to yourself.

So you go about your time trying to be content with being a background character. You just want to be safe.

A couple of months pass and you begin to recognize events from the story that lead MC to the N-109 Zone. There, she would meet Sylus, your favorite character.

You had tried doing your own research on the famous Onychinus leaader, but all you got were DANGER screens and lectures from your bosses. Your heart twists some at the thought of not being able to actually meet him.

You were trying to ignore that fact until the MC and Captain Jenna pull you into a meeting with other hunters. Talking about setting up some kind of operation to gain information on how protocores are making it through the N-109 Zone illegally.

You're confused. This isn't how the story goes. The MC is supposed to go there on her own. But your heart leaps. What other chance will you get?

You volunteer to be part of the operation. Doing what? You have no idea. But maybe it'll be worth it. Maybe you can get your chance.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks go by. You help to set up the operation, just on the outskirts of the zone. You create maps and plans, spread rumors about "special goods" being stored in some old apartments. A trade off about to happen with a rival gang.

The corners are tight, the space is small, limited ways to get in or out. It's as close to a controlled environment as you can get.

You had been practicing your combat and gun skills at any point you could. Your body was able to fluidly go through the motions, remembering the training you had before you came to this world. It would have to due, since your own reactions would be slower.

It was game time, whether ready or not. You hid in a dark room in a partially covered corner. The spot was perfect for you to see everything, but hard to see you. Your hunters watch was connected to the cameras the team installed. The undercover hunters were currently pulling off the "deal" with a gang that could lead the association to the top.

But you knew whose territory this actually was. And there was no way he would let you get away with this deal.

It was quiet, things were moving smoothly, until explosions began to set off at the dealing sight. The whole building shook. You saw two people wearing devil masks appear out of the smoke. Your heart fluttered as you began to look through the other cameras.

He had to be somewhere.

"Junk." A deep, silky voice spoke out from the room you were in. A voice you had memorized and replayed in your head constantly.

You closed your watch and slowly pulled out your gun. You look out - still hidden - and see a single floating red orb glowing in the dark room.

No, not an orb, an eye.

Your breath hitched, and he immediately looked at you.

You felt something wrap around your ankle and begin pulling you. Dragging you closer and closer to the crimson eye.

You just let it happen. Your body frozen, brain scrambled, stunned at the beautifully tall man in front of you.

"Well, well," Sylus' voice came out, condescending, "looks like I found a lost little kitten."

Kitten.

Your muscle memory finally responded. Quickly aiming and firing your gun. Hitting him in the shoulder.

But smoke just wafted off, and he brushed the spot. He chuckled, and it felt like the whole room vibrated with it.

"Feisty little thing aren't y-"" he stopped. Actually looking you in the eye. His crimson eye lighting up again as it peered into your soul. His face forming a wicked grin.

He knelt down, pulling the gun out of your hands with one hand, then grabbing your face with the other.

"What's this?" He asked. Malice and curiosity in his voice. "Could you be..."

"Bossman!" Luke and Keiran yelled as the ran into the room. "We're all done here!"

Sylus didn't even look at them. You reached a shaky hand up to his wrist, gently tugging it as your face began to hurt from his grip.

He softened his hold, just a fraction. Just enough for some relief while he maintained control.

"Good," he said, "we must return...and make sure our guest has a warm welcome.

Your eyes went wide at his statement.

Red tendrils of energy began to form around you. And everything went black.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you scoff.

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

For two whole years, you remind yourself of these things. You sit through Sunday mass every week without fail, hands folds neatly in your lap, and you ask for forgiveness on your knees beside your bed each night when you realise your focus had drifted from the Lord to His messenger.

It felt much like a test you were failing, over and over and over.

His fingers.

His fingers, above all else, were your undoing.

The Communion procession shuffles forward slowly, drawing you towards your ultimate weekly test. Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. You repeat the words to yourself as the line carries you closer to him. Behold him who takes away the sins…

“Amen,” the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.

And then it’s your turn.

His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forward—unwavering—even as he reaches for the sacramental bread, a small perfectly circular wafer. This was the part that played over and over in your mind as you tossed and turned at night. This was what you asked forgiveness for, above all else. Your heart races in anticipation as his eyes flick to your lips.

You obey his silent request, parting your lips in preparation to accept his offering. He would place the delicate wafer on your tongue with practised ease, careful not to touch you. And then he’d hold the chalice of wine to your lips—helping you take a chaste sip. His eyes would never leave you, and your face would shamefully heat in response.

One small moment of intoxicating proximity.

Repeated, week after week; never changing.

His warm eyes fix on yours as the small wafer approaches your waiting tongue, and you savour the details of his face—surrendering to your habitual sinful indulgence.

Something is different.

You replayed this never-changing ritual in your mind for years. You knew all its minor details. You knew it intimately.

Something is different.

His bottom lip trembles slightly and then drops—falling away from his upper lip. And at the same moment you watch his mouth part, mirroring yours, something else new draws a tiny gasp from your lungs.

His warm finger touches your tongue.

Every week, for years, he repeated the motion of chastely placing the small disc on the tongues of the congregation.

Never before had he touched you. Not once.

“The body of Christ,” he says, hushed, like this was normal.

His parted lips, a touch of his fingertip to your wet tongue, and then, to finalise your torment, he brushes your bottom lip in his retreat.

It’s only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet “Amen” from your lips.

That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take you—to free you from your spiralling, sinful remembrance. You toss and turn. You stare at your ceiling. Eventually, you open a window and sip from a glass of water as the cool night air soothes your heated cheeks. And it would be that small sip that finally unravelled you, drawing your mind back to the moment he pressed the lip of the chalice to your lips—the lips he’d touched.

Your cotton nightgown bunches up around your waist as you roll onto your stomach and slip your hand between your legs. It was the way he guided you—the look in his eyes—like he might reach out and wipe away any wine that spilled down your chin if you were too eager. It was the way his pretty fingers wrapped around the cup. It was knowing their warmth. The way they felt on your skin. On your tongue.

He would guide you so gently, if he were here with you now. You’d imagined it before: him watching over you as you traced your fingers through your slick. But never had you imagined him touching. Touching was forbidden. A step too far. He did not touch.

Until now.

A heavenly addition to your sensory experience of him.

It’s what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yours—dipping a little inside you.

How could this be such wicked depravity if his finger slipping past your lips could be part of a Holy Rite? Was there really such a difference between two parts of a body? What made the wet heat of your mouth so different from the wet heat between your legs?

It’s these spiralling thoughts, and the flood of tears that follow your cry of his name at your peak, that finally break you.

You were not a good girl.

You were damned.

And only confession could save you.

If you were brave, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d march through the open church door at the first opportunity and take a place in the pews among a spattering of familiar faces, each waiting their turn to speak to him.

Instead, when weekly confessional hours do arrive, you sit on a small stone bench in the church graveyard and watch people filter in and out. You notice the little changes in them as they leave. Eyes that had been focused on the pavement instead look up into the trees. Their steps are lighter.

A mother who had first passed you hurriedly, tugging her small child behind her, leaves with him in her arms. She pauses and points out a little white rabbit at the edge of the churchyard, bouncing the toddler on her hip a little as she cherishes his reaction. And when the rabbit dips into the bushes, she continues her leisurely pace, engaging with the child’s chatter.

The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadn’t hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you could’ve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you could’ve been sitting in the pews watching him. He would’ve made the child laugh, settling him, so he could talk to his mother.

You loved watching the way they all reacted to him, adored him.

That’s what you should have done; what you should do now. But when you stand, instead of heading inside, you find yourself turning the way you came—scurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.

When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you don’t attend.

It’s all the hesitation your body allows before you are nearly sick with anxiety. Wanting it over, you take up position on that same stone bench during confession hours, again. And like the week before, you wait. You watch as a spattering of congregants seeking opportunity for repentance come and go. An hour passes, beyond the departure of his final visitor. Again, you’d let the official hours come and go.

The sky turns a golden yellow as the sun dips behind the trees, and you wrap your small cardigan around yourself as the temperature dips with it.

And then a familiar, warm voice calls your name.

He stands in the stone arch of the old church's entryway, looking out at you. “You must be cold,” he says in his gentle, patient way. “I thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing there’s no one waiting their turn.”

You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. “I was,” you confess. “I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s alright,” he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. “Come inside, please.”

He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels larger—taller—when you’re alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.

“It must be serious,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. The large wooden door closes as you linger in the aisle between pews. A closed door meant no more visitors. You were the last allowed entry. “Serious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.” He’s slightly teasing as he approaches—clearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourself—cowering like a scared little lamb.

It’s a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. It’s his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. You’d never heard a bad word spoken against him.

It makes your guilt so much worse.

Shame wracks you, suddenly faced with the reality of confessing your wickedness to a man so good and kind. A man so rare. You had been all alone for so long. No family to guide you with unconditional care. He was a little spark of genuine warmth and care, irresistible to someone starved of it.

You couldn’t imagine returning to Sunday mass every week after this, knowing that he might think back to this night every time his eyes landed on you in the pews.

Soft footfalls approach as you stare at the stone floor.

He speaks your name in a hushed, gentle command.He wants you to look at him. To face your shame.

And when you refuse, eyes stubbornly fixed to the floor, you must deal with the repercussions.

For the second time, he touches you.

His fingers rest under your chin as he lifts your head with a gentle pressure. He’s warm. Warmer than he’d been last time. At least, that’s how it seems as your chilled skin leaches the heat from his fingers. They linger, just for a moment, holding you in position as his eyes flick across your face.

Then they’re gone.

“Would the booth make it easier?” he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.

There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way you’d ever manage it. How could you ever tell him the truth with his eyes warming your skin?

He sees the answer in your eyes. And you’re grateful when he takes the lead without further question, letting you trail behind him to the small confessional booth in the corner of the empty church.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” you begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is… three months since my last confession.” Three months. The last time you’d convinced yourself to confess, only to find yourself listing off trivial everyday faults instead.

The sound of your breathing seems far too loud in the small wooden chamber. So much so that you take in shallower breaths in the silence that follows, self-conscious.

“Are you unwell?” he asks as the silence stretches, kind—like he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, “You were absent on Sunday. I assumed you might’ve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.” The last part isn’t a question. He says it like he’s reassuring himself, like he really, truly cared.

Always so caring, of everyone. It makes it worse.

Your gut flips, anxiety rushing through you. You remember why you’d listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.

You couldn’t do this again.

“It’s a kind of sickness,” you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.

He’s quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.

“I’ve been distracted. I haven’t heard your sermons. Not really.” You dig your fingernails into your thighs. “Not because they aren’t interesting… or helpful. It’s me. I’m full of—” One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. “My head is full of… sickness. Sick thoughts. They won’t stop.”

You focus on his steady breathing in the lull between your confession and his answer, letting the even rhythm of it calm you until your leg stills.

“Has something happened?” he asks. “Something is bothering you.” A pause. “Someone?”

“Someone,” the word leaves you on an exhale.

His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You haven’t even managed to take in another breath. It’s a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.

“Who?”

“It… doesn’t matter.”

It did matter. You’d lied. One moment of impulse and you’d lied. If your distraction had been a man in the pews instead of the one standing at the pulpit, it would be a different matter entirely. You’d have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.

You’d have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. There’d be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.

“Gideon,” he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. “He’s only been attending a few weeks. I haven’t seen him approach you. Was it after service?”

You’d never heard the name in your life. You hadn’t even noticed a new face in the congregation.

If only you had. If only it was that simple.

When you fail to answer, mind whirring, he continues, “Is that why you weren’t here Sunday?” The fabric of his pants brush across the wood in a way that signals his movement. His voice is a little clearer when he speaks next, closer. “Has he hurt you?”

“No,” you answer, quickly. “No, I—”

“You’ll be honest with me,” he interrupts. “Won’t you?” He sounds a little like a parent about to catch their child in a lie. Not quite stern, but the authority in his tone has you biting your lip.

“It’s not Gideon.”

“Who?”

“That’s what makes it so wicked, Father. I’ve been so afraid—” Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.

Like his face, you know his voice. You’ve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, “Afraid?”

You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.

“Of you,” you finish.

Silence follows, except from your breath.

His, for the first time, is inaudible.

You should continue. You should take the silence as opportunity to confess the depths of your depravity. Your lips part, ready—

“Communion.” His voice fills the box—fills your head.

He knew.

He must’ve seen it in your face. Of course he did. He was good and pure and righteous. He would have seen that lustful wickedness on your face each and every time.

Had he been waiting for you to confess it? Had he expected it from you each and every time you came to him, only to be disappointed when you failed to admit to your true sin?

Shame. Embarrassing, pitiful shame.

Your voice is shaky, emotion thinly veiled. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” He cuts you off quickly. “This is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.” A bump against the wood. Maybe his elbow. Your eyes lift to the small window separating you for the first time as you turn his words over, confused. “I took advantage of your innocence. I didn’t think you’d notice. I was weak. If I knew you’d see—feel my…” he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.”

Your heart races as you put together his meaning.

He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue… and lip.

No, that wasn’t right. He was confessing it was… intentional.

He was confessing.

It’s like a sedative: the daze his words puts you in. Suddenly, instead of being hyper aware of your body, of your anxiety, you feel entirely outside of it—floating outside of yourself. “I don’t understand,” you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtu—

“You dont—,” he starts. “You don’t understand?”

He’d wanted to touch you? Why would he—

“Talk to me,” he adds with a hint of urgency. “You don’t understand?”

“It was on purpose?”

He’s quiet. Then, “You said you were afraid of me. If it’s not that—”

“You wanted to touch me?” you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “I succumbed to—” He sighs. “I gave in.”

He had... lusted. He’d lusted… for you. And even if it had been a one-off moment of weakness, unlike your own, his sin had reached out to brush yours…

Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned. I’ve also given into lustful thoughts.”

Silence.

Then, “These are your… sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?”

You nod. “For two years now.”

“Two—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “During mass.” He shifts. “And when else?”

The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. “At night,” you confess, hushed. This… is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.

“Your indulgence…” he trails off.

“Yes, Father?”

A bump against wood. “Why were you absent this past Sunday?”

“I—” You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. “I was afraid to see you.”

“Because of Communion? Because I—”

“No.” You shake your head, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I was ashamed.”

He’s quiet.

It stretches.

Finally, “We all have moments of weakness—”

“But it wasn’t a moment,” you interject. “There’s something wrong with me. Father, it’s—I can’t—My Sunday’s aren’t spent in worship of the Lord, they’re—” spent in worship of you.

You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you aren’t sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, “I’d never done it before you.”

When he doesn’t respond, you raise your head. “I’ve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first time—to lust only for a man of God?”

You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But it’s different now. It’s uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, finally.

“But—”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he insists, firm, without room for argument. “You are… perfection, sent to tempt me.” The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.

“Tell me why you wore that dress,” he adds, gentler.

You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where you’d tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadn’t worn it in while, and the weather was just about to get too cold for you to wear it again for months. That was all.

At your hesitation, he continues, “You wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.”

“…gave in?” you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what he’s implying, deep down. But it’s all too much. One thing after the other, shattering all you thought you knew.

And then, unaware of your imminent collapse, he deals the final blow.

“The first time I wrapped my hand around myself and thought of the way looked up at me, all sweet and trusting. You look at me like—”

Your small sob cuts him off, and you press your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sounds escaping you without permission.

He stands, draws his curtain back, and exits his half off the booth. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth when he pulls the curtain in your little part of the box aside.

You look up at him with watery eyes, a towering dark shadow. And when he slowly enters and kneels in front of you, his large body fills your little section of booth. “Are you afraid?” he whispers. “Did I scare you?”

You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.

You aren’t breathing at all when he leans a little closer and gently guides your hands from your face into your lap instead. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in soothing caresses as he speaks again, “Why are you crying?”

Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyes—gentle, familiar, warm. He’s an angel filling your vision, dressed in black—sin and salvation. His skin is hot where he touches you. And your eyes flutter closed when his hand lifts to your cheek, ghosting over your damp skin—like he meant to wipe away your tears but wasn’t sure he should.

With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.

His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. “I’m so proud of you for coming to speak to me,” he says, voice still lowered. “You’re so good.”

You shake your head quickly, looking down.

He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. “Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You suck in a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”

“Overwhelmed?”

You nod, exhaling.

“Mm,” he hums, taking your hand in his. “That’s okay.”

Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communion—a wall of black fabric. You watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Deep breaths,” he soothes as your breathing evens out.

His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the space between you.

He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheek—making proper contact this time. “Don’t. Didn’t I say you did good? I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

“But—”

“Would I lie to you?”

You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s how you look at me—how you’ve always looked at me.” His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Thought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.”

His fingers press into your skin. “…but it was for me,” he finishes, breathy.

You whimper, tears forming again.

“Shh,” he coos, breath tickling your lips as he lowers himself to meet you. His hands are all gentle again after that brief moment of pressure. One trails up your arm as the other cups the side of your head, thumb stroking across your temple. “Please don’t cry.”

“It was wicked,” you whisper. “I’ve been wicked.”

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forth—comforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. “No, sweet girl,” he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. “You were worshipping the Lord through me.”

His hair looks darker than you’d ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. You’d never seen him by candlelight before. “I was?” you sniffle.

He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. “You’re a virgin?”

You nod. Another sniffle.

“And you’ve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?”

He doesn’t let you drop your head when you try, so you nod—eyes darting to the side in shame.

“What could be more sacred?” he breathes.

His lips ghost over yours before landing on your cheek in a feather-light kiss. You close your eyes, savouring his touch as he leaves a leisurely trail of them across your face. Tender kisses anointing your skin in patient reverence.

“A sweet..” Kiss. “Innocent…” Kiss. “Little lamb.” Kiss. “Using her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. That’s all.” He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yours—your first kiss. “Through my body,” he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.

That made sense, your hazy mind offers. It’s why it had consumed you all these years; why you’d never felt it for anyone but him.

Light, bubbly, warmth rises in your chest as the guilt lifts.

Caleb would not lie to you. It was an impossibility.

He watches the smile take over your face with a look you’ve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and he’s lifting you into his arms. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding you to his body—breathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you can’t decipher. Then he withdraws.

“Would you let me guide you in worship?” he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.

“Mm,” you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didn’t matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. You’re practically limp in his arms, releasing yourself to his will.

He takes a few step backwards, and then lowers himself into a pew. You sit in his lap, knees at either side of his thighs—relaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. “I’ve resisted for so long,” he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.

Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. He’s eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You don’t know what you’re doing. So you let him take you. There’s a moment, when you are limp in his arms—eyes closed, chin wet with drool—that he dips his long fingers between your lips to play with your tongue. He takes it between his fingertips. Toys with it.

When your eyes flutter open, you find yourself transfixed by the expression on his face as he plays with you. His own lips are parted to accommodate his ragged breathing, and his eyes are hooded, locked on his fingers in your mouth.

Eventually, he lowers you onto your back across the pew and crawls over you. It’s only now you notice his black shirt untucked from his pants. Then his mouth is on yours again, devouring you with a low groan. The wood is cool against your back, contrasting with the heat of him above you—with the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.

He’d sucked on one while listening to confessions.

He’d heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and he’d let the sweet lolly melt in his hot mouth.

And now you were tasting it.

You were tasting your sweet priest.

His warm breath tickles your neck when he parts from you.

Then his fingers return. Slipping between your wet lips and into your mouth, he plays. In and out and around your tongue, he explores your mouth like it hid something he treasured. You take in as much of his face as the dim candlelit space allowed. Lost in worship, you hardly process his words when he finally speaks.

“Body of Christ,” he mumbles.

He holds your jaw, wet fingers against your cheek. And you lay limp beneath him, willing to receive, as he hovers over you and spits into your mouth.

You swallow without hesitation, indulging in the brand new expression painting his pretty face. Hunger and satisfaction combined.

He pets your hair with one long gentle stroke, adoration flooding his eyes as he gazes down upon you. It’s a look that has your heart fluttering in your chest as your mind drifts further and further outside of your body and into the space above you—light and free.

As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. “Is this sex?” you mutter in a dreamy breathy sigh.

He stills.

You watch the muscles move in his face as his expression shifts. His brows tug together, then relax. His wet lips part, then close, then part again.

“It’s worship,” he answers. Your cardigan had fallen off both your shoulders at some point. He gently lifts the soft fabric back over your bare skin now, putting you back together. “When it’s with me, it’s worship.”

You release a shaky breath. “So I’ll still—I’ll still be a virgin? After?”

His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, “Only when it’s with me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you sigh, blissful under his exalted guidance.

He nods with an approving hum, fingers slipping from your throat down to your chest. He traces down your body, making little patterns over the fabric of your dress as he goes.

“When I fill you with my cock…”

He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.

“…and your untouched cunt clings to me…”

His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. “…I might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravity—” His fingertips dig into your skin. “—is only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.”

His warm breath tickles your thighs as he lifts your dress, exposing your cotton panties to the cool air, and to his eyes. He looks up at you through the brown hair that falls over his face. “No matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. “Angel.”

His finger makes a single light stroke down the centre of the fabric, tickling your clit as he passes. Immediately, your body tenses as you attempt to curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the newness of the feeling. You’d expected it to feel like it did when you’d slipped your hands between your legs yourself.

It didn’t.

He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.

“It tickles,” you confess, embarrassed.

“Here?” He brushes over the fabric again, and it’s only his firm grip on one thigh that prevents you clamping him between your legs.

His hands slip just under the dip of your lower back, and he tugs you down the bench a little, towards his mouth. Then, as you look up at the vast vaulted ceiling, he kisses the cotton. It’s nothing more than a peck. And somehow, it feels closer to sin than anything prior. More than his tongue in your mouth, or his candy-flavoured spit.

But this wasn’t sin.

Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.

This was worship.

“Father?”

“Mm?” he hums.

You can’t see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Should I… kiss you too?” Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. “I mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?”

He crawls up your body, filling your vision as he hovers over you again. His eyes fall to your exposed shoulder briefly. This time, he doesn’t fix it. “Where I kissed you?” he asks on a ragged breath.

Your eyes drop to his chest, and you fill in the rest of the path down to his belt in your mind. “Between your legs,” you whisper.

His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a little—letting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. “You want to kiss my cock?” he asks, a little rumble in his voice—dropping it lower than you’d heard it before.

Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.

“Remember what I told you,” he adds. “It’s natural, hm? To speak like this.”

You nod.

He lowers his face to your neck, and you look at the ceiling again and he inhales deeply, nose against your skin. Then, “Say it.” His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. “How do you want to worship m—Him?” His chest presses into yours. “Say it.”

The ceiling is a void of darkness. His body separates you from it, warm and safe. You turn your head and breathe in the scent of his soft hair. “I want to kiss you… kiss your cock.”

You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. “Good girl,” he groans. “So good. So proud of you.” A kiss where he’d bitten you… then another behind your ear… then your cheek… the corner of your mouth. “Just let me taste you a little first,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

You expect him to take your mouth again.

But he disappears, back down your body, to his position between your thighs.

You close your eyes rather than stare up into the darkness again, focusing on the warmth of him between your legs… on the delicate way he plays with the little strip of cotton covering you. His fingers lift the edges just a little as his breath fills the space he occupies—warming your thighs and cunt alike. “No one has seen it?” he asks as he toys with the fabric.

You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. “No, Father.”

“No one has touched it?”

“Just me,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, still.

His finger dips far enough under the fabric to sample the wetness beginning to leak from you. You should be ashamed, wracked with the guilt of sinful indulgence of the worst kind. Instead, a small high-pitched sound escapes you.

“And now me,” he says, low enough you almost miss it. “You’ll let me take these off, won’t you? You’ll let me see?”

“Mm,” you squeak with a nod.

His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.

“This is only for me,” he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. “This is worship.”

You nod. “Anyone else would be sinful.”

“Mm. That’s right, angel. That’s good.”

Just before your twitching cunt is exposed to the room, he stops. You open your eyes and watch as he kneels beside the pew so he can guide your underwear down your legs and over your feet.

Then he stands.

He looks down at you.

And you watch as he brings the white cotton to his face and breathes in.

He turns and takes a few steps away. You watch him inhale again.

Then he shoves them into his pocket.

He stands there, with his back to you, lit by the candles at the entrance to the booth.

“Father?” you prompt after a long lingering silence.

His shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then he turns. He stands there, looking at you with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away that you can’t make out his expression in the darkness.

Even when you sit up, he doesn’t move.

You tug your dress down over your knees. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”

He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.

“No,” he answers simply.

You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. It’s dark corners seem darker. You resist turning around to check nothing is creeping from the dark while your back is turned. The cold starts to bite at you again. You miss him.

It’s only when you wrap your arms around yourself—much like you had when he’d found you on the bench—that he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. “Forgive me,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his forehead to your stomach.

Your red dress rides up to your thighs again. He takes the chance to invade the space between your thighs, gripping onto you like a lifeline.

“This is wrong,” he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. “Forgive me.” He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. “I gave in. You’re too sweet. I’ve never strayed before. Forgive—”

“I don’t understand.”

“—me. You’re—”

You shove at his shoulders.

It’s enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.

“Father?”

He looks up at you. Tortured. That’s how you’d describe the twist of his pretty features now. “I told myself I’d let myself have you once. That it’d be enough. That it’d fix it.” His fists flatten against your back. “But it won’t ever be enough,” he breathes. It leaves him like a confession. But instead of it making him lighter, he sags. His hands slide down to your hips, then a little further. He plays with the puddle of fabric where your dress bunches up at the top of your thighs. “I’m sick,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“But it’s worship. It’s okay.”

He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyes—messier than you’ve ever seen it before. “Mm, it’s worship,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with God.”

You look over to the altar, then to the crucifix on the wall behind it.

Then, you look back at the man kneeling at your feet.

“It didn’t feel like sin.”

His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. “No?” His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. “It did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. I’ve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had your—”

He swallows.

“I’m a bad man.”

You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. “Don’t say that. Please.”

He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. “You should find a new church,” he says, entirely unmoving. “Or I’ll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.”

He sounds a little like he’s trying to convince himself at the end.

And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. “No!” you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. “Please don’t leave me. Please? I’ll be good. I won’t bother you again. I swear I won’t bother you.”

He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.

Then, when the tension leaves his body, and you’re sure he’s not about the leap to his feet, you loosen your hold on him enough that he can look up at you. His hand lifts to your cheek. “You are good,” he says. “You’ve always been so good, and you’ve never bothered me. Never.”

“But—”

“I’ll give in,” he interrupts. “I’ll give in eventually. I want you so—” he sighs. “I’ll give in.”

Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.

A door was opened now, one you’d kept locked and buried deep inside you. His tongue between your lips had been the key to unlock it, and the prospect of him pulling away—of losing him—had swung it wide open on its hinges.

Nothing mattered more to you.

No one. Not even God mattered more than—“Caleb,” you whisper.

His eyes dart to yours. It’s the first time you’ve called him by name. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that you’d never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose you’d seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.

You couldn’t part from him now.

Not ever.

“Have you really thought of me before? In sin?”

He doesn’t look away when he answers. “Many times.”

Even after having his spit dribbling down your chin, you struggle to comprehend the idea of him… touching himself. Especially thinking of you. Was the man before you now really the same pious one you’d idolised all these years?

“And you asked for forgiveness?” you ask softly. It was comforting to imagine someone like him kneeling beside his bed in prayer the same way you had.

His eyes drop now, shame crossing his face.

He grips the bench either side of you and slumps forward, until all you can see of him is the soft brown hair at the crown of his head. Then, “No, I haven’t. Not for this. Not from Him.”

His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. It’d been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadn’t considered he might say no.

“I’ve never strayed before,” he says, head still lowered before you. “Not before you.” His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. “You are my greatest sin,” he confesses, sounded closer to distress than you’d ever heard him. “I don’t understand it. I’ve sat as a helpless passenger as it’s wrapped itself around me—inside me.” He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. “You’re inside me.”

Your lips are slightly parted in awe—in stupor.

You weren’t alone in this feeling.

The door—unlocked by his touch—falls off it’s hinges entirely. You could never close it again.

With his glassy eyes still on you, you gently nudge your cardigan from your shoulders and let the warm fabric fall into a pile around your hips.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly.

“I feel it too,” you answer, hushed. “I want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.”

He shakes his head, and you feel his body tense, like he might try and escape again.

Quickly, you wrap your arms around his neck and fall forward, falling onto him. He keeps his balance for a moment, but gravity wins. He lands on his back, and you manage to cradle his head—preventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.

He’s entirely still.

“Caleb?” you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Please—” He swallows. “Please, sweetheart. You shouldn’t—we can’t do this.”

It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. “Why?” you whisper.

His lips tickles yours as he speaks. “I’m sick,” he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “You make me sick.” His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. “I’m supposed to guide you, protect your sweet soul as you walk through this sick world, and instead, I look at you, and all I think about is plucking you and keeping you. Greed and depravity and lust and—”

A little whimper from you silences him.

His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—tugging just a little, then releasing you again. “I realised it when I couldn’t find you in the pews—when Gideon was absent too: it’s not just lust,” he continues, keeping his hold on you. “It’s anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.”

“Father…” you breathe into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone else to see me, or touch me.” Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. “No one but you.”

His nostrils flare slightly.

Then his hand drops from the back of your neck, leaving you entirely.

His eyes flick down your bodies, to where your thighs cradle his stomach. Then he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, shaking it a little, like he’s trying to erase whatever thought his mind had conjured.

You sit up, straddling him. His stomach is firm beneath your palms and you shimmy down a little more, until you’re resting just above his belt.

His brows draw together as you roll your hips, bare pussy separated from his skin only by the cotton of his dark dress shirt. The friction of it feels a lot like your pillow had on nights you’d writhed against it and thought of him.

But you can feel his warmth, seeping through the fabric.

He must feels yours too.

It was your warmest place, after all.

His eyes open, and for a moment, he stares out into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks directly at you—watching as you move against him. Watching as your lips part and you let a few little sounds of pleasure slip out.

His shirt nudges higher with your rhythmic movement.

He does nothing to fix it.

He doesn’t move. Except for his eyes.

They move between your face and the red fabric covering your shame.

He knows his shirt is nudging higher.

He doesn’t look away.

And when it finally creeps high enough to allow you to drag your slippery pussy over his warm stomach for the first time, his hands snap to your hips.

He holds you so tightly, you are forced to halt your movement entirely.

“Stop it,” he scolds, stern.

You tilt your head. He says it like he hadn’t been watching, waiting—as if he hadn’t been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.

“But I need—”

He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. “What?” he demands. “What do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. That’s my purpose. That’s what I am to you.”

“Are you angry with me?”

He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. “Why is your little flower all messy? Hm?”His eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. “What kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soul—on the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?”

He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. “Your body is a temple of worship,” he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way you’d never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.

You didn’t need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on it’s own.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper. “I—I—” Tears swell in your eyes as you stutter, quickly breaching your lower lids and streaking down your cheeks.

As your vision blurs, your world tilts. Your back meets the hard floor gently, and the shape of him hovers above you—obscured by your tears. It all happens in one smooth motion.

And then, without another word, the sound of tearing fabric fills the empty church.

He tears the red fabric from your skin, split from the neckline down the centre of you.

Your chest rises and falls heavily in the stillness that follows.

He’s a blurry figure above you. You haven’t had time to blink away your tears.

His breathing is uneven and heavy, to match your own.

Then, as your vision starts to clear, he falls forward and wraps his warm lips around one of your nipples. There’s no build-up. He starts in a frenzy—a chaotic tandem of his wet swirling tongue interspersed with desperate feral suckling. It fills the echoing darkness with vulgar symphony.

It drags desperate whimpers from your lips. And when one of them sounds like a high, broken cry of his name, he surges into you—wrapping his arms around your back and tugging you a little off the floor and further into his mouth. He hums something around you, the muffled words vibrating around your nipples.

Your eyes lock on the crucifix behind him as he ravages your breasts, animalistic in his intensity. It felt like all-consuming reverence, adoration… worship.

It was worship.

Worship was good.

He was good.

You aren’t even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. It’s only when he detaches from you with gasping breaths and looks up into your eyes that you realise it.

What had you been saying?

Your nipples, wet with his spit, pebble tight in the frigid air.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

That was it.

You had been thanking him.

He sucks in a long shaky breath. Then, with his eyes fixed on yours, his large, warm hand cups your breast—covering it entirely. “These were made to nurture new life,” he begins. He’s all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how you’d always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lord’s teachings. “They’re His perfect design.” He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. “Don’t you think it’s right—” He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. “—that we honour and cherish His perfect creation?”

He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. “Take it off,” he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. “Undo the buckle.”

His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesn’t stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.

“That’s it,” he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.

It’s only then that he lifts his hands from you.

He sits above you, one leg on either side of your body—holding his weight off you. And you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. The collar goes first. He tosses the white strip aside without looking at it’s landing place.

His pretty fingers work at the buttons.

He makes it about half-way.

Then he grips the fabric and tears. Buttons pop off and scatter across the stone around you.

And then he’s bare.

Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. He’s— “Beautiful.”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.

“Mm?” he hums, falling forward over you. “What was that?”

When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. “Touch me,” he says, “as I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.”

He takes your hand, falls back on his heels, and lift you to your feet as he stands.

You are bare, and he is half-bare. Somehow, he feels taller than he ever had before.

Then he places your palm on his chest, flat against his warm skin. “This is my body,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God…” He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. “So we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.”

His stomach is firm under your palm, rising and falling shallowly as he guides you to the little trail of hair that disappearing down into his waistband. “Look at me,” he commands.

You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.

“I’m a bad man,” he says.

You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasn’t bad, he was everything good and safe and warm.

He catches your chin just as it dip downwards; as your attention is drawn to the movement at his hips. He keeps your eyes fixed on his as he undoes his fly with one hand. “I’m a bad man,” he repeats. “I want to fuck you,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Pretty little virgin comes to her trusted priest asking for forgiveness and he lowers her to the cold floor, naked, and tells her he wants to shove his leaking cock deep inside her. Is that a bad man?”

You can’t respond. Not with the way he grips you.

“He tells her he wants her to kiss his throbbing cock. To worship him, like he was her god. He wants her to put him above all other gods, above her God. He’s a jealous man, without exception.” Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. “He wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising she’ll put no one else above him.” You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. “Is that a bad man?”

His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.

“He wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until she’s bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milk—” He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. “—he wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?”

He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. “He wants her to call him Father when he’s inside her,” he whispers. “He wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows it’s bad.” He squeezes your hand around his erection. “You know it’s bad, don’t you, angel?”

One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.

He lips curve into a little smile, proud. “Good girl,” he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.

You take a small step to follow.

“No.”

You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.

“Go lay down on the steps and spread your legs.”

Your eyes flick to the stairs leading up the pulpit, then back to him.

You rock on your feet again, this time in hesitation.

The stone is cold on the soles of your feet. If you stood there long enough, they might go numb.

But the steps are covered in a dark, red carpet.

He takes a small step towards you. “Didn’t you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.”

His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. There’s only a few.

He’s closer when you turn.

And he’s entirely bare.

He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching you—waiting for your obedience. And as you lower yourself onto the steps, leaning back to prop yourself up on your elbows, his hand wraps around himself.

You can still feel the heat of him in your palm.

“Spread your legs,” he commands.

“Mm,” you nod. “Yes, Father.” Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. He’s silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tip—eyes locked on your offering.

“Are you going to ask me what I think?” He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t? For help?”

You nod, readjusting yourself on your elbows a little.

He closes the distance between you and lowers himself onto his knees on the bottom step. “I can see it clenching,” he murmurs. “Greedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?”

Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.

“Mm,” he hums. “Tell me why you touch it. Help me understand.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shake of your head.

“You’ll tell me the truth,” he orders. It’s not like earlier, in the booth—when he was still the man you’d thought you’d known these past two years. He’s all stern authority now. There’s no doubt. You will tell him the truth.

“Felt empty,” you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. “I felt so empty.”

He leans closer. “Yeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little hole…” His fingers wrap around your ankle. “Empty,” he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,” he says as he strokes up your calf in a comforting caress. You struggle not to squeeze your thighs together, tortured by the lack of friction and the pulse of your cunt under his lingering gaze.

Then he lowers himself down between your legs. His finger strokes the skin just around where you want him most. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “You need filling with the Holy Spirit. You’re all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?”

He’s asking you a question, but he’s focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. He’s consumed by the lust you share—slave to it.

“Who better to fill you than me?” he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. It’s barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.

“Just for you…” you breathe.

“Hm?” He looks up. “What was that?”

“Only want you.”

He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, “Me? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?”

“Forgive me,” you whisper.

He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. “I’ll help you, angel.” His lips brush over yours. “My angel…”

When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panic—afraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. “It needs anointing,” he says with a gravely darkness in his voice.

He towers above you, skin glowing golden as the candlelight bounces off him. The same strong fingers that gripped the Holy Book high above his head each Sunday glide over the length of him as he looks down upon you.

He takes one step backward, down the steps. “On your knees,” he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. “Tell me,” he prompts. “Where do you want to kiss me?”

On a shaky breath, you exhale, “Your cock, Father.”

You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. There’s a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. “Alright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?” He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a little—heavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. “That’s it,” he coos. So you place another to his skin, right at the very tip. It bobs a little as he shifts his weight. Then you dip your tongue out, catching a little of the shine at the slit.

A bird calls in the night as it flies somewhere nearby.

His head drops back.

“This is what you needed,” he sighs. “This is what you came to me for. Isn’t it?”

You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicks—confidence building.

“Good girl,” he praises, looking down at you again. “Oh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Father’s cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,” he groans.

He slips from your lips as you startle a little, looking up at him. The vulgarity had become your new normal. But this was new.

“What is it, baby?” he coos, stroking your hair. “I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry.” He takes his cock in hand as he apologises, standing on the steps of the pulpit, in the empty church where he gives his sermon each Sunday.

No one else would ever see him like this. He was too good. He was loved and trusted and righteous. And his cock was wet with your spit.

When you stand to your feet at his guidance, he still towers over you from the step down.

“Are you gonna put it inside me now?” you question with a little tilt of your head.

He takes one step down and runs his fingers through his hair. For a brief moment, it almost looks like he comes back to himself—to the version of him that almost left you—good and virtuous. It fights to take over.

So you take one step towards him.

He takes a step down again, in return, away from you.

“I’m so empty, Father,” you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”

A further step down has him standing on the stone tiles.

So you lower yourself onto the steps again, leaning back and parting your thighs.

He stands there as you play with yourself, slipping your fingers through your slick until your clit is as sloppy as the fluttering entrance you leak from.

His heavy cock twitches as you watch each other. He doesn’t touch it.

“Please, Father,” you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. “My pussy…”

He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.

“I know it’s bad,” you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. “It’s wicked. My naughty pussy wants to worship your cock, Father. Wanted it so long. I think about it during mass. I imagine you inside me. I come every week for you.” You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. “Don’t you want me?”

His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. He’s slow, like a predator stalking.

“So bad,” he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.

He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.

“Sent to tempt me,” he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?” His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

It sounded right. Made for him. You’d never wanted anyone else.

He lowers himself over you before you can answer.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he warns. “It’ll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.”

His forehead drops to yours. And with your eyes closed and his warmth over you, the slick tip of him slides over you for the first time. You want to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you get close. Instead, he breathes into your mouth as his tip collects all the slick between your folds and spreads it in an obscene mess between your thighs. “This belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?”

His lips brush yours.

“No one else touches it. No one else looks at it.” He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. “This is worship,” he breathes. “You’ll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. You’ll worship me. Above all else.” A chaste kiss. “Then I’ll flood you with cum, so you’re nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?”

“Inside,” you plead as you squirm, trying to take him in as he slips over you again and again.

He breathes into your neck as he prods at you a little harder. “You gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.”

He kisses your neck as you try to take him, letting your muscles go slack under him as he eases inside you over and over. “There you go,” he mumbles. “Fuck, that’s it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.”

It’s just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything you’d managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.

It’s enough to drag tears from you again.

He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.

“You’re inside. Inside me.”

His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.

“Thank you, Father,” you whisper.

He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you further—spearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.

“We shouldn’t—” he mutters. “Forgive me.” His hips drag back, and then he’s pressing into you again. “Forgive me.” He bites at your earlobe. “Naughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.”

“This is sex,” you mewl.

He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. “This is sex,” he answers, breathless. “This is what you wanted. You wanted to suck on my cock with your perfect little cunny. You wanted to be full of me, hm? This is what you wanted.”

“He’ll forgive us,” you whisper into his ear. “I’m made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?”

“Yeah?” he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. “You made for me?”

“Can’t you feel it?” you ask with a roll of your hips.

You watch his eyes flutter shut.“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.” He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. “I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kiss—” He licks at your jaw. “—and breed.” He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. “Gonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.”

“Do you think He’s watching?” you whisper in his ear.

He groans into your neck. “Tell me who you were thinking of,” he orders, low and gravelly. “When you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.”

“You.”

He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. “No one else before me, hm?” he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. “You worship me with this cunt. Only me.”

You nod desperately, emphatically. “Only you.”

Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.

All your life you’d believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.

But you’d been empty. You’d been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. You’d desperately returned to this church week after week, believing the man at the pulpit was merely a messenger between you and your heavenly God. Believing your fixation was your failure—that he was temptation, and only in submission to God could you be delivered from him.

But with his cum anointing your skin, and his large warm body sheltering you from the cold, you know the truth of it all: anything, or anyone, which worked to separate you from him, could be nothing but the greatest evil. He was your salvation. And nothing would come before him.

Your face is quickly wet with tears again as you roll against each other in the dark, empty church—indulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You can’t stop, desperate to release the intensity of your adoration upon him.

the bass from the main stage doesn’t just hit your ears; it vibrates straight through the thin soles of your sandals, humming up into your ribs. the beach concert was a damn neon-lit mass of salt-sticky skin, cheap coconut rum, and the suffocating heat of a thousand bodies swaying in tandem under the humid night sky. you’d left your friends screaming lyrics into the air, slipping away to the stall by the tree line to grab a refill.

now, cup held loosely in hand, you’re trying to wedge your way back through the shifting wall of people by the shoreline. it’s like trying to navigate a labyrinth of warm shoulders and fucking sweat. you take one blind step past a group of guys laughing too loud, and your foot catches on an uneven dip in the sand. 

you stumble forward, your shoulder colliding with something solid. 

fuck-

the iced drink sloshes violently over the rim of your plastic cup, splashing right across a broad, pale chest.

“shit, what the fuck—”

the curse is muttered under a breath that smells faintly of bitter lime and cheap gin, the tone completely flat, deadpan, and instantly recognizable. you blink, steadying yourself, and your eyes travel upward—past the dark cargo jorts low on his hips, past the lean, surprisingly cut lines of a pale torso, and over a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone.

it’s xavier.

his sunshades are perched crookedly in his messy ash-blonde hair, reflecting the distant strobe lights, and his diamond blue eyes are narrowed down at you in sheer annoyance. what is he doing here? he looks entirely out of place, a pale ghost haunting the edges of a party he clearly didn't want to invite himself to. a black stud glints in his earlobe as he tilts his head.

xavier stares at you. the slow blink of his eyelashes makes him look like a dazed bunny caught in a trap, his brain visibly short-circuiting as he processes the fact that someone from the university—let alone a blockmate he has actively avoided eye contact with for an entire semester—is standing right in his personal space.

he doesn't know what to do with his hands. he settles for crossing his arms over his wet chest, a pathetic attempt to shield himself from you, though it only serves to flex the skinny muscle of his biceps.

“you,” he mutters, his voice a low, monotonous drone that barely cuts through the thumping bass. he sounds like he's reading a script he hates. “you're from the block. the one who sits in the back.”

“and you're the one who sits in the front and doesn't talk at all,” you shoot back, not missing a beat. you let out a mocking little laugh, tilting your head up to match his gaze. you don't offer an apology for the sticky alcohol now dripping down his sternum. instead, you eye him up and down with an amused smile. “wow, look at you. i didn't know the block phantom actually possessed a pair of legs, let alone came outside. who dragged you out of your cave, xavier?”

his jaw tenses, a tiny twitch beneath his pale skin. 

he hates this. he hates the way you look at him like he’s a strange specimen under a microscope. he's used to being invisible, a background character who fades into the chalkboard grease of lecture halls. having your attention focused entirely on him feels like an interrogation.

“nobody,” xavier looks away, his eyes tracking the dark horizon of the ocean instead of facing you. “i came because i wanted to. not that it's any of your business. you should go back to your friends. you’re blocking the breeze.”

“ouch. friendly as always,“ you stepped closer just to watch the way his shoulders go rigid. you take a slow sip from your half-empty cup. “i'm surprised you even know what a breeze feels like, considering you usually look like you live in a basement. what's the matter? surprised to see me here?”

xavier's eyes flick back to you, cold and sardonic, though there's a faint tightness in his throat as he swallows. “i'm surprised you're capable of walking in a straight line. you spilled your drink on me.”

“consider it a baptism into the real world,” you say, laughing softly at his sour expression. “but seriously. you? at a beach concert? alone? it's a little pathetic, don't you think?”

xavier’s fingers dig slightly into the skin of his arms. he wants to tell you to go away. he wants to push past you and disappear into the dark, back to the quiet apartment where nobody looks at him, nobody mocks him, and nobody makes his chest feel this tight. but his feet feel heavy in the sand, anchored by the novelty of someone actually speaking to him.

“i'm fine by myself,” he says, his voice dropping into that familiar, stubborn tone. ”leave me alone.”

he turns on his heel, his large cargo jorts swishing heavily against his shins as he tries to melt back into the shadows. it’s his instinctual move—the clean break, the quiet exit. but you don’t let him. your sandals crunch in the sand right beside him, matching his stride.

“so are you seriously alone?” your voice drifts over his shoulder, light and entirely unbothered by his glaring aura of hostility. “like, actually by yourself? do you even have friends, xavier?”

the question bites, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the sand ahead. he does have friends. zayne and rafayel exist in his orbit, but the mere thought of zayne sitting on a humid beach with a plastic cup of cheap alcohol is absurd, and rafayel would have spent the entire night complaining about the quality of the crowd or the salt ruining his clothes. they aren't the type for this. they don't belong in a chaotic mass of college kids, and neither does he. but explaining that requires too many words, too much vulnerability.

“i have them,” he mutters, almost robotic as he steers away from the main shoreline. “they just have better things to do than stand around in the mud.”

you just chuckle, a mocking sound that follows him as he leads the way toward a darker, quieter corner of the resort. the heavy thump of the bass begins to muffle, filtered through a thick screen of tall bamboo stalks that sway lazily in the night breeze. it’s a designated smoking area, tucked away from the main pavilion. a couple of empty wooden crates serve as makeshift stools, and right now, the little pocket of shadows is completely deserted.

“then, why do you come here anyway? are you here to get some girls?” another snicker escapes past your lips. 

xavier then turns around to face you, his pale chest still gleaming slightly from the alcohol you spilled on him. his diamond blue eyes narrow under the faint amber glow of a single hanging bulb.

“[name], why are you suddenly all up in my ass?” he asks, the profanity sounding almost clinical coming from his voice. “don't you have a bunch of people waiting for you? you're... better off bothering some other guy who actually wants to, like, talk to you.“

he reaches into the deep pocket of his cargo jorts, his fingers pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. you watch him, momentarily stunned, as he slides a cigarette between his lips. the small flick of the flint illuminates the curves of his face—the boyish, bunny-like slope of his nose, the long eyelashes—contrasting sharply with the way he draws in the smoke. you hadn't expected this. the quiet blockmate who sits in the front row and never raises his voice actually smokes. he feels less like a flat, boring caricature of a loner and more like a puzzle with missing pieces.

you clear your throat, tilting your head as he exhales a thin, grey stream of smoke into the humid air, his eyes tracking the cloud as it disappears into the bamboo.

“well, my friends are occupied, and it's getting kind of boring over there,” you say, taking a step closer into his small sanctuary. a teasing smile plays on your lips. “honestly, it's way more entertaining to stand here and watch you squirm. so, what's the deal then? do you always hide out in corners like this? oh, i know why—it's a trick to attract girls, no? have you ever even experienced getting hit on by a girl before?” 

xavier takes another sharp drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing a fierce orange. he isn't used to this kind of attention—the piercing gaze of a girl who looks at him like he's something to be unraveled for amusement. his throat feels dry, because the truth is humiliating: almost no one approaches him, almost no one talks to him, and the few times women have looked his way, he had frozen up so badly they simply walked away, assuming he was stuck-up or broken.

“fuck off.” 

xavier shifts his weight, looking anywhere but at your face after pocketing his sunshades. “i'm not that type of guy. so, just leave me alone.”

he holds the cigarette awkwardly between his fingers, the ash growing dangerously long because he’s entirely too stiff to tap it off. his knuckles are white against the paper filter, and the silence between you only stretches, punctuated by the distant muffled thump of a techno remix playing by the shore.

“you're not that type of guy?” you repeat, stepping fully into the small bamboo enclosure. “what type? the type who knows how to hold a conversation, or the type who actually knows what to do when a girl hits on him?”

xavier squeezes his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, his chest rising and falling in a shallow breath. he takes another drag of his cigarette just to give his mouth something to do, but he inhales too fast.

“ghk—!”

he chokes.

it’s a pathetic, muffled cough into his fist, his whole pale torso spasming slightly as the smoke hits the back of his throat. it makes his blue eyes instantly water, looking away immediately and cursing silently in his mind. you didn't fail to catch the way his ears were burning a hot crimson.

“i'm fine,” he swallows hard, trying to force the monotonous drone back into his vocal cords, but it comes out sounding shaky. “the wind changed.”

“there is no wind, xavier,” you cross your arms, leaning your hip against one of the bamboo stalks. “jesus, you really don't know what to do with yourself, do you? are you seriously this clueless around women?”

“i-i'm not fucking clueless,” 

a normal experienced guy would laugh it off, make a smooth joke, or step into your space to push the tension back onto you. xavier does none of that. he just freezes, staring at his cargo jorts like the faded denim holds the answers to the universe. “i just... don't see the point. people are loud. you're loud.”

“i'm standing right here and talking in a normal voice,” you point out, taking a deliberate step closer. the scent of your fruity drink mixes with the bitter tobacco smoke hanging around him. “xavier, look at me when i'm talking to you.”

his eyes flick up, entirely against his will, caught off guard by the authority in your tone. up close, his features really do look like a startled bunny—wide, blinking eyes, a soft, trembling lower lip that he bites down on to keep from speaking. he looks so incredibly defenseless for someone who just told you to fuck off two minutes ago.

“...what do you want from me? i don't have anything to say to you. you're just... doing this on purpose.”

“doing what?”

“making fun of me,” xavier tightly grips his own upper arms again, his black piercings catching the light as he ducks his head. “you're just bored and you want to see how long it takes for me to look fucking stupid. go back to the beach.”

“tch—hahahaha!“

the sound of your laughter breaks the quiet of the bamboo enclosure, echoing over the distant thumping of the bass. you actually have to hold your stomach, tilting your head back because god, xavier is a riot. his reactions are better than any entertainment on the main stage! the panic vibrating off his frame makes a wicked little thrill dance in your chest. you want to toy with him until he completely snaps.

“okay, okay, look,” you say, catching your breath but keeping that mocking smile fixed on your lips. “i'll leave you alone. i’ll walk away right now, but... you have to answer just one more question for me.”

xavier watches you out of the corner of his wet, glass-pink eyes, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. he doesn't say anything, which you take as a green light.

“are you a virgin?” you ask, leaning in slightly, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “because honestly, xavier? you look and act exactly like one. oh my god, are you really a virgin?”

you expect him to choke again. you expect him to stutter, to turn away, or to give you another defensive non-answer. but instead...

“yes,” xavier shoots back instantly, his voice cracking slightly on the vowel but sharp enough to slice through the humid air. he doesn't hesitate. he stares right into your eyes, his diamond blue gaze dark and completely cornered. “i am a fucking virgin. are you happy now? is that what you wanted to hear? so go away. go find some experienced guy who actually knows what the fuck he's doing and bother him instead.”

you blink. 

oh. oh. 

he really is... a total virgin, huh. 

you hadn't actually expected him to just lay his cards on the table like that, so exposed and utterly pathetic in his honesty. it leaves you momentarily speechless, looking at the sharp lines of his collarbone, the flushed skin of his bare chest.

but, a slow grin crawls back onto your face. you decide to press his buttons harder. “hmm. i don't believe you.”

xavier’s eyebrows knit together into a deep frown. “what the fuck do you mean you don't believe me?”

“i mean, i have to at least find out for myself, right?”

the air catches in xavier's throat, his eyes widening into pools of pure shock. he stutters, his lips moving a few times before any sound actually comes out.

“...what?” he croaks, his gaze darting frantically between your eyes and your mouth. “w-what did you just say? repeat that. i must've... i-i misheard you or something—”

“i said, i want to feel your shape, xavier.”

what the... fuck.

xavier suddenly chokes on his own saliva, a harsh, pathetic cough rattling through his chest. his hand trembles so violently that the half-smoked cigarette slips right from his fingers, tumbling into the dark sand below, its orange ember dying instantly. he doesn't even notice. his mind is entirely fried, the blue of his eyes completely wild as he stares down at you, his back pressed so hard into the bamboo that the stalks groan behind him.

“you're... you're fucking messing with me,” he breathes out, “you're really... you're really this committed to making a fool out of me, aren't you?”

you chuckle sweetly, “i'm not messing with you, xavier?”

your eyes slowly track downward, leaving his flushed face and trailing across the expanse of his shirtless torso. you're searching for something, and it doesn't take long to find it. there, nestled beneath the faded denim of his cargo jorts, is the unmistakable silhouette of a growing tent. it twitches slightly under your gaze, like a physical betrayal of how affected he actually is.

xavier notices where you're looking and his brain completely short-circuits. “i-i don't... i don't even know what you want from me, so—okay, what the fuck, what the fuck—”

his voice cuts off into an unintentional high-pitched whimper as your hand reaches out and presses directly against the apex of his tent.

“ah.. nh...”

it’s a pathetic, needy little sound that slips past his lips before he can stop it. your fingers curl slightly, deliberately playing with the stiff shape through the thick denim, testing his weight. xavier’s hand instantly fly to your shoulder, his long fingers gripping your skin tightly—not to push you away, but because his knees have suddenly gone completely weak. 

you stop the movement for a second, looking up at him with a look of mock concern. “oh my, xavier... you've been hard?”

he tries desperately to catch his breath, his eyes closing tight before snapping open again. and he presses himself even harder against the groaning bamboo wall behind him, trying to swallow the hot lump in his throat.

“i-i'm a guy, okay?” he stammers out, his monotonous drone completely shattered into a defensive whine. “and... and you... you know you're really pretty, and you're—you're fucking hot, so... of course my body is going to—to—”

“how long?” you cut him off, your voice dripping with teasing authority while your thumb slowly strokes the length of his twitching bulge. “how long have you been hard for me?”

his head snaps to the side, his chin tucking into his shoulder as he desperately avoids your eyes. the deep, burning crimson has spread all the way down his neck, coloring his pale chest in splotchy, beautiful patches of sheer embarrassment. he looks so small, so incredibly tense and cute as he writhes weakly under your palm.

“s-since... fuck,” he stutters, a small, frustrated sob caught in the back of his throat as your fingers twitch against him. his eyelashes flutter rapidly, wet with panicked tears. “since like... since you started talking to me, okay? since you—i couldn't—i couldn't help it. please stop... no, don't stop, just—ah...”

the weight of him expands under your palm, hot and straining fiercely against the thick denim of his cargo jorts. you let out a soft exaggerated gasp, pulling your lips into a mockingly surprised pucker.

“oh, wow,” you murmur, your fingers spreading out to measure him through the fabric. “so you're actually pretty big, huh? look at you, xavier.”

the praise makes xavier’s head roll back against the bamboo stalk, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over with a heavy daze. the fierce crimson on his cheeks makes the blue of his eyes look blindingly bright, almost silver under the amber bulb. he looks down at you through his long lashes, lips parting as he draws in a shaky breath.

“y-you... you really think so?” 

”i do,” you coo, giving him a gentle, firm squeeze that makes his hips involuntarily twitch forward into your touch. “does anybody else know how big you actually are, xavier? have you shown anyone?”

xavier frantically shakes his head no, the messy ash-blonde strands falling into his eyes. “n-no... nobody,” he stammers, “nobody else has ever... ever touched me like this. i told you, i'm—i'm a virgin.”

”poor thing,” you slowly slide your hand up and down his length, snickering under your breath.

and the moment the words poor thing leave your lips, the bulge underneath your hand twitches violently, a thick pulse that you feel right against your palm. xavier lets out a ragged hitch of his breath, his eyes snapping wide open as a jolt of pleasure shoots straight to his groin. he looks at you like a starved creature, his bottom lip trembling as he swallows hard, trying to force his tangled tongue to work.

“s-say... say that again,” he pleads, his voice cracking. his grip on your shoulder tightens, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer to his shirtless chest.

“say what?” 

“th-that... what you just—just called me,” he stutters harder, his pale torso completely tense, a thin sheen of sweat making his collarbone glisten under the light. “c-call me... call me a poor thing again. please. it—it felt...”

he can't even finish the sentence, but you strangely find yourself obeying him anyway. there's something entirely intoxicating about seeing the unapproachable, sardonic block loner reduced to a shivering pathetic mess right in front of you just from a few words.

“poor thing,” you whisper sweetly, leaning in until your breath brushes against his burning ear. “such a poor, pathetic little bunny. you're so sensitive, xavier. look how worked up you are just from me touching your pants.”

”oh, f-fuck... ah...” his head slowly shakes from side to side against the bamboo wall, his entire body trembling as you continue to rhythmically palm him through the cargo jorts. 

“you like being called a poor thing?” you whisper, pressing your body against his trembling frame to pin him thoroughly. “do you want to be called something else, hm? perhaps a... good boy?”

“y-yes... ah! please—” his fingers dig into the meat of your shoulders, desperate for anchor, his knuckles turning stark white. “call me—call me that... please, say it... just say it, i—i want to hear it, please...”

“no.”

the denial breaks him. and for all that he is, he fucking lets out a pathetic sob, his head thrashing from side to side against the bamboo wall. he becomes a completely unhinged, moaning, begging mess right beneath you—just a pathetic starved virgin writhing under your touch.

“please... please,” he wails softly, a breathless moan tearing from his throat as his lower lip trembles violently. “don't be mean... don't be mean to me, i'll—i'll do whatever you want... just call me it... please, tell me i'm—tell me i'm a good boy...”

seeing him reduced to such a shivering, responsive wreck is too sweet to resist. you let your hand resume its punishing pace, and lean right into his burning ear. “such a good boy, xavier. look how well you take it for me. such a sweet, good boy. like that?”

“ngh—!!”

xavier goes completely rigid.

his eyes roll back into his head, his eyelids fluttering as his entire torso spasms violently. a loud, choked-out moan tears from his chest, echoing against the bamboo as he begins to fucking cum right through the thick fabric of his cargo jorts.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fumck—”

his hips slam into your hand over and over in helpless, uncoordinated jerks. he spasms like a dying bunny, helpless to stop the overwhelming waves of friction. and because he’s a little virgin, because he has held everything in for so long, the release is incredibly violent and lasts a bit too long, his body continuously tightening and pulsing against your palm while he stutters and moans incoherently into the dark air.

“shit, xavier, it's not stopping yet?”

“f-fuck... ah, ah... n-no, it's—it's too much... hngh... please...” 

slowly, the violent tremors begin to subside, leaving him slumped weakly against the bamboo, his legs visibly shaking as if they can barely support his weight. oh god, he's so fucking embarrassed.

you slowly draw your hand back, tilting your head as you inspect your palm. the front of his cargo jorts is completely ruined, a dark and sticky-wet stain soaking through the stiff denim.

xavier’s hand leave your shoulder, his fingers trembling so violently he can barely coordinate them as he slides a palm up his face, pushing his messy ash-blonde hair back from his forehead. he presses his hand over his eyes, his breathing still coming in ragged gaps that rattle his throat.

“oh fuck,” he breathes into his skin, the word muffled, trembling, and saturated with a wave of humiliation. “fuck... i didn't... i'm sorry.”

he drops his hand from his face, his diamond blue eyes looking completely wide and glossy with a pinkish rim of pure embarrassment. he looks away from you, staring desperately at the dark sand beneath his feet.

“i didn't mean to... to do that,” he mutters, though it's entirely thin and cracked at the edges. “i got... carried away. i told you it was my... my first time doing anything like this. i didn't know it would... fuck. i'm sorry for cumming too quick.”

“you really are funny,” you let out a sweet chuckle, entirely unbothered by his panic as you step back a fraction of an inch, your eyes trailing over his shivering frame. you turn around lazily, stepping toward one of the high, makeshift wooden crates tucked against the bamboo wall. with an easy grace, you hop up, sitting against the rough edge of the wood.

“well, since you ruined the mood by finishing so fast, you're going to have to make up for it.”

xavier blinks, his long eyelashes fluttering rapidly as his brain stalls out yet again. he looks at you, eyebrows knitting together into a vulnerable frown that makes him look like a lost child. “make... make up for it? what do you mean?”

“i mean exactly what i said,” you murmur, leaning back slightly against the bamboo behind you, parting your knees just enough to send a message. “it's my turn now. you need to give me something.”

xavier’s mouth parts, a breathless gasp escaping his lips. he stands looking at you like you’ve just spoken a language he has never heard before. “i... i don't know what you want. i don't have anything to give you.”

“use your hands, xavier,” you point a finger down at yourself. “put your fingers in me.”

“w-what?” he stammers, his voice cracking loudly as the splotchy red flush on his chest flares up with renewed heat. “you... want me to do what? i can't—i don't know how to do something like that. i've never—i've never touched a girl before. what if i mess it up? what if i hurt you?”

“shush,” you pat the edge of the wooden crate, tilting your chin down. “come here, don't make me repeat myself.”

he looks at you through those long eyelashes, his body frozen in place for three agonizing seconds before the invisible leash pulls him forward. his large cargo jorts swish heavily against his knees as he drags his feet through the dark sand, moving with the reluctant obedience of a stray dog that knows it's about to get scolded. he stops right between your thighs, his torso glistening with a fresh sheen of anxious sweat under the low amber light.

“i'll guide you,” you say softly, your voice dipping into that patronizing tone that treats him like the complete novice he is.

without breaking eye contact, your fingers reach down to the fly of your shorts. the metallic click of the button snapping open sounds loud in the small bamboo clearing, followed by the slow scratch of the zipper sliding down.

zzzzzip.

xavier’s gaze drops instantly, drawn down by the gravity of his own terror, and then he stares at the soft curve of your exposed lower belly. he looks so incredibly flustered, his throat working in a visible gulp. he realizes, with a sudden wave of panic, that he is about to see a girl's pussy in real life for the first time in his years of pathetic existence. not on a screen, not in a textbook, but right here, breathing and warm, under a resort light.

“hey, i told you,” he stammers out, his voice a shaky, thin thread that lacks even a fraction of his earlier sardonic bite. “i'm... i'm not going to be good at this. you're going to... you're going to hate it. don't expect anything from me.”

you don't even bother to acknowledge his miserable little disclaimer. instead, you lean forward slightly, your fingers wrapping around his trembling wrists, forcing his cold hands down until they rest against the waistband of your unbuttoned denim.

“take them off. panties, too. do it together.”

xavier lets out a faint gasp, a breathless “fuck...” slipping past his lips before he can choke it back. he looks at your hands on his wrists like you're forcing him into a crime, but his fingers instinctively curl into the fabric anyway. he’s so utterly malleable under your authority it’s almost laughable.

with hands that shake so violently they repeatedly snag against the rough denim, he begins to push the material down your hips. the fabric bunches around your upper thighs, and he moves with an agonizing slowness, as if he's terrified that any sudden movement will cause you to vanish or, worse, laugh at him again. his eyes trace the expanse of your thighs as they are slowly unveiled.

but as the dark cotton of your underwear follows the denim down to your knees, xavier’s head abruptly jerks upward. his eyes snap to your face, wide and frantic, deliberately forcing his gaze to stay glued to your eyes. he absolutely refuses to look directly there yet.

slowly, you part your thighs, the smooth skin of your legs brushing against the coarse fabric of his long jorts as you widen the space between you. “look at it, xavier,” you murmur, “look at it, and put a finger inside.”

xavier squeezes his eyes shut, his throat moving in a heavy, desperate gulp. for a second, he just stands there in the dark, his hands twitching helplessly in the air as if he’s praying for the bamboo stalks to swallow him whole. and when his eyelids finally flutter open, his gaze drops down. 

he looks, staring directly into the slick, parted heat of your pussy. a wave of heat surges up his cheeks, turning his ears a bright crimson under the bulb. he looks less like a man and more like a completely overwhelmed creature that has just stumbled upon something sacred and terrifying. his lips part, a small, shaky exhale slipping past his teeth.

“it's... it's so pretty,” he whispers under his breath, the praise slipping out unfiltered, raw and thoroughly pathetic in its utter lack of cool. it’s the kind of line only an absolute virgin would utter while staring between a girl's legs.

you reach down to wrap your fingers around his trembling wrist once more. “now don't just stare at it. put a finger in.”

you guide his hand forward, his long index finger pressing hesitantly against the wet entrance of your womanhood. xavier flinches slightly at the sudden contact, his other hand flying out in a blind, clumsy reflex to grip your knee. 

with a slow nudge of your hand, his finger slides past your lower lips, sinking into the tight, tight heat of your walls.

fuck. fuck, fuck.

the moment the slick warmth swallows his finger to the knuckle, xavier’s eyes widens, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. under the damp denim of his cargo jorts, the ruined bulge of his erection twitches shamelessly, growing harder and tighter against his stomach even though he literally just came through his clothes minutes ago. 

“is this right?” his finger is stiff, twitching awkwardly inside you without any real rhythm because he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing. “am i doing it okay? tell me if it hurts, or if it's–shit you're so fucking warm.”

“you're just holding it there, xavier. that's not fingering,” you mock gently, your thumb pressing down on the back of his wrist to force an upward hooking motion. “curve your finger. like this. curl it up inside me.”

“l-like this?” he croaks, his pupils completely dilated as he tries to mimic the movement. his hand is so tense the tendons are standing out along his forearm, his knuckles white where he’s gripping your knee. he hooks his finger clumsily, catching against your sensitive walls, and the sudden wet squelch of his own awkward movements makes his face burn twice as hot. “like that? are you—are you liking it?”

“i'd like it a lot more if you weren't moving like a broken thing. do it faster, and deeper. unless this is really the absolute best those clumsy fingers of yours can manage?”

“fuck... shut up,” 

before you can even laugh at his little display of temper, his free hand—the one anchoring him to your knee—moves with a sudden bruising grip. his long fingers dig firmly into the soft flesh of your thigh, and with a sharp, heavy heave of his arm, xavier lifts your leg high. he hoists it all the way up onto his shoulder, forcing your thighs to splay open in a completely exposed angle.

the suddenness of the movement makes your breath hitch, your fingers instantly digging into the rough wood of the crate to keep your balance as the cool night air hits the absolute dampest, most intimate part of you. from this point, you are entirely laid bare under the amber bulb, a prize splayed out for the most pathetic pervert on campus to see.

xavier doesn't look away. now that his insecure temper has been piqued, his eyes are fixed entirely on your pussy. he leans over you, his chest casting a long shadow across your lap, the silver chain around his neck swinging like a pendulum as he repositions his hand.

“you want it faster?” he mutters, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. “fine.”

he drives his index finger back into you, burying it all the way to the base of his knuckle. a loud, squelching wet sound echoes clearly over the rustling bamboo stalks as his hand begins to piston into your heat. it’s still incredibly clumsy—his rhythm is erratic, a frantic, uncoordinated jerking motion that has absolutely no baseline experience behind it—but the force of his desperation makes up for what he lacks in technique. he's pushing into you with everything he has, his knuckle bumping repeatedly against your sensitive outer lips.

“wow,” you gasp out, a genuine shudder ripping through your frame as the friction starts to build. “look at you go. you're actually starting to get a hang of it, bunny.”

jesus, you are so goddamn wet. the sound of his own clumsy finger sloshing around inside you is so loud, so incredibly lewd, that the heavy tent underneath his cargo jorts throbs with a renewed tightness. he is so hard it physically hurts, a thick drop of pre-cum soaking further into the stained denim as he pins you down further.

the heat between your thighs is beginning to build into something thick and undeniable, like a buzzing current of pleasure that ripples right up your spine every time xavier’s clumsy finger drives home. it’s getting incredibly hard to maintain that mocking little smirk you’ve been wearing like armor. your teeth dig sharply into your bottom lip, trying to anchor the ragged gasps threatening to slip past your throat. you absolutely cannot let this isolated, virgin blockmate see that his zero-experience is actually working on you. it would be completely humiliating to lose your grip on the reins now.

you need to remind him exactly who is running this little thing.

“two,” you breathe out, your voice a little tighter, a little more strained than you intended. “put two fingers in, xavier. one isn't doing anything.”

xavier's hand freezes dead inside you, his eyes widening into flustered circles as he looks up from your wet folds.

“two?” he looks at his own hand, then back up at your parted thighs. “but... you're already so tight. i don't think they'll fit. what if i stretch you too much? what if it—”

“shut up and just do it.”

he gulps, the silver necklace clicking against his collarbone as he slowly, awkwardly wedges his middle finger right alongside his index. the sudden thick expansion against your walls makes your hips twitch involuntarily on the wooden crate. xavier doesn't even wait for you to lecture him this time; driven by a sudden, greedy curiosity, he begins to piston his hand back into your heat.

squelch.

“~ah!”

a loud genuine moan slips right past your teeth, echoing sharply against the rustling stalks above.

instead of pulling back, xavier plunges his hand deeper, driving those two fingers all the way to the hilt, his thumb bumping hard against your clit with a clumsy pressure that makes your toes curl into the air. 

“more,” you whimpered, the teasing girl completely vanishing, replaced by a needy shivering mess that’s entirely at the mercy of a boy who didn't even know what a pussy looked like twenty minutes ago. “put... put three, xavier. put three in.”

“th-three?” he gasps out, his knuckles slick with your own arousal as he hovers at the entrance. “are you sure? that's—that's too much, you're already so wet and, and, i don't—”

losing the last shred of your patience, you reach down and blindly grab his wrist to yank him forward.

with a low grunt that sounds entirely unlike him, he forces his ring finger right into the tight seam of your pussy. “shit—what the fuck...”

the brutal stretch of three fingers burying themselves inside you all at once catches you completely off guard. you let out a helpless whimper, your back arching off the wooden crate as your fingers claw desperately into the rough grain of the seat. 

the sloshing sound inside you is getting even more out of hand, a wet rhythmic squelch that is echoeing obscenely. and he’s doing it. the guy who looks like he’d apologize to a door if he bumped into it, is currently burying three thick fingers into your heat. 

but for someone who is supposedly delivering the pleasure here, he is making an absolute fool of himself. xavier is whining. actually whining. every time he shoves his hand forward, a strained noise hitches in the back of his throat, his soft boyish features contorting into a pained, pathetic scowl as if he’s the one being subjected to some kind of beautiful torture. his forehead is pressed nearly against your hoisted knee, his chest heaving so hard the silver chain is practically rattling against his collarbone.

you let out a breathless chuckle, fingers digging into his sweat-slicked shoulder just to feel the way his skinny muscles twitch under your touch. look at him. he looks like a pathetic, cornered bunny who is entirely too greedy for his own good.

“what's the matter, xavi? do you want to say something to me?”

in response to your mocking, xavier lets out a frustrated grunt. he drives his three fingers brutally deep, all the way to the hilt until his damp knuckles press hard against your entrance, and curls them upward with a sudden hook.

”~ah! shit!”

you squirm violently on the wooden crate, your toes clawing into the dark air while your hips involuntarily rise to meet his hand. 

xavier pants heavily, his blue eyes completely glazed over and dark with a drunken daze. he looks down at where his hand is buried inside you, his lips trembling as he tries to swallow the thick knot of embarrassment in his throat. “i-i don't... i'm unsure if i can say it,” he stammers out, his voice a shaky cracked whisper. “am i allowed to say it?”

you can barely even find your voice to answer him, your chest heaving as you give a wordless impatient nod. your brain is entirely too focused on the fact that his long fingers are moving way too loudly inside you.

then, without an ounce of warning, xavier leans in close, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin of the pulse in your neck. the movement forces you to stretch your leg wider, higher.

“...can i eat you out?”

the whisper is so incredibly soft, so completely unpolished, that it catches you entirely off guard. your eyes widen, your heart doing a sudden flip in your chest. the absolute audacity of this virgin. he’s still actively pistoning his fingers inside you, making you stretch and leak all over his knuckles, and he has the nerve to ask that?

“say it fucking properly.” you gasp out, trying desperately to claw back your sense of control because you refuse to let him see how much the question actually rattled you. “say it like an actual guy, you dork.”

xavier blinks, trying his absolute best to shake off the thick, pleasure-drunk fog clouding his brain. he doesn't pull his hand out; instead, he uses his grip on your knee to hoist himself up, leaning over your body more until his flushed, beautiful face is bare inches from yours. his messy ash-blonde hair brushes against your forehead, his dilated blue pupils locked onto your lips.

“can i eat your pussy?”

fuck.

he says it with the most ridiculous combination of innocence and desperation. it’s a line that should sound smooth, but coming from his trembling splotchy-red lips, it just sounds like a starved creature begging for a scrap of food. and the worst part? your body absolutely eats it up.

before you can even think of a mocking comeback, a thick hot gush of white liquid sloshes out from deep inside you, sliding slowly down his fingers and over your exposed thighs. your eyes roll completely inward, a loud, shattered moan tearing from your throat as your back arches entirely off the wooden crate. you shake helplessly under his touch, your walls clamping down around his three fingers in a pulsating rhythm as you come.

fuck, how did you come this fast? he’s just a fucking loser virgin. a loner who doesn't talk to anyone. how the hell did he just reduce you to a shivering, dripping wreck with nothing but a few clumsy fingers and a pathetic question?

xavier completely cuts off your trail of thought. he slowly pulls his three fingers straight out of your heat. the sudden emptiness makes you whimper, but the movement allows a fresh wave of your sticky, white cum to spill out, dripping lazily down the skin of your seat.

his fingers are dripping with your wetness, his breath coming in short, pathetic puffs as he stares down at the mess he just made. he looks like an absolute freak, an innocent bunny who just realized he has a taste for blood, unable to believe his own eyes.

but the next words that slip past his lips completely seal his fate as a total pervert.

“guess i'll take this as a chance to lick you clean,” he looks up at you through his long eyelashes, his lower lip quivering with that same pathetic timidity. “going to eat you out now. okay?”

you’re slumped against the wooden crate, chest heaving and trying to pull oxygen into lungs that feel entirely too tight. your brain is still a scrambled mess of white noise from the climax you just handed over to a fucking virgin.

and speaking of the devil—or, well, the pathetic bunny in jorts—he’s already moving.

xavier drops heavily onto his knees, the dark sand crunching under his shins. his torso leans forward, long fingers spreading out to grip the flesh of your thighs with a sudden, possessive weight. his knuckles are still slick with your release, and his diamond blue eyes are completely wide again, staring at the pink ruined seam of your core like he’s about to perform open-heart surgery without a license.

slowly, hesitantly, xavier tilts his head. his long eyelashes flutter as he leans in, the tip of his tongue darting out to gently and awkwardly lick the excess white cum dripping from your lower lips.

he flinches at the taste, his ears turning a fresh violent shade of maroon. you can see the nervousness radiating off him; he looks up at you through his messy ash-blonde fringe, his eyes wide and seeking validation like a dog that just accidentally knocked over a vase. the contrast is hilarious. he’s the one who made the perverted request, but he has absolutely no blueprint for how to actually do it.

you open your mouth, a mocking jibe sitting right on the tip of your tongue, ready to dismantle whatever is left of his dignity—

schlick.

xavier buries his face directly into your heat, his mouth pressing clumsily against your clit.

the sudden sloppy sensation makes your head snap straight up against the bamboo wall, a sharp breath hitching violently in your throat. your fingers instantly claw into the rough wood of the crate. he is entirely uncoordinated, his nose shoving hard against your skin as his tongue licks in a frantically flat rhythm that feels more like a wet puppy.

but god, he’s enthusiastic. way too enthusiastic.

“f-fuck,” xavier mumbles against your wet folds, his voice muffled, vibrating directly against your sensitive skin. a high, pathetic whine breaks from his throat between heavy suctions. “shit... i'm getting... i'm getting so hard again.”

“xavier, stop just flat-licking me like a freak,” you gasp out, trying to regain a shred of your authority while your lower half shivers under his mouth. you reach down, your fingers tangling into the soft, damp strands of his blonde hair to guide his head. “swirl your tongue. swirl it right there on the tip. and suck... like this.”

he whimpers against your skin, his hands tightening on your thighs, bruising your skin in his effort to obey. he tries to mimic your words, his tongue swirling awkwardly, catching the sweet spot just enough to make your knees shake.

“like this?” xavier croaks, his head suddenly bobbing up from down below. his face is an absolute disaster—lips glistening with your wetness. “am i doing it good?”

“go lower,” you breathe out impatiently, your hips twitching forward. “you talk too much.”

“i-i'm sorry,” he stammers out pathetically, his boyish features crumpling into a flustered scowl before he ducks his head back down.

this time, driven by your command and his own desperate need to be a good boy, xavier opens his mouth wide. he presses his lips flat against your opening and drives his tongue straight inside you. deep.

squelch.

the wet intrusion stretches you all over again, his tongue pushing into the slick path his fingers had carved out. it’s heavy, hot, and completely unpolished, but the sheer force of him burying his face into your pussy makes your entire world tilt. you fist your fingers deeper into the strands of his ash-blonde hair, the soft texture slipping between your knuckles as you use your grip to ruthlessly guide his head. you push him down, forcing his face entirely into your aching thing.

xavier lets out a muffled whimper right against your wet folds, his lips vibrating against your clit as he tries to draw in air. a tangled chain of choked curses—fuck, please, shit—bleeds directly into your skin, swallowed up by the sloshing wetness he's created. but he doesn't pull away. the absolute pervert doesn't even try to fight you. instead, his fingers slide up your skin, his nails digging ruthlessly into the soft meat of your outer thighs until they leave angry crescent marks that bloom into a fierce crimson. 

you really thought you could just toy with the loser and walk away unscathed, didn't you? look at you now, pinning a shirtless, twitching virgin to your lap in a deserted smoking area while a bassline thumps half a mile away.

the worst part is, the loser is actually a fast learner. his tongue stops the clumsy licking and starts to focus, his instincts adapting with a greedy terrifying speed. he swirls his tongue with an erratic friction right over your most sensitive knot of nerves, combining it with a suction that makes your pelvis lift completely off the wooden crate. then, a tight knot begins to coil deep in your lower belly, tightening with every sloppy degrading lap of his tongue.

suddenly, his large hands slide under your knees. he yanks your thighs inward with a bruising force, pulling you so close that your face is nearly level with the top of his head.

“x-xavier—ngh!”

the sudden change in angle forces a shattered whimper from your throat, your legs trembling helplessly up in the air—and xavier takes absolute advantage of your exposure. 

he buries his face much deeper, driving his nose hard against your pelvic bone as he begins to eat you out with a violently frantic hunger. his tongue pistons straight inside your opening before curling up to swipe your clit in a messy relentless pattern.

it feels so good it’s sickening. your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his scalp so hard your knuckles go white, but he just whines and sucks harder, completely drunk on the taste of you. the knot in your belly snaps.

“sh-shit, xavier—wait, wait-!”

too late, your words are completely drowned out by a sudden violent spasm that rips through your entire lower half. your walls clamp down like a vice, and before your brain can even process the sensation, a thick hot gush of clear fluid erupts from deep inside you.

you're squirting.

you're violently squirting right into his face, the hot liquid spraying across his nose, his lips, and flooding his mouth all at once. “shit—fffunmck!” xavier lets out a muffled, terrified squeak, his eyes flying wide open in shock as he’s suddenly drowning in your release. he tries to jerk his head back, but your hands are still buried deep in his ash-blonde hair, ruthlessly holding his face down just to pin him to the source of your climax while you shake and sob under his mouth.

the spray of your release slowly tapers off into a quiet drip, leaving the bamboo enclosure thick with the heavy scent of cum and salt. your fingers finally loosen their white-knuckled grip on his hair.

the moment he’s freed, xavier pulls his face away with a gasp. his mouth is parted, his lower lip trembling as your second climax literally drips down the boyish slope of his chin, glistening under the low light. shit, he looks so fucking cute like that—like a completely corrupted and overwhelmed bunny who doesn't know whether to run away or bite.

he stays on his knees for a second, looking up at you from the sand with an anticipated expression.

“did you... did you really just... twice? you came... twice? from my... from my fingers and... and my tongue?”

you click your tongue. “don't be so full of yourself.”

he slowly stands up, his long legs noticeably shaky beneath his cargo jorts, which are still heavily stained and ruined from his own embarrassing mishap earlier. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, turning his head away. “shit... fuck...”

you let out a small chuckle, finally lowering your trembling legs from the wooden crate and letting your feet sink back into the cool sand. “you actually kind of did a good job, bunny,” 

xavier’s head snaps back to you, his eyes wide. “you really think so?”

you nod, sitting up a little straighter against the makeshift high chair, adjusting your messy hair. “yeah. look at you. you can actually go save this for the next time you need it, you know? consider yourself graduated. you basically have experience now.”

it's kind of hilarious how desperately you're trying to regain control when your thighs are literally vibrating.

xavier stays dead-silent for a beat. he reaches up with the back of his hand, aggressively wiping the wetness from his lips and face. “yeah... maybe. yeah. that... that makes sense.” 

he blinks, his eyes tracking your movements. “wait. where are you going?”

you tilt your head, reaching down to grab the waistband of your underwear and shorts, casually pulling them back up over your sticky thighs and into place. “i'm going back to my friends. they must be looking for us—well, for me—already.”

“what?” he croaks out, taking a clumsy step toward you. “why? where—aren't you going to stay?”

“and do what? stand in the dark with a guy who ruined his own pants in two minutes?” you shoot back, letting out a sharp laugh as you swing your legs off the crate and stand up.

but the moment your feet hit the sand, your knees completely buckle. wow. your legs feel like absolute, wobbly jelly, a direct consequence of his three-fingered pistoning. you stumble slightly, taking one awkward small step toward the exit of the bamboo clearing.

“hey, you can't just—i mean, you're the one who came in here and started—” 

he suddenly cuts himself off.

before you can even take another step, a pair of pale hands lunges forward from the dark. xavier grabs your upper arms with a suddenly startling grip, and with a frustrated grunt, he pushes you harshly back against the makeshift high chair.

thud.

the rough wood bites into your lower back again as you slam into it, your eyes widening in complete shock and pain. that caught you so thoroughly off guard you actually couldn't say a single word, your breath trapped in your throat as you stare up at him. xavier is standing right between your legs again, his shirtless chest heaving, his face bare inches from yours. 

sensing your stunned silence, the pathetic loser instantly panics.

“i—i'm sorry,” xavier stammers out. his scowl is deep, pained, fighting his own greedy instincts. “i didn't mean to—to push you like that. i just... i really want you to stay. and... uh... shit. fuck it.”

he swallows hard, his lower lip quivering as his gaze drops down to your covered lap.

”i really want to fuck you. right here.”

you stare at him, stunned. did he just...? did you hear him right? 

he swallows again, licking his lips. “i... i really want to pound my dick inside you until you see stars.”

“what the fuck?”

“sorry,” he blurts out immediately, his voice cracking as the realization of his own sudden aggression catches up to his fried brain. “i don't... i don't know where that suddenly came from.”

you stare up at him, your chest heaving as the initial shock wears off. a slow little smile pulls at the corners of your lips, the absolute thrill of having this untouchable outcast completely at your mercy giving you back your teeth. “is that what you really want, xavier? you want to fuck me right here in the dirt?”

xavier lets out a long ragged breath, his forehead dropping down to press heavily against yours. his eyes squeeze shut, his long eyelashes wet with a fine sheen of panicked tears as his hands blindly rush down to the waistband of your shorts. “yes,” he whimpers, his fingers clumsily fumbling with the button and zipper all over again with a frantic speed. “yes, fuck... please...”

before you can even utter another mocking remark about his lack of technique, xavier grips your hips and shoves you fully down against the flat wooden surface of the makeshift high chair. with a sudden heave of his arms, he hoists your legs right back up into the air, pinning them wide apart on his shoulders. 

“xavier... wait...” but he doesn't give you much time to adjust.

with a low, shaking curse—”fuck, fuck, it hurts so much”—his fingers dive into the front of his cargo jorts. he yanks the fabric down just enough to finally set his dick free. it springs out, thick, violently throbbing, and heavily glistening with the messy cum that had been soaking through his clothes the entire time.

he doesn't even know how to line himself up properly. he blindly presses the tip against your lower lips, and with one uncoordinated thrust of his hips, xavier slides right into your tight heat.

“ahhhhh, fuck!~”

a loud moan tears from his throat, a messy, echoing symphony of pathetic noises that reverberates through the vicinity. his entire body goes completely rigid the second your tight walls swallow him, his eyes rolling back as he immediately begins to thrust, his movements erratic, frantic, and entirely devoid of any seasoned rhythm.

your hands fly out to grip the edges of the wood, your head snapping back as a sharp gasp cuts through your throat. “x-xavier—wait, shit, you're so thick...” you can feel the heavy weight of his shaft still crowding against your outer lips. “a-are you... are you even fully in?”

xavier lets out a pathetic sob, his chest heaving violently against yours as he hitches your legs even higher on his shoulders. 

“n-no... it's not all the way in,” he gives a short, shallow twitch of his hips, his knuckles turning white where they’re anchoring into your thighs. “if i... if i push it all the way in, i'm going to—i'm going to fucking pound you until i cum. it's too tight. you're so fucking hot—”

“then do it, pound me until you cum. show me what you've got.”

the directive completely snaps the last thread of his sanity.

grunting, xavier leans all the way down, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he slams his hips forward with everything he has. he presses himself all the way in, burying his entire length into your pussy until you could feel the fucking tip hit you at the spot. “xav—shit!”

xavier turns into a completely unhinged moaning mess above you, trembling violently as he begins to frantically drive himself back and forth into your wetness. he is ridiculously tearing up, actual drops of sweat and panicked moisture spilling from his eyes onto your skin as his hips hit you with a sloppy, uncoordinated force.

slap. slap. squelch.

“f-fuck... yes, like that... look how well you take my dick,” he whimpers into your ear, his tongue darting out to blindly lick your jaw in a messy, wet display of affection. “you're taking all of it... you're stretching around me so good... shit, shit, this is all i've ever wanted. this is fucking it...”

he hooks his arms under your knees, lifting your legs even higher and spreading them brutally wide apart until your thighs are pressed nearly flat against his ribs. the angle is completely unshielded, forcing your womanhood to open up to its absolute limit as he drives back into you.

slap! slap! squelch!

he isn't moving with that hesitant, stuttering rhythm anymore. xavier has completely lost his mind to the friction, his hips slamming into you faster, harder, until the rough wood of the makeshift chair groans beneath your weight. he is an absolutely unhinged mess above you, his torso slick with a heavy sheet of sweat that glitters under the amber bulb. tears slide down his flushed cheeks, dripping directly onto your chest, but he doesn't care. he just allows himself to pound into your tight heat like a fucking machine.

it's so intense, so fiercely deep, that it catches you completely off guard. for a second, it’s like he isn't even a virgin anymore; he’s a starved pervert who has suddenly found the exact cadence to tear you apart. your fingers claw into his shoulders, your toes curling in the air as you try to hold back your noises, biting your lip until it hurts.

but xavier notices. 

with a grunt, he leans down and bites hard on the sweet spot where your neck meets your shoulder. the sharp sting of his teeth forces a high-pitched yelp right out of you, your hips involuntarily bucking upward into his heavy groin.

“d-don't... don't hide it,” he pants heavily into your skin, pulling back just enough to drive himself all the way to the hilt again. “let me hear you... fuck, you're so tight, your pussy is clamping down on me so hard... it's wrapping around my dick...”

his hips keep hammering into you, a relentless punishing pace that turns your insides into pure mush.

plap! plap! plap!

“give me everything,“ xavier whispers, a frantic sob catching in his throat. “give me everything... give me everything... give me it... give me you...”

his voice begins to fade, squeezing into a tight, strained wheeze as the overwhelming friction starts to drag him toward the edge. his movements grow shorter, more violent, his hips twitching in tight desperate jerks while he buries his face back into the crook of your neck.

“just like that... fuck, yeah, just like that... just like that...” 

he is fucking you silly, driving into your tight heat with a relentless speed that turns the small bamboo corner into a blur of heavily wet impacts. the sheer, unbridled force of his hips slamming against yours makes both of you practically see stars, your eyes rolling back as the muffled bass from the beach party fades into absolute white noise.

“f-fuck... ~ah, ah!~” xavier wails directly into your neck, his teeth grazing your skin while his pace hits a punishing peak.

suddenly, his fingers dig into your thighs with a bruising grip, his toes clawing into the dark sand below. with a loud, choked-out sob, he drives himself all the way to the absolute hilt, spasming, his thick length hitting your womb repetitively.

and just like that, he comes thoroughly deep inside you, a massive release that pulses hard against your walls over and over again. your chest heaves, a shattered breathless moan tearing from your throat as you take the full brunt of his climax. shit, that felt so goddamn good.

for a long minute, the only sound in the enclosure is the ragged overlapping pattern of your breathing. xavier stays slumped against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his chest heaving like a runner at the end of a marathon.

and then slowly, with a trembling grunt, he makes an effort to pull himself out. the sudden separation makes you let out a soft, aching whimper. as his thick shaft slips free, it reveals a glistening strain of liquids from the both of you—a messy, thick combination of your squirt and his hot release—that instantly gushes out, dripping down the dark wood of the makeshift high chair and splashing lazily onto the dark sand below.

xavier stares down at the mess between your legs, his mouth parted.

“fuck,” he curses under his breath, pushing his damp blonde hair back. “what the fuck... it... it really did happen. oh god.”

you let out an exhausted groan, bracing your elbows against the rough wood to painfully sit back up. your legs are still trembling, completely numb from the weight of his pace. you look straight into xavier’s eyes.

“are you... are you really even a virgin, xavier?” you pant, your voice dripping with a mix of genuine disbelief and lingering malice. “what the hell was that? you didn't move like one at all at the end.”

xavier flinches slightly at your words, his long eyelashes fluttering rapidly as he looks away.

“y-yeah, i told you, i am,” he looks down at his ruined, stained cargo jorts, his bottom lip quivering slightly before he forces himself to look back up at you. “i just... i didn't know what suddenly came over me. i just... felt like... fucking you like that. because you were being so mean.”

“well,” you breathe out, your voice still a little raspy from the screaming he forced out of you. you reach down, slowly dragging your underwear and denim shorts back up your thighs, the fabric sticking slightly against your skin. “that was... definitely something, xavier. guess you don't need to practice on your pillows anymore.”

the mocking barb is meant to give you your armor back, but xavier doesn't snap back with his usual cold defensive drone. instead, he just lets out a small breathless huff, his lower lip twitching into a tiny, pathetic line that looks almost like a sulk.

“shut up,” he mutters, the curse completely devoid of any real heat. he reaches down to awkwardly pull up the waist of his jorts, his long, pale fingers still trembling so hard he can barely button them. “don't... don't say it like that.”

you hop down from the wooden surface, your feet sinking into the cool sand. your knees give a dangerous, wobbly shake the second they take your weight, and you have to blindly reach out and plant a hand against his bare shoulder to keep from dropping right back down. xavier instantly freezes under your touch but he doesn't pull away. his large hand instinctively hovers near your waist, ready to catch you if you trip.

“wow, still such a helpful little bunny.”

xavier swallows hard, “are you... are you really going back to the resort?” he asks, his voice dropping into that small, needy whisper again. “right now?”

“i have to,” you murmur, finally pulling your hand off his shoulder and stepping past him toward the narrow exit of the bamboo stalks. “my friends are probably wondering if i fell into the ocean. and you need to go wash those pants before someone thinks you spilled a whole drink on yourself.” 

he lets out a faint, flustered groan behind you, but he doesn't try to stop you this time.

as you take a step out into the open air, the loud throbbing bass of the beach party hits you full force, a stark contrast to the mess you’re leaving behind. you pause for just a second, tilting your head back over your shoulder to look at him one last time. xavier is still standing in the shadow of the bamboo, looking like an absolute freak—completely disheveled, beautifully flushed, and entirely ruined for any other girl on campus.

the heat of the mid-noon always makes the wrapper stick to the cheap ice candy you’ve both bought from the corner store since you were kids. it’s a stupidly precise ritual—caleb rips the top off with his teeth, unfazed by the plastic cutting into his lip, and hands the half-melted orange block over to you before taking his own.

the walk back from granny’s nursing home is long enough for the initial heaviness of seeing her frail state to wear off, and it left just the familiar hum of the pavement and caleb’s shoulder occasionally brushing against yours.

“you're still wearing my grey hoodie,” caleb says, dropping his head back to blink up at the sun through the trees. “i almost got late to my class just looking for it.”

“wachu mean? it's mine now,” you take a bite of the ice candy, ignoring the brain freeze. “you left it on my bed months ago. soooo statute of limitations has passed.”

he snorts, shoving his free hand into his pocket. his stride is longer now, with a frame broader than it used to be when you first moved into the house, but the irritating tilt of his head is exactly the same. “that's not how the law works, kiddo. and for the record, it fits you like a fucking tent. it looks ridiculous.”

“it's comfortable.”

“it smells like you now, anyway. probably covered in whatever vanilla lotion you're obsessed with.” caleb stops mid-stride, turning his head to look down at you as a teasing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “actually, did you shrink it? or did you just borrow it because you ran out of laundry day options again? also, right, i swear to god, if you're wearing my boxers as shorts around the house again, i’m putting a padlock on my dresser.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart does a small trip behind your ribs. “...it was one time. and they were clean! besides, they have a better drawstring than mine.”

“they're men's underwear, you absolute menace,” he laughs, an easy sound that vibrates in the space between you. “what is your future husband even going to say when he finds out you steal your brother's underwear?”

“you aren't my brother.” you make a popping sound on your ice candy.

“hmm, alright, baby sis.”

“and i'll tell my future hubby he has to share his clothes too, if he's half as dramatic as you, i'll just divorce him.”

“nah.” caleb leans in while still walking, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. “whoever you marry is going to have to deal with me first. i’m going to be the worst brother-in-law in human history. i’ll show up at your house at two in the morning just to tell him all the embarrassing stories from when you were nine.”

“you wouldn't dare.”

“try me,” he suddenly reaches out and plants his thumb right against the corner of your lip, wiping away a stray drop of melting orange ice. his skin is warm, rougher than it used to be, and his thumb lingers for just a beat too long against your skin before he pulls it back. “you've got sticky stuff on your face, as usual.”

you blink, your throat suddenly feeling dry despite the ice candy. you look away first, focusing hard on the cracked pavement ahead. 

as you arrive back at home, the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the heat and replacing it with the slightly hollow coolness of the house. without granny there, the air feels different—thicker, somehow, and much too big for just the two of you.

caleb dumps his keys on the entryway bowl with a loud clatter, already peeling off his sneakers with his feet without unlacing them. “god, i'm starving,” he walks straight toward the kitchen island, pulling a cutting board from the rack. “i'm making those wraps from the leftover chicken. you want one?”

”yeah,” you mutter, slumping against the kitchen counter, watching his broad back as he reaches into the fridge. he moves with the effortless familiarity of someone who owns every square inch of the space. he’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he grabs a knife and starts chopping lettuce like a husband material.

“hey, you watered the ferns by the window sill today, right? gran said they need a misting every morning or the leaves start turning yellow.” he says casually, not breaking his pace with the knife. 

silence...

your eyes darted toward the living room window where the row of clay pots sits under the harsh sunlight. the soil looks bone-dry. fuck, you completely forgot! again!

caleb pauses his chopping, “so you didn't.”

“i-i was going to!” you blurt out, immediately spinning on your heel to head toward the sink to grab the watering can. “i'm doing it right now, see? i just got distracted by the—”

“uh-uh. too late.” 

before your fingers can even touch the plastic handle of the watering can, a pair of heavy arms wraps around your waist from behind. caleb instantly lifts you clean off your feet! with a grunt of easy effort, he pivots, hoisting you over his shoulder like a literal sack of rice. the sudden rush of gravity sends your head rushing with your stomach pressing into his shoulder.

“you—?! caleb! put me down, you idiot!” 

“how many times do i have to tell you, pips? gran is literally going to haunt us from the nursing home if her pothos dies,” he grumbles, totally unfazed by your squirming as he marches into the living room. “this is the hundredth time this week. you have such a short-term memory.”

“i just forgot, okay?! let go!”

“nope. punishment.”

he dumps you unceremoniously onto the plush cushions of the couch. and before you can even scramble to sit up and escape, caleb instantly drops his weight over you, pinning your thighs down with his knees and digging his fingers straight into your ribs.

“caleb—no! stop! fuck, caleb, i'm sorry!” you shriek, throwing your head back into the pillows while your entire body convulses into a breathless laughter. you twist and writhe beneath him, but he’s too heavy, his hands finding every single ticklish spot along your waist.

“say you're sorry to the plants,” 

“i'm sorry! i'm sorry to them! i'll water them with my tears, just stop!” you gasp, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard. you try to push his chest, your hands sliding against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. but shit isn't he huge.

caleb just laughs, a breathlessly rough sound, and catches your wrists, pinning them over your head into the cushions. he traps you just to lean down so close you can smell the faint scent of the ice candy on his breath. it turns into a messy grunting wrestling match, your legs flailing against his hips as you try to dislodge him.

“aw, you're so weak,” he taunts, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. “how are you gonna—”

but out of pure survival instinct, you wrench one leg free and drive your knee straight upward, landing a blunt kick into his stomach.

hiya!

“umf—!” a sharp intake of air cuts his laugh off, and his face contorts in genuine pain for a second, his grip tightening instinctively.

“oh my god, are you okay—?”

“you little brat,” out of sheer retaliation and to neutralize your defense, caleb reaches down and grabs your ankle in a vicelike grip. with a heavy shove of his forearm, he pushes your leg wide across the back cushion, effectively pinning your knees completely apart to lock you down.

what the fuck, wait.

the position is suddenly so intimate. 

you are open beneath him, legs spread wide and hips locked under his, and the sheer weight of his frame is utterly undeniable. it's annoying how your heart thumps violently against your ribs now—no, not from laughter, but it's from a dizzying wave of ...heat. 

but caleb is just blinking down at you, his chest still heaving from the exertion. his hand is still wrapped tightly around your ankle, fingers burning hot against your bare skin. he’s looking at your face with a slightly annoyed puff of air escaping his lips while he nurses his stomach with his other hand.

“you seriously fucking kick like a mule,” he mutters, ignoring—or totally oblivious to—the fact that he is holding you in a position that feels too inappropriate for two people who share a last name on an adoption certificate. but he doesn't let go. he just hovers there. “should i leave you like this till lunch is done?”

you force your voice not to tremble, swallowing down the dry lump of panic in your throat. “get the fuck off me, caleb. seriously. you’re being weird.”

caleb raises a brow, his head tilting to the side as he stares down at you. “weird? what's weird about this? the only thing weird here is that you just broke my ribs with your knee and you haven't even apologized.” he lets out a scolding click of his tongue, his hand tightening around your ankle just enough to remind you that you aren't going anywhere. “matter of fact, you need a punishment for that. you gotta learn your place, you little girl.”

“caleb, don't—”

before you can even finish the sentence, caleb leans down. without a hint of hesitation, he sinks his teeth straight into the soft flesh just below the hem of your shorts. 

your breath hitches sharply, the sudden sting of his teeth sending a jolt straight down your spine. and he bites down even harder! the pressure of his jaw leaving a deep, burning ache against your skin.

“okay! okay, fuck i'm sorry!” you whimper, hands clawing futilely at the couch cushions. “i'm sorry, caleb,”

he finally releases your skin, but the playful retort you're expecting doesn't come. 

he's strangely quiet. 

and for a second, it feels like there is something complicated inside his head. his eyes are unreadable as they track the red imprint of his teeth on your leg.

“caleb...?”

he leans in even closer, his shadow completely engulfing you. your eyes widen as he buries his face right into the crook of your neck while his nose brush against your collarbone.

what the hell is he doing? what is he pulling right now?

how can he be so comfortable doing this? how can he just occupy your space so ruthlessly while you're paralyzed like this beneath him?

you feel the warm puff of his breath against your bare skin as he takes an inhale. his nose slides lower, brushing past your jaw, trailing a path of goosebumps down to the heat of your chest before he takes another long sniff. you can feel the exact weight of his chest pressing into yours, the hard line of his thighs pinning you open.

but the sudden groan coming from him wakes you up. 

“knew it. you used my body wash again,” he finally pulls back, sitting up on his knees but still hovering over you. there's that familiar scowl returning to his face. “i knew i wasn't crazy. ugh you're really annoying, pipsss.”

ah. oh. alright.

that was it.

the suffocating knot in your chest uncoils, a wave of dizzying relief—and a bitter sting of disappointment—washing over you. it was just because of a body wash. not because he was looking at you differently. not because he felt the same pull that you did. it was just caleb being caleb.

“it smells better than mine,” you manage to choke out, forcing your voice back into its usual defensive cadence even as your heart refuses to slow down.

“buy your own.” he finally lets go of your ankle and pulls his weight off you. 

that was your life with caleb.

the house, once bursting at the seams with granny’s presence and the sweet smell of her liniment, suddenly feels too big for just the two of you. it's a stage built for a larger cast, yet only you and caleb remain to play house in the quiet.

every saturday morning is the same. you both pack her favorite soft biscuits into a tin container, ride the bumpy bus down to the bright walls of the nursing home, and sit by her bed. and then caleb would play the part of the dutiful grandson—smiling wide, kissing her paper-thin cheek, laughing at jokes she’s told a hundred times before. but then sunday night rolls around, and the silence settles back into the floorboards like dust.

then come the weekdays when college classes split your schedules into mismatched pieces. there are quiet mornings where you wake up to the smell of burnt toast and find a messy note scribbled on a napkin: leftover rice is mine, touch it and die. there are rainy afternoons where you sit alone in the living room, listening to the water hit the glass and wondering if his lecture ran late or if he’s simply loitering somewhere else.

then, your life with caleb became a collection of tiny petty wars fought in the shadows of granny’s absence. you steal his oversized socks because yours are all lost in the dryer. he retaliation-hides your favorite hair clips in the freezer. you scream at him for leaving his damp towel on the bathroom floor; he barks back at you for leaving the milk carton empty inside the fridge. it's the noisy camouflage you both wear so nobody looks too closely at the spaces where your skins accidentally linger, or the way his eyes track your movements when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

until the afternoon it breaks.

it happens on a tuesday, right in the crowded heat of the university's cafeteria hall. you're sitting across a guy from your major block, sharing a plate of fries and talking about a group project. it's entirely innocent, entirely mundane... but then a shadow falls over the plastic table, and you look up to find caleb standing there.

sliding into the seat right next to you, uninvited, he slung a heavy arm over the back of your chair and grinned a bright smile at your terrified classmate.

“so, who's the friend, (name)?” caleb had asked, and for the rest of the day, and all through the walk home, he had relentlessly poked at you. 

is he your boyfriend? 

does he know you still wet your bed? 

should i invite him over for tea so i can interrogate him?

he laughed and nudged your shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief, but beneath the playful banter, there was... something else?

which brings you to friday night.

the old grandfather clock in the living room ticks with a rhythmic thud that echoes through the empty house. 

11:03 pm.

you're curled up on the edge of the sofa, the screen of your phone casting a blue glow across your face. you’ve already sent seven texts to him. you’ve called three times, each one going straight to voicemail, the robotic operator telling you what you already know: he isn't answering.

where the hell is he?

caleb never stays out this late without a word? he's the dependable one, the good boy who always sends a quick text to let you know if he's grabbing drinks with his friends or staying late at the library. but tonight, there is nothing. just the empty house and the sickeningly dark windows staring back at you. your chest feels tight, a heavy knot of anxiety twisting in your gut. is he with someone? did he finally decide to try his luck with one of the girls who always leave comments on his photos?

screech! 

you almost jumped out of your skin when the front gates sounded with a sudden noise, which means... caleb is finally home. 

seconds later, the main door unlocks with a clumsy, fumbling click. and when it swings open, caleb is standing in the threshold, the cool night air rolling in behind him. he looks like a complete mess with his varsity jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, uniform shirt half-untucked, wrinkling out from beneath a dark hoodie.

you don’t even give him a chance to step fully inside before you cross the living room, your bare feet slapping angrily against the cold floorboards. “where the hell have you been? why didn't you text me back? i called you several times!”

caleb doesn't shoot back with his usual retort. instead, he just stands there, blinking down at you through slightly unfocused eyes. a slow, crooked smile creeps onto his face, looking incredibly stupid and entirely too relaxed. as he steps closer, the sweet-and-sour sting of alcohol hits your nose.

so he’s drunk.

“hey,” he mumbles, his voice thick and dropping an octave lower than usual. “you're still awake.”

“obviously i'm still awake! i was worried sick, you absolute—”

you couldn't even finish yourself before he suddenly tilts forward, his entire upper body collapsing right against your shoulder. your breath instantly gets knocked out of you as your arms instinctively fly up to catch him, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his hoodie. damn, he is heavy. the broad weight of his chest presses completely into yours, burying his face right into the crook of your neck as he lets out a long, hot sigh against your skin.

“did you drink? caleb, are you fucking serious?” you strain against his weight, your heart doing a panicked dance behind your ribs. “get off me! where did you even go?”

“just... a house party, some guys invited me. didn't check my phone.” he muttered into your shoulder. 

a sharp spike of jealousy and irritation then flares up in your gut. the thought of him surrounded by crowded rooms, flashing lights, and girls trying to get his attention makes you lose your temper. with a frustrated grunt, you plant both hands against his chest and shove him away with all the strength you have left, throwing him straight backward onto the couch cushions.

caleb hits the plush sofa with a heavy thud, his limbs sprawling out awkwardly. “fuck—!” he winces, a sharp groan slipping past his lips as he rubs his shoulder, glaring up at you through his messy hair. “what the hell? that actually hurt.”

“good! you deserve it!” you snap, crossing your arms tightly over your chest to stop your hands from shaking. “just because you’re in college and granny isn't here to monitor you doesn't mean you can just run around doing whatever you want! going to parties, drinking until you can barely walk... did you kiss someone? did you do something stupid? are you trying to get yourself kicked out?”

caleb just stares up at you from the cushions, his irritated expression suddenly melting away into an amused chortle. the sound rumbles deep in his throat, dark and dripping with that infuriatingly lazy charm.

“look at you,” he giggles, a breathlessly drunken sound as he throws his head back against the sofa. “you’re acting exactly like a mother. it’s hilarious.”

“i'm trying to look out for you, you idiot.”

“why do you even care so much?” caleb asks, his laughter suddenly cutting off. he rolls his head to the side, eyes locking onto yours. “it’s not like we're actually blood-related, pipsqueak. you don't have to keep tabs on me like i'm your real brother.”

the living room goes dead silent. 

the grandfather clock ticks loudly in the background, but the sound feels miles away. you freeze in place, your tongue suddenly turning to lead, your eyes wide as you blink down at him. not blood-related. well, it’s the absolute truth, the reality you both dance around every single day, yet hearing him say it out loud feels like a line has been... crossed. 

you swallow down the bitter taste of hurt and confusion, forcing your expression into a blank mask. “fine, do whatever you want. drink yourself to death for all i care.”

without waiting for a response, you spin on your heel and walk away. you march down the hallway, slip into your bedroom, and shut the door firmly behind you, clicking the lock into place before leaning your back against the wood. 

back in the living room, caleb stays exactly where you left him, staring up at the shadow-drenched ceiling.

the stupid smile completely vanishes from his face, replaced by a bitter twist of his lips. “ahah...” he runs a frustrated hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair as he lets out a sharp exhale into the quiet house.

god, he hates it. he absolutely loathes the sibling label the two of you have used as a shield for the last ten years. he hates that the only way he can get you to look at him with that much intensity, the only way he can pull those reactions out of you, is by pretending to be the very thing he wishes he wasn't.

—

by the following week, the threads holding your carefully constructed reality together begin to fray and knot in ways you can't control. 

the afternoon sun is heavy and suffocating when you finally push the front gate of your house open after a brutal three-hour lecture block. your feet ache and your shoulders are stiff from carrying a backpack loaded with textbooks, and on top of that, your stomach is letting out an aggressive growl. the only thing keeping you moving up the driveway was the thought of caleb’s cooking. for all his agonizing flaws, the boy knew how to handle a kitchen and you were ready to swallow your pride if it meant getting a plate of his garlic rice.

you twist the doorknob, stepping into the familiar coolness of the entryway. “caleb, i'm starving, did you leave any—”

the words die in your throat.

the living room, usually your shared sanctuary of quiet television static and stolen snacks, is suddenly alive with noise. the tv screen flashes with the chaotic colors of a multiplayer racing game with the volume cranked up high. and there, sitting cross-legged right on the carpet across the floor, are two people.

caleb is leaning forward, jaw tight with mock seriousness as his thumbs fly across the controller, and right next to him... is hyeran.

you know exactly who she is. she’s in the same year and department as caleb’s, one of those effortlessly pretty girls who always seem to be at the center of caleb’s university friend group, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes by the campus benches. right now, she’s screaming in frustration, her shoulder bumping solidly into caleb’s as her car spins out on the screen. in response, caleb throws his head back, letting out a boisterous laugh that you rarely hear him share with anyone outside these walls.

the sudden clatter of your keys hitting the entryway bowl cuts through the noise like a knife.

caleb and hyeran pauses mid-game, turning their heads simultaneously to look at you standing there in your wrinkled uniform. 

shit. this is fucking awkward.

“oh! hey, pips!” caleb doesn't scramble up or look guilty; he just offers a lazy wave of his controller. “you're home early. lecture got cut short?”

“uh, yeah,” you force out, your throat feeling suddenly tight as you grip the straps of your backpack. you adjust your expression, plastering on a polite smile that feels completely hollow against your cheeks. “hi, hyeran.”

“hi, (name)! oh my gosh, sorry for the noise,” hyeran chimes in, offering a warm smile that makes your stomach do a bitter flip. she looks so perfectly at home sitting on your living room rug, her canvas bag spilled open near granny’s favorite armchair. “your big bro told me i could borrow his notes, and then trapped me into playing this stupid game.”

you blink.

he isn't my fucking big bro.

“don't lie, you wanted the rematch,” caleb jests, nudging her with his elbow. 

“i'm just going to... grab a snack.” you mutter, desperately needing a barrier between yourself and the display on the floor.

you walk past them, your eyes locked firmly ahead as you retreat behind the kitchen island counter. the kitchen layout is an open-concept, completely overseeing the living room, meaning there is nowhere to hide. you can see everything. to keep your hands busy and stop them from shaking, you pull a bowl of apples and a small paring knife toward you.

you begin peeling the fruit, the sharp blade slicing through the red skin in one continuous ribbon.

“caleb mentioned you're still a freshman, right?” hyeran asks, twisting her torso around to lean against the edge of the sofa, looking up at you over the counter with curiosity. “how is it? 'cause when i was in your shoes, i can baaaarely handle the workload.”

“it's fine. just a lot of memorization,” you cut a slice of the apple, popping it into your mouth and chewing. “you just have to manage your time. which some people in this house clearly don't know how to do.”

“hey, i heard that. (name) loves to pretend she's the responsible one, hyeran. don't let the uniform fool you. she literally forgot to water granny's plants thrice last week.” caleb interjects, not looking back as he unpauses the game.

“it was only once, you liar.” 

“whatever helps you sleep at night, sis.” 

hyeran giggles, turning back to the screen as the countdown for the next round starts. “you two really argue like real siblings, it's so cute. my brothers just ignore me.”

siblings. there it is again. that stupid, suffocating word.

you stand behind the counter, a half-peeled apple in one hand and the paring knife in the other, then you look at caleb. 

he’s doing this on purpose, is he? you know him too well not to see the edge beneath his playful demeanor. he’s showing you what life looks like when he plays by the rules you both set—the rules that say he is just a brother, and that he is perfectly free to bring other girls into the house you share.

caleb and hyeran continue to play the last few rounds of the game, their voices rising in cheerful bursts of laughter that fill the empty space where granny used to be. and you can only stand there, chewing on your tasteless fruit, staring at the back of caleb’s head with a sarcastic scowl.

this little bitch.

if this is the game, then you're going to be a better player.

if caleb wants to play a game of boundaries, you are going to show him exactly how it feels to have the board flipped. two can play the petty game of bringing people into a space where they don’t belong. if he can bring his shiny giggling friend into the living room, then you are going to give a certain someone else the time of day.

the very next morning, you seek out valko.

valko is the kind of blockmate who has spent the last semester treating your existence like a personal challenge. he’s loud, entirely too confident, and has spent months throwing flirty remarks your way—advances you’ve always shot down with a sharp roll of your eyes or a cold shoulder. so when you walk straight up to his desk before the morning lecture, leaning against the wood and offering a small smile, the confusion on his face was almost comical.

“you're... talking to me? no biting remarks? no telling me to get lost?” valko's eyebrows shot up as he stops shuffling through his tablet. 

“maybe i'm just tired of being mean,” you say smoothly, tilting your head in a way you know looks casual, though your pulse is racing for an entirely different reason. “can't a blockmate just be friendly?”

valko isn’t a fool, but he’s certainly not going to complain about a sudden miracle. by the time the final bell rings at four in the afternoon, he’s already dangling his car keys between his fingers, blocking your path out of the lecture hall with a triumphant grin. “hey, since we're being friendly now, (name), let me give you a ride home. the clouds look heavy anyway. don't want you catching a cold.”

you hesitate for a fraction of a second, thinking of the dusty pavement and the walk you usually take, but then you picture caleb’s stupidly smug face from yesterday. “sure!” you say clearly, loud enough for a few surrounding classmates to hear. “thanks, valko.”

the walk to the student parking lot earns you exactly what you wanted: stares. a lot of them. whispers ripple through the department cliques as you slide into the passenger seat of valko’s surprisingly clean sedan. word travels fast on campus, and you know for a fact that caleb’s friends hang around the same smoking area right outside the parking exit.

the drive to your house is filled with the low hum of the air conditioner and valko’s easy chatter. but as the car finally pulls up along the familiar front gates of your house, the atmosphere inside the vehicle turns... awkward. 

valko cuts the engine, his hands lingering on the steering wheel as he looks at the closed facade of the house. “so,” valko clears his throat, his eyes darting toward the front door. “your, uh... your big brother. caleb. is he home?”

you blink, “probably. why?”

valko lets out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “nnnothing, it's just... that guy is terrifyingly annoying. i saw that hunk staring at me in the cafeteria last week like he wanted to fuckin' dissect me. i don’t really fancy getting my head bitten off just because i drove his little sister home.”

you let out a breathless chuckle, the word sister grating against your nerves like sandpaper. you reach for the door handle, turning back to look at valko. “you don't have to worry about him, valko. and for the record... caleb and i aren't real siblings. we're not blood-related at all. his granny just took me in.”

valko’s eyebrows twitch upward, a sudden glint of renewed interest lighting up his eyes. “oh. seriously? huh. i didn't know that.”

“yep! well. thanks for the ride,” you say, pushing the car door open and stepping out into the humid afternoon air.

but valko doesn't just let you leave. he rolls down the passenger side window immediately, leaning over the console to keep the thread of the conversation tightly pulled. “hey, (name), wait—so if he's not your actual brother, does that mean i don't need his permission to take you out for real next time?”

valko cheekily smiles.

you idle right outside his side of the window, your fingers gripping the strap of your bag, keeping your expression light and teasing even as your eyes instinctively drift toward the glass of the living room window. “maybe, haha, you'll just have to ask nicely...”

“pipsqueak!”

the familiar shout cuts through the air. you immediately turn your head toward the source, only to see caleb jogging down the sidewalk toward the driveway with a bright smile splitting his face. before you can even process what he's up to, he closes the distance, throws his heavy arms around your waist, and lifts you clean off the asphalt.

he spins you around in a breathlessly joyful circle, his laughter vibrating hard against your chest.

“caleb! what's up? put me down!” you frown in utter confusion, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. inside the sedan, valko’s eyebrows knit together, his frown deepening by the second.

“you know what's up?” caleb sets you back down but doesn't let go. his large hands stay clamped firmly onto your upper arms, his eyes wide and gleaming with pure excitement. “we won, pips! our team won the interschool championship game!”

and because of that, the bitterness from the past week evaporates. your eyes light up, a wide smile breaking across your face. “oh my god, seriously? that’s amazing!”

“i know!” he laughs, pulling you back into an another tightly crushing hug. like he's using you as a lightning rod for all his manic energy, burying his face in your hair and all that. 

thwack!

the car door behind caleb suddenly flies open, the heavy edge of the metal panel smacking squarely into his lower back.

“ah—” caleb winces, a sharp groan escaping him as he stumbles forward, forced to break his hold on you. he wheels around, eyes instantly hardening into something cold when valko steps out of the sedan.

“oops, sorry about that, mate,” valko grins, pulling his lips into an awkward one. “i didn't see you standing right in the swing of the door. anyway-uh, i'm valko, (name)'s blockmate.”

caleb straightens up to his full height, his broad shoulders squaring as he looks at the guy. the warm, golden-boy smile he gives valko is entirely rigid. “right, valko. i've heard. what brings you to our driveway?”

“just driving (name) home from campus,” valko replies, matching caleb’s forced courtesy. “and making sure she got back safe. well... you must be the big brother she mentioned.”

“something like that,” 

“uhm, valko was just—” you stepped between them to clear up the mounting friction, but valko cuts you off completely.

he looks caleb straight in the eye, tilting his chin up. “actually, since you're here, i think it's only fair to tell you directly. i've decided i'm going to start courting (name).”

“cough, what?”

what?

both you and caleb widen your eyes, the world going dead silent.

“and honestly, man,” valko adds, crossing his arms and offering a smug tilt of his chin before either of you can even draw breath, “you probably shouldn't be hugging her too easily like that anymore. since, you know, i’m going to start dating her.”

you internally facepalm so hard your brain rattles. oh my god. what did you just get yourself into? valko had completely, catastrophically misread the entire situation. he thought he was playing the part of the chivalrous alpha suitor, oblivious to the fact that he was currently standing in a radioactive strike zone.

but then, a part of your brain clicks into gear. you wanted a reaction out of caleb, didn't you? you wanted to wipe that infuriatingly smug, "i-can-bring-girls-to-the-house" look off his face. maybe this trainwreck of a misunderstanding was exactly what you needed.

you let out a sigh, turning away from caleb to face valko with a perfectly practiced look. “it's fine, valko. caleb is just... a guy i grew up with. really. nothing else. just two kids who happened to live under the same roof.”

valko blinks, processing this, his chest puffing out a little more. “so... like childhood friends?”

“yeah!” you nod quickly, your tone a little too casual and a little too dismissive. “yeah, exactly. childhood friends. that's the perfect way to describe us.”

from the corner of your eye, you feel the exact moment caleb’s gaze burns into the side of your face. you glance up at him, and sure enough, he is staring down at you with a sarcastic scowl—the exact, burning, “this-little-bitch” look you had given him behind the kitchen counter yesterday. the silent, petty warfare is screaming between you two.

valko, blind to the silent daggers being thrown over his head, scoffs and shakes his head. “right. childhood friends. uh, honestly, i don't really buy that whole thing. there’s no way a guy and a girl can just be friends without something else going on. it’s usually just an excuse to keep someone within arm's reach.”

your heart does a nervous, jittery little skip. you quickly scramble to patch up the defense before valko digs too deep into the truth. “no, it's not like that at all! caleb is... he's like a brother to me. we're basically siblings.”

“but we... aren't siblings though.”

caleb’s voice cuts through your sentence like a blunt blade.

you freeze, your tongue going dry as you slowly pause and look up at him.

“i'm not your brother, (name).” 

what the actual hell is he talking about?

your hands go hot and sweaty against your side. this is the exact same guy who, just a few days ago while dead drunk, threw the “not blood-related” card in your face to push you away and tell you to mind your own business. he was the one reinforcing the stupid label, using it as a shield to bring other girls around—and now, right in front of the guy who just announced he wants to court you, he’s arguing the exact opposite?

you stand there completely wordless, the nervous jittery tension tight enough to snap. valko shifts his weight across caleb, looking suddenly confused by the sudden shift in the air, but caleb doesn't even glance back at him.

he keeps his eyes entirely on you.

valko clicks his tongue.

“right,” he blurted out, deliberately stepping sideways to cut off caleb’s line of sight and forcing his way back into your field of vision. “anyway! you look kind of... tight right now, (name), like your shoulders are up to your ears. there's that street-food stall down the block that sells those pork dumplings. why don't we go grab a plate? my treat. it'll help you unwind.”

your brain, currently fried from caleb, scrambles for a normal human response. “oh—uh, dumplings? i mean, i guess i could—i mean, sure, that sounds—”

“‘oh—uh, dumplings? i mean, i guess i could-’” caleb instantly parroted, his voice pitching into a ridiculous falsetto that sounded absolutely nothing like you. he slouched his shoulders, batting his eyelashes in a grotesque mimicry of modesty that made your fist twitch. “‘i guess i could eat a little dumpling, valko!’”

valko raised a brow.

“caleb, shut up!” 

“i'm just saying,” caleb hummed at you, casually sliding his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. his thumb swiped across the screen with a smirk. “i should probably just dial up gran's unit real quick. let the nursing staff hold the receiver up to her ear so i can tell her that her precious adopted granddaughter is already out here in the driveway, ignoring her chores, just to eat cheap meat down the street with random guys from the university.”

he tilted his head, giving you a look of fabricated pity. 

“man, she’s going to get reeaaally upset, pips. you know how her blood pressure gets when she finds out you're being irresponsible.”

“you wouldn't dare!” you gasped, your lungs seizing up. granny loved you, but she was a traditional woman who would absolutely launch a long-distance lecture about decorum through the phone lines if caleb fed her some twisted version of reality. “give me that!”

you lunged forward, throwing your weight against his side as you reached wildly for the device. but caleb had been anticipating the movement since the moment you took a breath. with a delighted chuckle, he simply straightened his spine, extending his long arm straight up into the air. because he had grown nearly a foot taller than you over the last three years, the phone might as well have been on the roof of the house.

“come on, grab it, pipsqueak,” he was solid as a brick wall! his chest vibrating against your forehead as he laughed down at your frustration. “you’re too short it's embarrassing.”

“caleb, i swear to god, drop your arm right now or i will kick you again!”

“hey, (name).”

you paused, breathless and flushed, looking back over your shoulder. valko had stepped closer, his expression a mix of irritation at being ignored and a tryhard desire to look like the savior of the narrative. before you could scramble away from caleb's side, valko reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around your right wrist.

“don't worry about him,” valko said, giving your wrist a soft, encouraging tug toward the open street. “come on, let's just go get the food. ignore the noise.”

the physical touch sent a strange jolt of awkwardness through you, and you instinctively took a step forward, your shoes clicking against the pavement while valko started walking you down the street.

snap.

a second basket of heat clamped down around your left wrist.

you blinked in utter surprise, your head whipping back around so fast your neck cracked.

caleb had also... wrapped his fingers around your opposite wrist. your right arm was pulled toward valko; your left arm was locked tight by caleb. you were literally being pulled in two different directions like a wishbone.

you stared at caleb, your heart doing a series of unpredictable thuds against your ribs. “what is up with you today, caleb...?”

“what?” he murmured, giving your arm a tiny, playful yank back toward his chest. “i want to eat dumplings too.”

—

and then, there you were. 

the plastic stool beneath you wobbles every time someone passes the cramped table, but that's the least of your concerns. the air inside the tiny stall feels thick with the steam of boiling pork broth and the sting of chili oil. meanwhile, you're squeezed into the center of a very narrow wooden bench, a literal buffer zone between two opposite poles.

to your right is valko, leaning his elbow on the table and entirely absorbed in trying to keep your attention locked on him. then, to your left is caleb. he hasn't uttered a single syllable since you all sat down, choosing instead to stare ahead like a brooding gargoyle while a single plate of steaming dumplings sits between the three of you.

“no, seriously, (name),” valko shakes his head with a wide grin while he dips a dumpling into a small saucer of soy sauce. “professor actually looked me dead in the eye during the anatomy practical. i swear the man has a personal vendetta against me.”

you let out a breathless laugh. “maybe if you didn't sketch caricatures of him, he’d give you some grace.”

valko chuckles back, his shoulder nudging yours beneath the cramped table space. “hey, that was art. it showed appreciation for his eyebrows.”

slurrrrrp. smack. clack.

the sudden loud sound of chopsticks scraping against a plastic bowl cuts right through your shared laughter.

you blink, your head snapping toward the left side of the bench. caleb has his face nearly buried in his bowl as he takes a dripping piece of garlic-chili cabbage, shoves it into his mouth, and smacks his lips together with an obnoxious noise.

valko's grin falters slightly, his eyes darting over your head toward caleb. but caleb doesn't even look back. he just reaches across the small table, his long arm deliberately cutting off valko's view of you, and stabs another dumpling with such unnecessary force that the wrapper splits open with a wet pop.

“anyway,” you say quickly, your cheeks turning a frantic shade of pink as you try to steer the conversation back before caleb derails the establishment. “so... did you fail the practical or what?”

“uh, no, i managed a passing grade," valko says, clearing his throat and trying to ignore the absolute menace sitting next to you. “but after that, i had to spend two hours in the library just trying to—”

crunch. crunch. crunch.

caleb has now unearthed a bag of fried pork rinds from his pocket, snapping them between his teeth with a crunch. he leans back against the wooden bench, long legs splayed wide under the tiny table—his knee bumping solidly against yours with an insistence that makes you grind your teeth.

you glare at him, this little bitch is doing this on purpose.

caleb finally rolls his head over to look down at you. he takes another obnoxious bite of a pork rind, chewing it open-mouthed while raising a mocking eyebrow at you, like he was daring you to say something about it in front of your new suitor.

valko clears his throat, determined to plow through caleb's warfare like a true soldier of romance. he leans in a little closer, voice dropping into what he clearly thinks is an intimate tone. “so, anyway... since the weather's supposed to be nice this weekend, i was thinking maybe we could head down to that new cafe by the harbor? the one with the outdoor seating? we could—”

shrrrrrk!

caleb hooks his shoe around the bottom rung of your stool and, with one casual yank of his leg, slides your entire body a whole foot to the left. you instantly collide with his side, your shoulder smacking right against his solid bicep.

“what the...” you gasp, your hands flying out to grip the edge of the greasy table so you don't tip over.

but caleb doesn't even look up from his plate. he casually scoops up the last dumpling, pops it into his mouth, and speaks around it with unbothered calm. “hurry up and finish eating. we have to get back. we still have to feed our pet.“

you blink, your eyebrows nearly disappearing into your hairline. “since when do you care about the turtle?”

“i've always cared about him,” caleb turns his head to look down at you. “he's a vital member of the household.”

“i'm the only one who ever feeds him? you haven't touched his pellet container since 2024.”

“people change, sis. i've formed a bond with him over the last twenty-four hours,” caleb hums, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as his knee bumps against yours under the table again. “and right now, he's starving. we're being bad parents. so eat.”

meanwhile, valko sits on the right side of the table, his mouth slightly open. he looks at your stool, which is now physically closer to caleb than it is to him, and lets out a long defeated breath through his nose. he clearly wants to argue, but trying to debate the nutritional schedule of a reptile with a guy who looks like he could bench-press the entire dumpling stall seems like a losing battle.

so the poor guy chooses to remain quiet. 

—

the very second the lock of the house clicked shut, your polite “public” face melted completely away, and you turned into a breathing volcano. “you are an actual child, caleb!” you started prattling instantly, tossing your heavy backpack onto the floor with a loud thud. your words tumbled out in a rush as you kicked off your shoes. “seriously, what was that? pulling my stool? making those obnoxious caveman noises? you were being a weirdo and an annoying prick for absolutely no reason. i feel so bad for...”

you spun around to give him a piece of your mind, but you paused.

there caleb was, leaning lazily against the doorway with his big arms crossed over his chest. he was staring down at you with a massive sarcastic scowl. ugh! he even had the nerve to look at you like youwere the one who had just ruined a perfectly good dumpling date over the turtle! 

you mirrored his posture, locking your arms tight and tilting your chin up. “don't look at me like that. what is your actual problem today?”

instead of snapping back, a slow little smirk began to crawl onto caleb's face. oh, he was loving this. this was his absolute favorite game in the world, and you had just walked right into his trap. wordlessly, he unclipped himself from the doorframe and took a deliberate step toward you. and then another.

you instinctively took a step back, but clack—your hips hit the hard edge of the open kitchen counter. 

you were cornered.

“my problem?“ now, caleb loomed over you, placing one palm on the counter right next to your waist to trap you in his shadow. “i don’t have a problem, pipsqueak. i was just being a protective big bro to you. isn’t that the label we chose?”

“protective? you looked like a lunatic!” you fired back, your face turning a furious shade of pink. “you were intentionally trying to ruin my conversation! for your information, you don't own me, caleb. if i want to go out and get dumplings with valko, i am allowed to.”

“with him?” caleb let out a chuckle, leaning down an inch closer until you could feel the warmth of his body. he was utterly enjoying how flustered and mad he was making you. “come on, the guy looks like he struggles with basic math. his hair looks like a bird nested in it. you seriously have zero taste.”

“huh, at least he doesn't bring random girls into our living room to scream at video games all afternoon! you had hyeran over here yesterday behaving like she owns the couch. if you can do stuff like that, why can't i?”

caleb’s smirk grew even wider, a quiet triumph gleaming in his eyes. ah, his face seemed to say, so that’s what this is really about.

“oh, so you were watching us from behind the counter,” he nudged his knee playfully against yours, anchoring you against the wood. “were you jealous, pips? is that why you let the car guy drive you home? because if you wanted to play video games with me that badly, all you had to do was ask nicely, you know?”

ah.

you had reached your absolute limit with caleb’s bottomless well of confidence. you were sick and tired of always being the one pressed against the woodwork, left all breathless and flushed while he got to stand there looking like the smartest boy in the whole wide world. you wanted the tables to turn so desperately that you could taste it, even if it meant playing a very dangerous game with your own silly little heart.

so, with a sudden narrowing of your eyes, you did something unpredictable.

yank!

your fingers reached out like little lightning bolts, wrapping tight around the fabric of caleb’s collar and pulling him downward with all your might.

oh, you should have seen his face. the teasing fool was caught off guard. his grand smirk evaporated into thin air, and a ragged little breath hitched right in the back of his throat. for the first time in a while, his polished exterior cracked into a million tiny pieces. 

you didn't dare break eye contact. you leaned in just a millimeter closer, your voice dropping into a mocking whisper. “what's the matter, caleb? not so talkative now? where did all that big, brave mouth go?”

poor caleb’s brain had gone into emergency mode. inside his broad chest, his heart was drumming a frantic—thump-thump, thump-thump—so loud and violent that you could practically feel the vibration through his shirt. his large hand, still planted on the kitchen counter beside your waist, gripped the polished wood so tightly that his knuckles turned so white, as if he were holding onto the edge of a cliff to stop himself from falling over—or worse, from reaching out and grabbing you back.

seeing your victory, you decided to push your luck just a little bit further. your hand slowly traveled up from his collar, your fingertips tracing an agonizing path up the side of his warm neck, before your thumb gently tapped the very edge of his earlobe.

“look at that. for someone who acts so cool, your ears are so bright red.”

caleb swallowed hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he gulped down the dry air. 

“you're such a hypocrite,” you mocked him one last time, giving his collar a playful shake. “always talking so much shit, but the second someone plays back, you freeze right up.”

and just as quickly as you had caught him, you planted both of your hands squarely against his hard chest and gave him a mighty shove.

whoosh!

caleb actually stumbled backward a couple of steps, his long legs flailing for a second before his feet caught the floorboards. he quickly cleared his throat—ahem, ahem—and rubbed the back of his neck.

“uh—wow,” he tries to forcefully laugh it off and turn the tension back into a silly joke. “okay, crazy lady. i- you nearly bit my nose off—”

“shut up and go jerk off to your notes, caleb.” you shot back over your shoulder.

caleb instantly went wide-eyed, letting out a dramatic cough—gack!—as he choked on his own saliva at the sheer obscenity of your remark.

you spun on your heel and marched happily down the hallway, slipping into your bedroom and clicking the lock shut with a very satisfied smile on your face, leaving the poor boy all alone in the quiet kitchen to figure out exactly what the hell had just happened to him.

serves him right.

—

and so, the great war officially began.

if you were going to be shameless about using valko as your personal human shield against your own confusing feelings, then caleb was going to be a thousand times more shameless about turning your life into a living cartoon. he became an absolute ghost in the machine, a walking disaster zone that magically appeared whenever valko so much as breathed in your direction.

on wednesday, you and valko were sitting on the low stone wall by the university quad, sharing a bag of salty chips. valko was leaning in close, his voice dropping into that tryhard smooth register again while he reached for a chip. thwack! out of absolutely nowhere, a round and suspiciously aerodynamic pebble shot through the leaves of the old oak tree, striking valko squarely in the middle of his forehead.

“ow! what the—” valko hissed, rubbing his brow as he looked around wildly.

far across the grass, standing by the sports locker rooms, caleb was casually tossing a basketball up and down in the air. he wasn't even looking at you. he was whistling a cheerful little tune, entirely innocent, though his vertical aim had been precise enough to deserve a gold medal.

on thursday, valko tried to walk you to your lab, proudly carrying your heavy medical dictionary like a true knight in shining armor. but as you rounded the corner of the science building, caleb suddenly materialized from the shadow of the vending machines. he didn't say a word to valko though. he just walked straight between the two of you like a giant solid wall, his broad shoulder subtly but violently checking valko to the side.

“oh, sorry, mate,” caleb hummed, reached down, and snagged the heavy book right out of valko’s hands before the guy could even blink. “my (name)'s got a weak spine, you know. family history. i always carry her books. thanks for holding it, though!” and just like that, he marched off, flipping through the pages of your textbook without a single care in the world.

it was a relentlessly ridiculous game of tag, a noisy circus meant to keep the terrifying gravity of that kitchen counter argument from swallowing you both whole. as long as caleb was throwing rocks and stealing books, he didn't have to think about his bright red ears, and you didn't have to think about his racing heartbeat.

until friday afternoon arrived, and the playful music finally... stopped.

the sky was the color of bruised slate when valko’s sedan pulled up along the front gates of your house. the engine let out an idling purr against the quiet pavement. you stepped out of the passenger side, but you didn't immediately walk toward the door. instead, you lingered by the open window, your shoulders slouched and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth in a rare display of genuine defeat.

today, you had failed the major quiz. 

you had studied until three in the morning, your eyes burning under the harsh blue light of your phone, only to see an ugly red circle at the top of your paper. the exhaustion and the disappointment were sitting heavy on your chest, and it felt so fucking awful. 

“hey,” valko seemed to catch on it, pushing his car door open and stepping out onto the asphalt beside you. he looked at your downcast face, his usual arrogant confidence softening into something genuinely concerned. “come on, (name). don't look like that. it's just one quiz. prof is a sadist anyway, everyone struggled.”

“i didn't just struggle, valko. i choked,” you muttered, staring down at the tips of your dirty shoes. “i'm supposed to be the responsible one. granny’s paying for these blocks, and i can’t even remember the difference between cellular necrosis and apoptosis when the timer's ticking.” 

saying that now, it kind of makes you laugh a bit.

but little did you know, behind the glass of the living room window, a pair of eyes was watching.

caleb stood in the shadows of the house, his arms hanging loose at his sides as he looked through the pane. he had been waiting for you. he had already cleared the kitchen counter, ready to cook whatever ridiculous comfort food you wanted to cheer yourself up after a long week. but now, he was frozen. he watched the way your lower lip trembled, the way your fingers nervously twisted the strap of your bag. he knew that exact look on your face. he knew the precise flavor of your sadness because he had been the one to hold your hand through every failed exam and scraped knee since you were seven years old. every protective instinct in his body screamed at him to open the front door, to run down the driveway, to scoop you up and carry you inside where it was safe.

but he didn't move, because he didn't have the right to.

“hey,” valko murmured again, stepping closer. “hey, look at me.”

and you looked up, your eyes wide and vulnerable. before your brain could even process the movement, valko reached out. his arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling your smaller frame firmly against his chest in a sudden hug meant to chase the cold away.

your body went stiff as a board against his jacket, hands dangling awkwardly at your sides. you hadn't expected it, maybe because... you hadn't wanted him to do it.

inside the house, behind the glass, caleb saw it. of course he did.

the sight of another man's arms holding you—the sight of you standing perfectly still in the driveway while someone else tried to soothe your tears—rubbed bitterly against him.

it was one of those moments again, those moments when caleb couldn't summon a single sarcastic remark. couldn't pull out a smirk. couldn't even pretend to be angry. it was just a thick and suffocating wave of unadulterated possessiveness and grief washing over him.

his jaw tightened, throat bobbing heavily as he gulped down a painful breath. his hand, which had been resting lightly against the edge of the curtain, suddenly convulsed, his fingers tearing into the fabric. he couldn't look at it. he physically and mentally could not bear to see another second of you belonging to someone else, even for a fleeting moment of comfort.

with a jerk of his arm, caleb yanked the heavy curtains shut, sealing out the afternoon light and plunging the living room into darkness.

caleb blinked several times, trying to catch his breath, trying to keep himself calm, trying to stay where he's at and remove the ugly thoughts of doing something to that red-haired guy. 

the living room was supposed to be a hiding place, but the walls inside granny's house had grown far too narrow to hold himself. his chest heaved, and his feet simply refused to stay glued to the floorboards. and the rationality he always wore like a freshly ironed uniform eventually disintegrated, leaving nothing but an itch that dragged him back toward the door.

it swung open with a bang that cut right through the hum of valko’s idling engine.

immediately, your head whipped around at the noise, your eyes still wide and startled from the sudden weight of valko's arms around you. but before you could even draw enough breath to call his name, caleb was already down the concrete steps. 

with a sudden jerk of his forearm, caleb reached out and grabbed the shoulder of valko’s jacket, yanking the guy backward with enough force to break his hold on you. 

“did she say yes to you?” caleb asked, “are the two of you officially dating right now?”

valko blinked, thoroughly bewildered and rattled by this guy's audacity. “no, we aren't, but i'm—”

“then you don't have any right to touch her like that,” caleb cut him off, his voice flat and freezing cold. “you don’t get to wrap your arms around her if she hasn't given you permission to be there. it's rude. it’s completely out of line.”

valko let out an incredulous scoff, the sheer persistence of caleb’s interference finally pushing past him. he took a step forward, tilting his chin up until he was staring directly into caleb’s face. he finally found the courage to say what he’d been thinking for weeks. “are you serious right now? what is your actual problem, caleb? what are you even to her?”

you blinked and looked up at valko. 

“you’re always... hovering. you’re always throwing things, always splitting us up, always acting like you own the ground she walks on. you said you aren't her brother. she said you aren't siblings. so what exactly is your deal? what are you to her?” 

caleb’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. 

so valko saw the break in the armor, and he drove the blade right through the crack. “do you like her?” 

at that, your heart did a leap behind your ribs, the blood rushing to your ears so loudly it drowned out the noise of everything else. you desperately and subconsciously wanted to hear the syllables leave his lips, to know if the pull you’d been drowning in was something he was drowning in too. 

what is he going to say? why isn't he saying anything?

but caleb couldn't answer.

he knew you were staring at him. he could probably feel the exact weight of your eyes tracking the rigid line of his jaw and the frantic rise and fall of his chest. but for the first time in his life, he couldn't meet your gaze back. his eyes darted nervously across valko, his throat bobbing in a gulp as he tried to find a lie big enough to save him.

until finally, slowly, caleb’s head tilted downward. his hair fell forward over his brow, before he hesitantly rolled his gaze down until his eyes locked directly onto yours.

gulp.

that look in his eyes...

it was something you had always disliked since you were kids. everytime the either of you brought up the subject of parents, of having a mother and a father, he did that face. except now it isn't because of that.

now... 

“i'm her guardian.” 

caleb answered.

“what?” your head tilted to the side, that familiar sarcastic scowl crawling right back onto your face.

“i am her legal guardian,” caleb repeated, nodding with a completely straight face. “since  our gran is currently being held back at the nursing home facility for medical observation, the responsibility of maintaining the household and ensuring the safety of it falls entirely on me. i am the primary caretaker of this residence.”

this little bitch.

valko just stood there, his mouth hanging open so wide a family of birds could have moved in. “what?” 

before you or valko could even open your mouths to scream at him for being an absolute fool, caleb’s heavy hand snapped down around your wrist.

“anyway, it's getting very close to six o'clock, which is the official cutoff time for driveway visitations,” caleb said, his voice dripping with an agonizingly tryhard politeness as he began walking backward, dragging you along like a sack of potatoes. he offered valko a little wave with his free hand. “thank you so much for the transportation, valko! drive home safely! watch out for the speed bumps on the main avenue, they’re quite treacherous this season!”

“caleb, you fucking—” you lunged backward, but caleb’s grip was absolute. you were forced to do a clumsy little sideways shuffle up the concrete steps, your free arm flailing in the air as you tried to offer valko at least a goodbye. “bye, valko! sorry! i’ll text you about the anatomy slides!”

but valko didn't even wave back. he just stood by his open car door, probably wondering if this whole situation was secretly a psychological experiment.

slam! click-clack!

the wooden door finally shut.

the very second the threshold was secure, caleb dropped your wrist like it was a hot potato. the authoritative guardian persona vanished into thin air, and he turned into a quiet giant. without saying a single word, without even looking at you, he spun on his heel and marched straight toward the safety of the open-concept kitchen.

you stood alone in the center of the living room.

this little brat is seriously getting on my nerves!

one second he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing left in the world, and the next second he’s inventing fake household rules just to avoid answering a simple question!

but you were not going to let him see how much he had rattled you. oh, absolutely not. you needed to get the upper hand back, even if you had to fake it.

you let out a dramatic cough to clear your throat, smoothing down the front of your wrinkled shirt before you marched over to the kitchen island. instead of hiding in your room like a coward, you hopped right onto one of the tall barstools, planting your elbows on the counter so you could watch him like a hawk.

“you are insane, you know that? a guardian? seriously? that is the dumbest thing that has ever come out of your mouth.”

caleb didn't answer you. he was currently busy staring down at the kitchen counter with an expression of concentration. for a guy who was usually a wizard with a skillet, he looked lost. he had a carton of heavy cream in one hand, a bottle of soy sauce in the other, and a tub of margarine sitting between them like a puzzle he couldn't solve.

“you were being so aggressive out there! valko was just trying to be nice because i was having a bad day—hey i'm speaking to you!” you huffed, your eyes narrowing as you watched him confusedly pick up a bulb of garlic, stare at it like it was an alien spacecraft, and then drop it back onto the wood. “are you even listening to me, you brat?”

“what am i to you, then?” caleb finally spoke.

oh, now, do you feel that? the air in granny’s kitchen just became so thick you could probably slice it with the very paring knife you used for those apples last week. you thought you were safe sitting on that high barstool, tucked neatly behind the counter like a judge delivering a very righteous verdict. 

but you forgot one very important rule when it comes to your big bro: he always knows when you’re hiding behind a loud mouth.

you should have just gone to your room. you should have just locked the door, eaten a stale cracker, and minded your own business instead of sitting out here pretending to be brave.

but it was already too late to run.

caleb finally abandoned his study of the soy sauce bottle and turned around. and then, he took a few strides over to your side of the counter. before your brain could even coordinate a retreat—shrrrrk!—caleb reached down to hook his hands around the metal legs of your stool, and pulled you a whole foot closer to him.

the proximity was so sudden your cheeks erupted into a furiously bright blush, while he just stood towering right over you. 

“tell me, pipsqueak,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before lifting back to your eyes. “what is valko to you?”

“he's my... suitor?”

“and what am i to you?” 

“y-you're just—i mean, we've always been—”

with a slow lean, he brought his entire upper body down, planting his palms firmly on the seat of your stool right on either side of your thighs. 

“do you want me to stop playing the sibling part then? do you want me to become something else?” caleb tilted his head, his voice dropping into a soft whisper.

“what do you mean... something else?”

a faint little smile touched the corner of caleb’s lips. “you know, like... a guy. a guy to you.”

thump. thump. thump.

your heart was no longer just beating; it was a damn throbbing thing inside your chest. your hands went completely numb against the stool, your eyes wide and your mouth slightly ajar in a look of such ridiculous shock.

caleb tracked every single ounce of your panic. he saw the terror, the blush, the absolute deer-in-the-headlights look paralyzing your face.

and then, just as the tension reached the absolute breaking point... caleb suddenly let out a boisterous laugh.

phew!

he pulled his upper body back, releasing your stool from his cage. before you could even register the sudden rush of cool air between you, caleb reached out and playfully pinched the tip of your bright red nose, shaking your head gently from side to side.

“gotcha,” he chuckled and turned back to the kitchen counter. “man, you should see your face right now, you look like a terrified little bird. i'm obviously just teasing you.”

you couldn't even bring yourself to manufacture a witty comeback. you just sat there on that stool, staring blankly into the empty space between the salt shaker and the soy sauce bottle.

caleb, however, appeared to have moved on, back to being the domestic king of the kitchen, the heavy iron skillet letting out a cheerful sizzle-hiss while he tossed the chopped garlic into the oil.

“we need to head out early tomorrow to visit gran, by the way,” caleb hummed casually over the sound of the spitting grease. “like, seven in the morning early. so don't stay up late scrolling through your phone.”

the mention of your grandmother finally poked a hole through your daze. you blinked, shaking your head slightly to clear the cobwebs as you focused on the back of his neck. “...why so early? the nursing home visiting hours don't even get busy until noon.”

“i have to be back on campus by ten. coach called a basketball practice for the championship preparations, and i can't miss it.”

“ah.” you nodded to the back of his head.

you managed to survive the rest of the evening by acting like a very polite, very quiet ghost, eventually slipping into your bedroom to endure a night of toss-and-turn sleep where caleb's whispering voice kept echoing in your dreams.

until the next morning arrived and caleb decided that the boy from yesterday was officially dead and buried.

bang! bang! bang!

“wake up, monkey! rise and shine!”

your bedroom door then flew back against the wall with a violent clack as caleb marched inside like a fucking drill sergeant. before your sleep-deprived eyes could even adjust to the morning light, caleb reached the edge of your mattress.

whoosh!

with one yank of his hand, he ripped your cozy duvet clean off your body, leaving you curled up in a shivering little ball on your sheets.

“fuck, why are you so damn loud early in the fucking morning?” you shrieked.

“ten minutes, and if you're not in up, i'm leaving you behind and telling gran you love sleeping more than you love her!” 

minutes later, you successfully managed to wash the sleep from your eyes and throw on a decent pair of clothes, though the inner grump was still very much awake.

you stood at the kitchen island, furiously snapping the plastic lids onto a neat little tower of tupperware containers. caleb had actually outdone himself this time—the savory aroma of freshly stewed chicken broth and garlic rice was already locked tight inside the plastic, ready to be delivered to granny's bedside.

the downstairs bathroom door swung open, and out stepped the grand tormentor himself.

you instinctively lifted your head, only for your brain to immediately scream abort mission! abort mission! because caleb had a fluffy white towel draped lazily over his damp hair, but that was the only thing he was wearing from the waist up. his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his collarbones, and the ridiculous expanse of his chest were completely on display, glistening faintly with a few stray droplets of water.

you whipped your head back toward the tupperware so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, your cheeks instantly sparking with a familiar warmth. 

“hey,” he stopped right on the other side of the counter, smelling faintly of mint and soap. “did we run out of the extra toothpaste? i can’t find the tubes under the sink.”

“cabinet. it's behind the extra bars of soap on the top shelf. go look there.”

“right. thanks,” he mumbled, turning on his heel and thankfully retreating back into the bathroom.

you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. honestly, the nerve of this guy.

not long after, caleb finally emerged looking like a civilized human being again, with his heavy sports duffel bag slung carelessly over one arm. 

“you ready to go?”

“yep,” you quickly gathered the paper bag full of food and stepped toward the front door. 

but as caleb walked past the living room window sill, his eyes narrowed at the row of small terracotta pots sitting in the morning sun. he stopped, casually extending one long finger and poking it straight into the dark soil.

he paused. 

he wiggled his finger, then, he turned his head to look at you, a knowing eyebrow crawling up his forehead. “brat. did you water the ferns today?”

you froze right with your hand on the doorknob, your lips twitching, and you turned around to offer him the most innocent cheeky smile you could possibly muster. 

caleb let out a roll of his eyes. 

“come here,” he pointed a finger at the floor in front of him.

“no.” you shook your head violently. “we have to leave early, remember? for gran, and your super important basketball practice!”

with a delighted laugh, caleb let his heavy sports duffel bag slide right off his shoulder, letting it hit the floorboards with a loud thud. and before you could even turn the doorknob to escape, he closed the distance between you in two strides.

“caleb, wait—ah!”

you shrieked when his large hands clamped firmly around your waist. with zero effort, he lifted your feet clean off the ground, turning you around while you flailed uselessly in the air. he marched two steps back into the living room and dropped you right against the plush cushions of the sofa.

“punishment time!” caleb laughed, instantly hovering over you and planting his knees on either side of your hips so you couldn't wiggle away.

“no, stop! caleb, i swear—!”

but your threats were instantly drowned out by your own hysterical laughter as his long fingers began mercilessly digging into your ribs. you squirmed and twisted beneath him, hands frantically trying to swat his wrists away, but he was too big, too heavy, and entirely too good at finding your most ticklish spots!

eventually, what started as a simple tickle punishment quickly spiraled into a full-blown war of the cushions.

the moment caleb’s fingers paused to let you catch your breath, your inner competitive spirit woke up. you weren't just going to sit there and take the defeat! with a heave, you planted your socks against the back of the sofa and launched your entire body forward, aiming a messy tackle straight at his broad chest.

“oh, so we're wrestling now?” caleb laughed, his deep voice booming right against your ear before he effortlessly caught you by the waist.

the rules of the house were completely thrown out the window as the two of you flipped, twisted, and rolled across the plush cushions, trying every single fake martial arts move you had ever seen on television. heck, you were pulling out all the stops—trying to hook your arm around his neck, aiming sharp elbows at his ribs, and trying to pull off a dramatic headlock.

you were starting to sweat, and you were putting 110% of your soul into making this giant human being tap out.

caleb, on the other hand? he was putting in absolutely zero effort. he was literally lying back against the pillows, letting out a loud, breathless laugh at every single one of your frantic maneuvers. to him, you probably felt like an angry flailing puppy. every time you thought you had a solid grip on his arm, he would casually just flex his bicep and pop right out of it. 

“come on, pipsqueak!” he taunted, easily batting your hands away as you tried to pin his shoulders. “is that all you got? my teammates hit harder than this during warmups!”

“shut up and die, caleb!” 

you threw your weight into one final grapple. but alas, pride can be a very dangerous thing when you're fighting a varsity athlete.

caleb decided the game had gone on long enough. and in one quick motion, he caught both of your wrists in a single hand, threw his heavy leg over your torso, and completely flipped you over.

oomph!

suddenly, you were now slammed chest-first against the back cushions of the sofa. caleb slid right up behind you, his body pressing heavily against your back to completely pin you down. he wrapped one massive arm securely around your upper chest like a seatbelt, while his other hand kept your wrists locked together near your chin.

you were utterly trapped in a textbook rear-naked choke hold.

“all right, game over,” he gave you a playful squeeze, anchoring you even tighter against him. “tap out and acknowledge me as your supreme ruler, and i'll let you go.”

“never! i will literally bite you before i tap out!”

“stubborn little girl.” caleb chuckled softly, his chest rumbling right against your back. “you can't move. just tap the couch and save your dignity.”

oh, he thought he had won because he was bigger and stronger? he forgot that you were smaller, faster, and willing to play dirty.

the competitive fog in your brain is a blinding thing, so heavy that your survival instincts completely take the wheel before your common sense can even map out anything else. you don't even know what possessed you. you aren't thinking about the dangerous lines you almost crossed together over the past few days; only thinking about the iron band of his arm across your chest, and the humiliating prospect of defeat.

so, you use the only lever you have left.

with a subtle shift of your weight, you arch your spine slightly and press back, slowly grinding your bum right against the heat of his crotch.

!

behind your back, caleb’s entire frame goes stiff as a stone wall. the boisterous laughter bubbling in his chest dies mid-breath, cutting off into nothing but a ragged hitch. it takes him three agonizing seconds to realize what tactic you’ve just deployed, and when it finally clicks...

“(name),” he groans, his voice no longer the cocky older brother but something rough, uncovered, and deeply rattled. “what... what are you doing?”

but instead of releasing you, his massive arm tightens around your upper torso, locking you so hard against his chest that you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your back. he tries to laugh it off, tries to maintain the upper hand, but the words come out strained and frayed at the edges. “nice try, though, pips. dirty tactics don't work on... nh... varsity players.”

the tiny stifled sound that slips from his throat was all the fuel you needed. it’s working. he sounds so tense, his breath coming in shallow puffs against the sensitive nape of your neck.

your own face is a burning mess of a tomato, but the taste of victory is too close. you want to remind him that he doesn't hold a monopoly on audacity in this house. you have it too.

you move again, harder this time, abandoning any pretense of subtlety. you press your ass firmly into his crotch, rolling your hips back against him in such an explicit way. 

“hey, stop, seriously—” caleb chokes out, a helpless moan breaking past his lips before he can catch it. his fingers, still holding your wrists, lose their grip, beginning to tremble against your skin.

subconsciously, his own hips begin to tilt forward, meeting your shameless grinding with a press of his own. “this... this isn't working, you should try something else. or just tap out. because i'm still not... ah... letting you go.” he swallows hard, his thumb twitching against your wrist, his long legs tangling with yours on the cushions as he tries to find an exit from the trap you both built. “so just... tap out and stop, yeah?”

“s-shouldn't you... shouldn't you be the one tapping out, huh?” your heart is doing frantic and erratic loops behind your ribs, but you push through the panic. “isn't it... isn't it weird that someone you see as a sister is doing such a thing to you? you're the older one, caleb... you should tap out. be the responsible one.”

to prove that you aren't the one who is going to break first under the weight of this, you roll your hips back against him again harder, dragging your bum across the expanse of his crotch. 

caleb doesn't answer you with words. he can't. all that leaves his throat is a series of thick, breathless moans—nh... ah—each one a helpless sound that shatters the last remaining illusion of the “sibling” shield you both spent years constructing. 

and then, slowly, you feel a very hard thing pressing solidly through the fabric of his bottoms. it felt heavy and hot enough to burn through your clothes. your movements instantly slow down, your entire body going rigid as a fresh wave of red flushes from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears. is that his...? no, no, no. you don't want to point it out. you don't want to say a single word. if you say it out loud, the universe will split wide open and there will be absolutely no going back to the way things were before.

but while you are trapped inside the spinning dizzyness of your own thoughts, you were too slow to realize that caleb's palms had snapped down around your wrists, separating them from your chin. with a surge of his upper body, he pins both of your arms flush against the cushions on either side of your head. 

and then, without a single shred of his usual teasing hesitation, caleb pulls his hips back—and drives them forward, dryhumping you roughly from behind.

“ah—!”

“don't move,” caleb humps you again, a rhythmic thrust that slides his heat perfectly between your thighs. “tap out now, (name).”

no, there is no way you're going to easily tap out like this. if you do, that's just going to show him how easily he can just go to his way with you. so without much of a choice, you bite your lip. 

“fuck, nh...” 

why is he moaning? does this feel good for him?

“just... tap out, pips,” he pants heavily, hips rolling into you in another rough stride that makes your toes curl inside your socks. “tap the couch and tell me to stop... otherwise, i'm just gonna keep going.”

“i-i hate you,” you tighten your fingers against the cushions beneath his palms, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “caleb, ngh—i swear to god, i...”

caleb lets out a chuckle, “yeah? how much?”

he doesn't let you answer and instead slides his hands down from your wrists to grip the very edges of your hip bones. with one forceful heave of his strong arms, he hoists your hips up high off the sofa cushions, tilting your pelvis back and locking you into a perfectly angled incline—before slamming his hips forward again, driving his hard erection deep into the curve of your ass. 

“not tapping out yet?” 

“i-i'm not tapping—!”

you cut yourself off when caleb's hips against your bum suddenly stutters. he drives into you one last time—hard and entirely too desperate—and then his entire body goes completely rigid.

“(name)—ah, fuck—!”

caleb lets out an unvarnished moan, his voice breaking into a breathless whine as his chest shudders violently against your back. he freezes, fingers digging bruisingly hard into your hip bones before a wave of heat blooms right through his shorts, dampening the fabric of your pants. 

your brain, despite having zero knowledge about how men's bodies work or what exactly happens when they hit their limit, registers the sudden wet warmth and his sudden loss of strength.

oh. he messed up.

“a-are you kidding me? did you just—”

“shut up,” caleb wheezes, his head dropping onto your shoulder. “don't... don't say it.”

“oh, i am absolutely saying it!”

being an opportunistic woman, you take advantage of his jelly-like limbs and twist your torso. caleb is usually a solid brick wall, but right now, his body is too sensitive. you wrench your hips out of his slack grip, plant your hands on his broad shoulders, and shove him backward with all your might.

thud!

caleb falls flat onto his back against the sofa cushions, and before he can even think about recovering, you launch yourself over his lap, straddling his thighs and planting your hands squarely on either side of his neck, pinning his arms down.

strangely, he doesn't even fight you. caleb is easily strong enough to bench-press you off him with one hand, but instead of resisting, he just lets out a pathetic grunt and lets his arms go limp beneath your palms. 

“look at the so-called supreme ruler now,” you mock him instantly, a breathless smirk breaking across your face. “what happened, caleb? you were talking so much shit about tapping out, and you couldn't even last three minutes? you came too fast that was pathetic!”

“(name), please,” caleb groans, his face turning a shade of pink as he tries to turn his head away from your gaze. “you don't even know what you're saying.”

“well, i know you're a loser.”

“you... you started it!” caleb defends himself weakly, his voice was an embarrassed whisper while his fingers nervously twitch against the couch cushion. he finally rolls his eyes back to meet yours. “what is wrong with your head? you were the one grinding your ass against me like a p-pervert... what did you think was going to happen?”

“i was trying to make you tap out!” you argue back, your face heating up again but your grip on his arms tightening.

“by making me cum...?“ caleb whines, his jaw clenching when he lets out a shaky breath. “that's a pretty lame strategy don't you think?”

“you're just making excuses because you lost,” you say, your voice trembling slightly despite the thick layer of bravado you're pouring over it. you look down at the front of his joggers where a distinct darkening patch of wetness is spreading against the fabric. “look at that. the great caleb, taken down by a simple strategy. i should take a picture and send it to your coach.”

“y-you brat, i swear to god, shut up,” caleb groans with a laugh. “you don't know what you're doing. just get off me.”

“no, i think this needs a proper inspection.” 

your brain is screaming at you to stop, telling you that you are sprinting across a line you can never cross back over, but the sheer adrenaline of having caleb completely at your mercy prevents you from backing down. if you stop now, if you get off him and let him look at you with that smug smirk again, the awkwardness will literally suffocate you. you have to finish this. you have to prove he's the loser.

with a suddenly decisive movement, you reach down and grab the waistband of his joggers.

“wait—(name), hold on—” caleb gasps, his eyes going wide with panic as you pull the fabric down. 

even through the cotton fabric of his dark grey boxers, his dick is thick, massive, and still remarkably heavy and hard despite having just come. it stretches the front of his underwear to its limit, a rigid outline that looks terrifying up close. holy shit. he's... he's huge.

your face is burning so hot you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust. your hands are shaking, your ears ringing, but you force your fingers to move forward. you place your palm flat against the center of his boxers, wrapping your fingers directly around the pulsing length of his dick.

“ah—nh!” caleb's head flies back against the sofa cushions, fingers clawing into your waist so hard it almost hurts. “fuck, stop... i told you i'm too sensitive—”

“what's the matter?” you stammer, your voice cracking as you squeeze him slightly through the cotton, your thumb tracing the hard ridge of his shaft. “thought you said it didn't work? you're twitching so much under my hand, caleb. who's the weak one now?”

“you're... you're a psycho,” caleb pants, a strained chuckle breaking through his ruined voice. he looks up at you through his long eyelashes, jaw clenched and sweat beading at his hairline. “what about you? you're blushing like a tomato and your hands are shaking. you're terrified right now, aren't you?”

“i'm not terrified of a loser,” you lie through your teeth, sliding your hand up and down his length, the friction through his boxers causing another wet drop of pre-cum to seep through the fabric against your palm.

“fuck... ah, please,” he looks so devastatingly undone beneath you it's funny, his chest heaving while he whines against the cushions. “you're... you're cheating. this is a foul. i'm gonna tell gran you're being so...”

“granny would just laugh at you for being so weak,” 

the boy who used to help you look for snails in the backyard after a heavy rain—the same boy who once gave you a piggyback ride for three blocks because you scraped your knee on the pavement—was currently pinned beneath you on granny’s floral-print sofa, stripped down to his underwear and trembling like a leaf.

it was a sacrilegious image, because for ten whole years, caleb had been the towering fixture of your childhood, the annoying older-brother figure who stole your food and made fun of your haircuts. but now, the fabric of his boxers was the only thing standing between you and a completely different world.

“you’re still shaking.” your voice was a little breathy, though you kept your eyes locked on his face to hide how fast your own heart was knocking against your ribs. 

caleb let out a ragged laugh, his head tilting back against the cushions. “you aren't going to make me tap out if that's what you're planning, you silly.”

“oh, you think you're so smart?”

before he could even muster another cocky comeback, your fingers hooked directly into the elastic waistband of his boxers and dragged the fabric down past his hips.

and just like that, the angry length of caleb's dick sprang free, twitching madly in the warm morning light.

oh my god. 

he was fucking huge. the thick, veins-veined shaft was throbbing with a pulse, the heavy weight of it slapping against his lower belly when the fabric set it free. 

caleb’s eyes went wide as the cool air hit his bare skin, a genuine spike of panic breaking through his composure. “hey, wait, hold on, what are you planning to do?” 

you stared down at the very tip of him, where a shiny drop of clear pre-cum was slowly leaking out, glistening against the skin. the sight of it made a strange spark right in the pit of your stomach.

“i'm finishing the wrestling match,” you whispered, your hand moving forward until your fingers wrapped completely around his thick shaft.

“fuck—nnggh!“ caleb gasped out loud, his entire upper body arching off the sofa as your palm made direct contact with his heat. his knuckles turned white as he grabbed the edge of the armrest. “(name)... seriously, you don't know what you're doing, stop it.”

“shut up and take your punishment.”

“you don't know shit about—oh, fuck—please... i'm gonna come again, i swear to god...”

but you weren't done pushing his limits, you wanted to erase every single ounce of that cocky exterior until there was nothing left but the vulnerable boy beneath you.

leaning down until your chest was nearly brushing his lap, you let your hand slide away from his tip—and replaced it with your tongue.

you swiped your warm and wet tongue directly over the crown of his dick, licking up the excess pre-cum and the sticky remnants of his earlier climax from the sensitive skin.

“ah-!”

at that, caleb lets out an undignified shriek that was instantly swallowed by a deep groan. his hands flew to the sides of your head, fingers tangling frantically into your hair as his dick twitched against your lips, throbbing so hard it felt like a living thing. he was whining openly now, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling with blown-out eyes.

you wrapped your lips around the very top of his shaft, sucking him gently. “(name)... i hate you... i hate you so much...”

“how much, caleb?” you mumbled against his hard skin, looking up at him through your eyelashes, your hand gripping the base of his giant length to keep him locked right where you wanted him.

“i'm not gonna last, (name). seriously, i'm gonna come in your mouth if you don't stop,”

but you don't stop. your tongue swipes over the sensitive ridge again, determined to drive the final nail into his coffin. truth be told, you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. your teeth graze his skin awkwardly, your suction is uneven, and your movements are incredibly clumsy, lacking any real rhythm. but caleb is just as clueless and inexperienced as you are, and to a boy whose body is already primed and hyper-sensitive from a first climax, the messy, wet warmth of your mouth feels like absolute heaven.

you keep going, your hand stroking his base while you lick the sticky tip. you just want to make him blow his top again. you need to see him completely break, just so you can hold it over his head for the rest of his life. 

...or is that really all it is? because your heart is hammering so loud it's practically echoing in your throat, and a strange heat is pooling deep in your stomach as you taste him.

“fuck... i'm coming, i'm literally—ah, nh...” caleb whines out loud, his head thrashing against the cushions, his entire lower body trembling while his hips lift off the sofa, twitching directly into your mouth.

you tighten your grip, getting ready for the final victory—and then, the world violently flips upside down.

whoosh!

caleb’s hands leave your hair and snap down around your armpits. your mouth slips off his dick with a wet pop when he completely sat up before he hoists your entire body into the air like you weigh absolutely nothing.

“ah! what do you think you're—!”