#boyfriendmaterial

Caleb immediately notices when you start craving something.

You don’t even have to say it.

One slight shift, one sigh, one innocent “hmmm…” and Caleb’s head turns toward you like a wolf scenting prey.

He sits up slowly, eyes narrowing just a little,

“...You want something. I can hear it.”

“I— no? Maybe? Yes.”

“Get up, pipsqueak. We’re making it.”

You list your ingredients and Caleb stands there like he’s preparing for a military mission.

Buldak carbonara?

Three cheese sticks??

Mini sausages???

Banana milk????

He doesn’t judge you…

but he absolutely gives you a look.

A look that says:

‘You’re going to die at 45 but I will still make this for you.’

He watches you cut the mini sausages like you’re performing dangerous surgery.

His arms are folded.

His eyebrows are furrowed.

He’s inspecting every movement.

“Knife safety, pipsqueak.”

“It’s a butter knife.”

“Knife. Safety.”

He tries to “help” but his help means taking over everything.

“Caleb, stop, I want to make it myself.”

Caleb, already holding the pot:

“…No.”

He’s pouring the water.

Opening the packet.

Turning the stove on.

You’re just standing there like: 🙂

He pretends he’s not watching your ramyeon cook like it’s a child being born.

The noodles boil dramatically.

Caleb stands over them with the seriousness of a surgeon.

“It’s almost done. Don’t touch it.”

“You literally took the pot from me.”

“Because you would’ve overcooked it.”

You add cheese sticks. Caleb looks betrayed.

Not annoyed.

Not angry.

Betrayed.

He stares at the melting cheese like it personally insulted the Fleetspace.

“That’s… five, pipsqueak.”

“Correct.”

“…You’re unbelievable.”

You sit with your bowl. Caleb sits dangerously close.

Too close.

Like his thigh is glued to yours.

He’s looking at your bowl.

Not even hiding it.

He’s waiting.

Patiently.

Expectantly.

Like a dog.

Beautiful,dangerous, colonel-shaped dog.

You eat your first bite. Caleb still waits.

He leans in slightly.

Just a bit.

You pretend not to notice.

You take a second bite.

He leans closer.

You take a third bite.

He exhales sharply.

Caleb realizes you’re NOT giving him a bite… and he looks offended.

His head jerks slightly, as if he cannot comprehend your sin.

“You didn’t give me any.”

“…It’s mine.”

“…We’re sharing a life, but you won’t share ramyeon?”

He tries the soft approach.

He lowers his voice.

Soft, deep, a little dangerous.

“Pipsqueak… one bite.”

“No.”

“…One.”

“No.”

You finally sigh and push your bowl toward him.

Just a little.

Just enough so he knows you’re offering.

“Fine. ONE bite, Caleb. ONE. SMALL. BITE.”

Caleb freezes like he just got promoted again.

His eyes gleam.

“…Really?”

You nod, already regretting this.

Caleb picks up his chopsticks slowly… respectfully… gently.

You’re fooled.

You think he’s being obedient.

You think he’s going to take a dainty little bite like a civilized human.

You think wrong.

He leans in.

He opens his mouth.

You prepare to feel proud.

“See?” you think. “He can behave—”

Caleb unhinges his jaw like a python.

He doesn’t take a BITE.

He doesn’t even take a mouthful.

He takes—

THE. ENTIRE. TOP HALF. OF YOUR RAMYEON.

A MONSTER BITE.

Like he’s inhaling oxygen.

Like this man has NEVER eaten in his life.

The noodles disappear so fast your bowl literally tilts.

You stare at him in absolute shock.

Your soul leaves your body.

“CALEB—”

He is already chewing.

Already smirking.

Already proud of himself.

Caleb wipes his mouth with his thumb, pointedly slow.

“Thanks for the bite, pipsqueak.”

A beat.

He leans in.

Smirks.

“You said small, but your definition is… flexible.”

AND THEN—

HE RUNS.

HE RUNS LIKE A WAR CRIMINAL FLEEING THE COUNTRY.

“CALEB YOU COME BACK HERE—”

But he’s already halfway down the hallway, laughing like a villain.

“YOU SAID ONE BITE, PIPSQUEAK!

The house is not even dirty. Just… lived in.

He runs a hand through his hair dramatically.

“…Sweetie… this is… unacceptable.”

“It’s literally two socks on the couch.”

“…I deserve peace.”

You announce it’s cleaning day and Sylus instantly tries to negotiate a treaty.

He stands with crossed arms like a CEO under attack.

“Listen. We can hire professionals. A whole team. A squad. An army.”

“No. Couples clean together.”

“…Couples could also not.”

He follows you around with the broom like a confused guard dog.

He’s holding it like it’s a weapon instead of a cleaning tool.

“Sweetie, what exactly do you want me to… do? Hit someone?”

“Sweep.”

“That feels violent.”

You hand him the mop and Sylus looks personally betrayed.

He stares at the mop head like it insulted his ancestors.

“…Why is it wet?”

“It’s a mop, Sylus.”

“I don’t like the attitude.”

Once he starts though? Oh he becomes sickeningly efficient.

He’s mopping like he’s training for Olympic floor care, zero crumbs left.

“If I’m doing it, I’m doing it perfectly.”

He cleans with unnecessary drama, making noise like a man fighting a demon.

Doors closing loudly. Deep sighs.

“I’m suffering.”

“You wiped a shelf.”

“…Suffering.”

You catch him wiping the mirrors while checking himself out.

He fixes his hair, wipes, flexes, wipes again.

“Are you… cleaning or flirting with the mirror?”

“Both.”

Sylus follows you around because he refuses to clean in separate rooms.

He needs to supervise you.

“You might fall off a chair or trip or… breathe wrong.”

Every time you bend down to pick something up, he SWEARS he’s helping.

But he’s staring. Definitely staring.

“Sweetie… do that again.”

“I’m picking up a remote.”

“…Do it slower then.”

He tries dusting and ends up sneezing like a Victorian child.

“This house wants me dead.”

“It’s dust.”

“Dust is the enemy.”

He takes cleaning breaks every five minutes.

You find him lying dramatically on the sofa.

“Sweetie, I’m weak. Bring water.”

“You cleaned half a table.”

“It was a very… dusty table.”

Sylus refuses to let you pick up something heavy.

He sprints across the room like a knight.

“Touch that box and I will carry both it AND you.”

He puts hair behind your ear while you’re organizing a shelf.

Soft. Gentle. Distracting.

“How am I supposed to focus when you’re this cute while bossing me around?”

He keeps hugging you from behind while you’re trying to work.

And swaying.

And nuzzling.

“Sylus, I’m trying to wipe this table—”

“It can wait. I can’t.”

He kisses your cheek whenever you finish a task.

Reward system.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

“Stop distracting.”

“Impossible.”

You vacuum, and Sylus lifts his feet like a prince avoiding lava.

“Go around my legs please.”

“MOVE.”

“…Rude.”

You argue about folding laundry.

He folds like a suspiciously well-trained butler.

“Sweetie, your method is… concerning.”

“Your method looks like a retail store.”

“You’re welcome.”

Eventually the house is spotless. But Sylus is DEAD on the couch.

Dramatically draped like a fallen Victorian hero.

“Sweetie… I’ve given you everything. Bury me here.”

You suggest deep cleaning, Sylus sits up immediately.

Eyes wide. Panic.

“No. We’re hiring people. Professionals. Scientists. I don’t care.”

You finally agree to hire a cleaning team.

“See? I always guide you to good decisions.”

“Shut up.”

While the cleaning team works, Sylus picks you up bridal-style.

Walks you to the bedroom like he’s claiming treasure.

“Compensation for my suffering.”

“You barely cleaned—”

“SWEETIE. My emotional labor.”

He kisses your forehead and pulls you onto his chest.

Soft. Warm. Gentle.

Zayne is suturing a patient, but your sharp command slices through the noise:

“Epi, NOW!”

His hands still for a moment; his heartbeat doesn’t.

He looks up — soft eyes, flushed ears.

“…How can she still surprise me like this?”

You’re leading a chaotic trauma case.

Your tone is firm, dominant, unshakeable.

Zayne catches himself staring and looks away too late.

“You’re impossible to ignore… even when I try.”

You snap orders at a resident who messed up vitals.

Your authority fills the room.

Zayne exhales slowly, trying to look unaffected.

“…You do know how breathtaking you are when you take control, right?”

You lean over a patient doing compressions, focused, hair messy.

He freezes mid-procedure watching you.

“Don’t look at me like that… I’m barely holding it together as it is.”

You pass him for supplies, your shoulder brushing his.

He goes rigid, eyes down.

“…You’re going to make me lose my composure in front of everyone.”

A nurse calls your name; you turn instantly, commanding.

Zayne stares with that soft, warm look he only ever gives you.

“My darling… you were made for this.”

Your hands are steady during an emergency incision.

He adores your confidence.

“You’re art in motion… even under pressure.”

Someone bumps him and he snaps, distracted.

His irritation melts the second he sees you again.

“You’re the only thing calming me today.”

You call for equipment loudly.

His ears turn red, he loves that tone too much.

“…Say my name with that voice someday.”

You ask him professionally,

“Dr. Zayne, clamp.”

His breath stumbles.

“Careful… I prefer when you call me love.”

Your fingers brush his glove taking the instrument.

He inhales sharply.

“…You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

He watches you take full command of a collapsing patient.

His chest warms, pride flooding him.

“You save lives like it’s nothing… How did I get you?”

You raise your voice at a sluggish nurse.

He tries so hard not to react visibly.

“Dominance looks good on you… too good.”

You’re too busy to acknowledge him, and he hates it.

But also loves watching you work.

“…Look at me when you can. I miss your eyes.”

You make a tough call, quick and precise.

Zayne is stunned all over again by your brilliance.

“You’re the most capable person in this room. Always.”

Your voice softens briefly for a scared patient.

His heart melts instantly.

“That softness… it destroys me.”

You check a monitor beside him; your arm brushes his.

He goes still, throat tight.

“…Darling, please. Not while I’m trying to work.”

He catches you giving orders with absolute authority.

His jaw clenches.

“If only you knew what you look like right now.”

A resident whispers, “She’s scary today.”

Zayne almost smiles.

“She’s perfect today.”

Your frustration bursts

“Move faster—we’re losing him!”

His pulse jumps.

He tries to get your attention.

You rush past him.

He watches you go with softened eyes.

“Finish up, love. I want you back beside me.”

You stabilize a crashing patient.

Zayne finally exhales proud, relieved, enchanted.

“That’s my girl… always pulling off miracles.”

You wipe your forehead, exhausted.

He steps close, almost touching—voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me take care of you once this chaos ends.”

Your patient’s heartbeat returns.

Everyone cheers.

You look at Zayne.

His eyes soften completely.

Caleb is ALWAYS top frag.

Doesn’t matter the game. Doesn’t matter the mode.

“If I’m not first, why even queue?”

He becomes terrifyingly serious in ranked.

He OHKOs everything in RPGs.

You’re level 20.

He’s level 86 with mythical armor and three swords he forged himself.

“Stay behind me, pipsqueak. I’ll farm us a dragon.”

He always collects TWICE the resources you need.

Because What if you want to build something cute?

He shows up with 400 wood, 200 stone, 150 gold.

“Why do you have this much??”

“I was bored.”

Caleb secretly logs into your account when you’re asleep.

Just to farm stuff for you.

And leaves gifts in your inventory.

“CALEB DID YOU GRIND 60 LEVELS ON MY CHARACTER!?”

“You’re welcome.”

He ALWAYS carries you in FPS.

You have 2 kills.

He has 43.

And he’s smug about it.

“Don’t worry, pips. I’ll secure your victory.”

He flexes your rank like it’s HIS achievement.

“My girlfriend’s Diamond… which means technically I made Diamond twice.”

“CAL—”

He refuses to leave you alone in lobbies.

Some random dude says “hi” to you?

Caleb joins voice: “Go talk to your mother instead.”

He LOVES when you trash talk opponents.

“Call him a noob, babe. Do it. Do it.”

He takes shots of your cute moments while playing.

Your focused face? He loves it.

“You look adorable when you’re killing things.”

He hates losing so much he researches guide videos.

You wake up at 2 a.m.

Caleb is watching a tutorial titled “ULTIMATE PRO STRATS FOR SUPPORT PLAYERS.”

Caleb (serious):“I need to improve for us.”

He’s overpowered in sandbox games too.

Your house is a box.

His is a FIVE-STORY MANSION with redstone elevators.

“You can live with me. Rent-free.”

Caleb has zero chill in competitive games.

He mutters military tactics under his breath.

“Rotate left. Cover fire. Push now— good girl.”

He always buys matching skins.

But gives YOU the fancy one.

“Because you deserve the best.”

If someone flames you in chat?

He becomes Satan.

“You have a problem with her performance? I can solve it permanently.”

He HATES when your online friends flirt.

“Did he just call you ‘cutie’? Send me his username.”

"Caleb–"

“SEND. ME. HIS. USERNAME.”

He treats duo-queue like a date.

“Just you, me, and a battlefield. Romantic, right?”

He literally warms your cold gaming hands.

Without pausing the game.

“Can’t have my pipsqueak suffering. Come here.”

He refuses to let you stay dead in games.

He rushes into enemy territory solo to revive you like a hero from a movie.

“Stay alive. I’m coming.”

Caleb reads every little in-game lore to you like a bedtime story.

“This character reminds me of you.”

“Why, because she’s cute?”

“Because she kills everyone she loves.”

“CALEB—”

“…I like it.”

He is ALWAYS proud of you.

Even if you only did 3 damage.

“Look at you, contributing.”

“CALEB I DID NOTHING—”

It starts innocent.

You’re cleaning your closet, and Sylus just happens to be “helping.”

Translation: snooping through every box like a cat in human form.

“What’s this one labeled ‘Memories’? Sounds suspiciously like ‘Evidence.’”

He finds a box stuffed with old pictures.

You shout, “Don’t look at those!”

Which of course means he IMMEDIATELY looks at them.

“Sweetie, you were— oh my god— what is this haircut? Did you lose a bet?”

He’s holding one picture like it’s a museum artifact.

“You mean to tell me… this tiny creature with missing teeth and sparkly pink shoes turned into you? How did the universe allow that?”

You try to snatch the photos away.

He’s taller. He holds them over your head.

“Nope. Too late. I’m emotionally attached to baby-you now.”

There’s one where you’re crying in a kiddie pool.

Sylus snorts so hard he chokes

“You were crying because your popsicle melted!? Sweetie, that’s so on-brand it hurts.”

He finds your awkward school photo phase.

“You look like you were about to start a rebellion against math.”

He’s scrolling through them like a proud dad at parent-teacher meetings.

“Look at this one, look how serious you look holding that crayon. You were destined for chaos.”

There’s a photo of you in a tiny pink dress, all smiles.

He just stares for a second, then quietly murmurs:

“You’ve been beautiful your whole life, huh?”

But immediately ruins the moment by gasping dramatically.

“Wait. Is that a bowl cut? Sweetie. Oh no. We need to talk.”

He zooms in on your missing front teeth.

“This is terrifyingly cute. I hate it. I love it. I hate that I love it.”

When you tell him to stop teasing, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“Can’t help it. You were made to be adored… and roasted.”

He finds a baby photo where you’re just sitting, drooling, and staring at the camera.

“You’ve got the same expression when you look at me eating fries.”

He keeps asking questions like he’s studying anthropology.

“Who dressed you? Who approved this outfit? I need names.”

He finds a photo of you holding a stuffed animal.

He pauses.

“Still got that habit, huh?”

He says with a teasing grin, because he knows you still have a plushie next to your pillow.

You try to distract him with snacks.

“Put the photos down, Sylus.”

“No. I’m bonding with baby-you. This is character development.”

He finds a group picture of you with childhood friends.

“Which one’s the ex-crush? I just wanna talk.”

When he finds one of you asleep in a weird position, he laughs so hard he cries.

“You haven’t changed. You still sleep like a tangled noodle.”

He picks up a photo of toddler-you with frosting on your face.

“Okay but this is exactly how you looked after I let you near cupcakes last week.”

He lines up your photos in order on the table.

“Look at this timeline. From chaos gremlin to heartbreak personified. Truly an evolution.”

You catch him taking pictures of your baby photos with his phone.

“For research,” he says.

“In case I ever forget how cute you are.”

Later, you find one photo framed on his desk.

“Sylus, why did you frame this one?”

“Because that’s the moment the world got its first glimpse of trouble.”

He shows Mephisto one of your photos.

“Look, Mephisto, this is my sweetie before she learned sarcasm.”

The crow squawks like he’s laughing.

You threaten to burn the photos if he keeps teasing.

“Too late, Sweetie. They’re saved in five backups and cloud storage.”

At night, he slips an arm around you and whispers against your hair:

“You were cute then, but you’re breathtaking now.

Caleb follows you everywhere. Kitchen? There. Study room? There. Bathroom?

“Babe, are you alive in there? Don’t ignore me for soap and shampoo.”

You once turned around too fast and bumped into him because he was that close behind. Caleb just grins,

“See? Even fate wants us attached.”

He gets pouty when you hang out with friends.

“You’ve been with them for three hours. That’s three hours of me suffering in silence.”

“You could’ve called someone else.”

“There’s no one else. There’s you, and then… background noise.”

When you tell him to give you space, he dramatically sprawls across the bed.

“I gave you space.

This much—” (moves one inch away) “—and it physically hurts.”

He sits behind you when you’re working, chin on your shoulder, whispering nonsense like,

“What if I just uninstall your assignments and install kisses instead?”

Bro what

Caleb will glare at your phone if you’re smiling at messages.

“Who’s making you laugh harder than me? Who dares.”

He’s a menace texter, sends things like:

“You alive?”

“What are you doing?”

“Who are you doing it with?”

“Do I need to fight anyone?”

Caleb has a bad habit of picking you up mid-argument.

“I win. You can’t argue if you’re off the floor.”

He’ll threaten anyone who flirts with you, but quietly, smiling the whole time

“That’s a nice hand you’ve got there. Keep it away from what’s mine.”

He keeps stealing your things. Lip balm, Hair ties, Snacks. He’ll deny it, too all while wearing you lip balm, eating your chips.

“You are insufferable."

“Its called being ‘romantically territorial."

You eyed him

"What? It Sounds classier.”

When you talk about your celebrity crush, Caleb looks offended.

“He’s not even real."

And you are?

He constantly interrupts you:

“…and then Sarah said—”

“Who’s Sarah, and why do I hate her already?”

He absolutely loves holding your hand in public, but if you let go for even one second, he’ll dramatically gasp

“Abandonment. At its finest.”

You try to take a nap, and he climbs right in beside you.

“If you’re unconscious, I’m unconscious too. That’s love.”

Sometimes he just stares at you until you notice. When you ask why, he says,

“I’m checking to make sure no one replaced you with an inferior clone.”

He once got jealous of a stray cat.

“It sits on your lap for hours. I sit on your lap once and you call me heavy.”

You tried to go out alone one day, and Caleb just appeared like a ghost behind you

“Funny coincidence, I was heading in the same direction — wherever you’re going.”

When you scold him for being overprotective, he leans closer and murmurs,

“Then stop giving me reasons to guard you like treasure.”

But when he’s softer, he’ll cup your face and whisper,

You’ve seen Sylus yell before — at his employees, and once at a blender that wouldn’t start.

But the moment he turns to you? His tone drops to a quiet, velvety murmur.

“No, Sweetie… not you. Never you.”

Once, you spilled coffee all over his work sheets.

You braced for the storm, but he just sighed, walked over, and kissed your forehead.

“I should’ve known better than to leave my sheets near your clumsy hands.”

When he’s frustrated, his voice goes low, but never sharp.

“Sweetie, I need a minute, okay? I’m not mad at you… I’m mad at everything that isn’t you.”

You’ve noticed his jaw tighten sometimes, eyes burning with unspoken anger, but when he looks at you, it melts.

“You’re the one place my temper refuses to exist.”

Even when you mess up something big, like accidentally deleting a whole project file.

He stares at the empty screen, takes a long breath, and whispers,

“You’re lucky I love you more than I love work.”

He’s never raised his voice. Not once.

You once asked him if he ever wanted to yell.

He chuckled softly.

“Yeah. But the thought of your face flinching? That’s louder than any scream.”

When you apologize, he never lets you feel small.

“Don’t shrink for me, Sweetie. I’d rather rebuild whatever broke than see you crumble.”

You once yelled at him — stress, exhaustion, too much emotion.

He just stood there, quiet, eyes soft.

“You done?”

You nodded.

“Okay. Come here.”

Sometimes he gets angry at the world cruel people, missed chances, lost time but never at you.

“You’re the only part of my life that doesn’t feel like a fight.”

You knocked over his guitar once, cracking the body.

He froze. You panicked.

He just exhaled and muttered,

“Guitars can be fixed. You can’t be replaced.”

He’s aware of how scary he can sound when angry.

“I promised myself, Sweetie… never you. You don’t deserve my sharp edges.”

When people wrong you, he yells for you.

“Don’t you dare talk to her like that.”

But when you’re the one who messes up? His voice breaks instead.

“Sweetie… please just don’t scare me like that again.”

One time you broke down crying mid-argument.

His whole posture softened instantly.

“Hey, hey, no. We don’t do tears, remember? I’d rather lose the argument.”

He’s got this thing, when he’s upset, he runs his hand through his hair, pacing.

But when you approach him, he stops instantly.

“I can’t be mad and look at you. It’s like emotional kryptonite.”

You once asked him why he never yells.

He shrugged, smiling faintly.

“Because I know what silence can do. I’d rather speak softly than scar you.”

When he’s angry, he cooks. Aggressively.

Pots clatter, knives hit the board but the moment you peek in, he’s like:

“Dinner’s almost ready, Sweetie. Don’t mind the war zone.”

He always circles back with reassurance.

“We’re okay, right? I can handle the world being chaos… but not us.”

His anger burns out fast when you’re around.

“You can’t expect me to stay mad when you’re blinking at me like that. It’s unfair warfare.”

When others fight, he tells them: “Yelling’s easy. Staying gentle? That’s love.”

You realize later — he learned that because of you.

He once told you:

“You’re my peace. I refuse to make my peace loud.”

And you didn’t realize until later that it wasn’t just a sweet line, it was a promise.

Even in his lowest moments, when he’s hurt or broken — his voice never rises above soft.

“Don’t walk away, Sweetie. I just… don’t have it in me to lose you too.”

One night, curled up together, you whisper:

“You’ve never yelled at me. Not once.”

He hums, half-asleep.