#caleb headcanons

when you stepped into the room, it was as if the entire world faded away. time slowed, the noise dimmed, and the lights seemed to soften, catching on the edges of your features. you looked beautiful, achingly so. heartbreakingly out of reach. you weren’t supposed to be here, not after the fight, not after the cruel words you’d both thrown at each other before he left.

you moved toward him with purpose, cutting through the room like you were meant to be there all along.

caleb couldn’t breathe. he couldn’t think.

his hands trembled at his sides as he watched you close the distance between you. he could act all stoic, but his heart didn’t feel stoic enough to make him calm.

when you stopped in front of him, there were tears already brimming in your eyes. his carefully constructed control, unshakable during training, steadfast through every grueling challenge, began to crumble.

caleb had faced impossible physical challenges, the grueling expectations of training, and the endless psychological evaluations that pushed him to the edge. but none of those had broken him nearly like you did. you, standing here, looking at him like that.

you were his undoing.

you should be his first sign. the first sign that there was something wrong with him. because you were his obsession. the one he was slowly losing control over.

caleb was not allowed to fall in love with you.

he trembled as your fingers brushed against his, tapping him out of his frozen misery. the soft touch was meant to symbolize recognition, acknowledgment. but to caleb, it was so much more.

you were here. you were real.

there was no second-guessing, no hesitation. before he could stop himself, his arms were around you, pulling you into him with a force that left him breathless. a strangled sigh escaped his lips and found its home in the crook of your neck, right where your heart beats: friends, friends, friends.

he held you like a man drowning, and you were the only thing keeping him afloat. he felt the soft shake of your shoulders, the warmth of your tears against his neck, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

‘i didn’t think you’d come,’ he whispered, his voice low and raw, breaking under the weight of his emotions. you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. there was something in his gaze, but before you could respond, he spoke again, quieter this time, like a vow. ‘i’ll never let you go.’

the words made you shiver. they were so soft you almost didn’t catch them.

‘you can try,’ you joked, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to lighten the mood. a nervous laugh escaped as you gently pushed against his chest, pretending to escape his embrace. ‘you love me, i get it.’

but caleb didn’t loosen his hold. instead, he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple. there was a quiet laugh, quiet and unsteady, before he murmured, ‘you have no idea, pipsqueak.’

his voice was filled with something raw, something deeper than you could fully understand. it wasn’t just love. it was obsession, devotion, a yearning that had no end.

you smelled like honey. like the same thing you’d been smelling your entire life that made you feel like home in a way that hotels and dorm beds could never manage.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, shining pin they’d given him for finishing aerospace academy. it gleamed in the light, a symbol of everything he’d fought to achieve. without a word, he placed it carefully in your palm.

your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the touch sent sparks up his arm. with careful, deliberate precision, you pinned it to his chest. caleb didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you, watching every motion, every soft touch of your fingers against his uniform.

‘they should give you a medal instead for doing so well,’ you teased softly, smiling up at him.

once the pin was secure, you smoothed down his uniform, your fingers lingering against the fabric. it was such a small gesture, but it felt so intimate that caleb’s breath hitched.

he tried his best not to be frantic, but it was almost impossible when he was overloaded with want, want, want, and with the feeling that this might not happen again, with the fear that if caleb thought about it too hard, he’d stop himself before he did too much.

he couldn’t stop himself any longer. leaning down, he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering on your skin. he didn’t move away immediately, letting the moment stretch as he closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of you.

he felt like a criminal on the run, but it was too good to withdraw from. so, he overdosed on unrequited love.

when he finally pulled back, there was a soft, almost shy smile on his lips. his voice was low, but full of meaning. ‘i already have my reward.’

you looked up at him, your cheeks warm, his cap still sitting crooked on your head. for a moment, neither of you spoke, and the weight of everything unsaid lingered between you.

and caleb, looking at you, standing there with your fingers still on his uniform, knew it was the absolute truth. you didn’t realize it, but you were the center of his universe. his greatest test, his deepest weakness, and the one thing he could never, ever let go of.

i’m a fool, he decided. damned in the bits of exhaustion at pulling and pushing at whatever’s left of trying.

the noise of the crowd finally broke through the haze, the sound of laughter and celebration pulling you both back to the present. caleb stepped back slightly, watching as you adjusted his cap, your smile soft but hesitant.

you didn’t have to know the struggle he’d endured to get here, the battles he’d fought within himself.

You don't even know how many times he's caught you sitting under the shade of his apple tree in the summer, reading a book. Then again, instead of politely waving you off like he does with others, he always offers you a glass of his freshly made soda with a flourish and a, "Would my lil trespasser care for a refreshment?"

You also start timing your departure for work to match the exact moment he leaves for his morning run, just so you can watch him greet you in his thigh-hugging running shorts and admire his backside when he opens the door to your car for you with a, "Knock 'em dead today, angel."

Your reaction to 'angel' must give you away because that's all he calls you now — "Mornin' angel." "Angel, you alright?" "Let me help with that, angel." — voice lower and rougher around the syllables in a way that makes your knees melt into liquid each time.

And you're not entirely sure, but you think he might have his own version of this, which is 'keepin' your mail safe for ya' while you're out, just so he can knock on your door before you go to bed with nothing but bare chest, grey sweats, a few envelopes, and a crooked grin.

The day you knock on his door with fresh lemon bars from the lemons on your tree, though? When you answer his questioning stare with a stammered explanation that you'd noticed he preferred sour treats? That's the day the playful glint in his eyes deepens into something affectionate, something more intent, something darker and more... possessive.

From then on, all he does is work on projects around your house (around both of your houses, really) on the weekend.

You've come home from both days and nights out to find everything from a new sprinkler system and an upgraded porch swing to cobblestone pathways that lead from your back door to his, and even a newly planted apple seedling in your backyard.

That's only the improvements on the exterior of your house. You've lost count of all the things Caleb's helped you with on the inside (that you aren't even sure you've mentioned to him).

At least twice a week, you open your door to Caleb in ripped jeans, a muscle tank, and a toolbelt, ready to fix your garbage disposal, change out your alarm system, update your smoke detectors, or start on some other project that ends with you talking the day away until dinner.

Though you usually spend dinner together, the meal itself is always a playful argument between you and Caleb. Mainly, who's cooking for whom since you insist on repaying him for all his help, and he insists on you sitting comfortably and sharing your day with him while he helps you out.

Regardless of who cooks, though, Caleb even makes it a point to take care of your kitchen, helping you change the hardware, update the light fixtures, and even bringing his knife sharpener with him every few months, "so you're not losin' any of those pretty fingers of yours."

You haven't really asked about his previous jobs, but you know it must've involved engineering, since he's really good with machinery. So good, actually, that you haven't needed a new mower, furnace, or oil change for your car in months.

When you don't feel satisfied that you've shown him enough gratitude for all he does to help you, you make sure you send him home on Sunday night with a full week of meal prep so he has a filling lunch at work. You also bring over pillows and curtains and throws to help make his bare living room more lively.

Everything and yet nothing at all seems to change the night he spots you pulling into your driveway past 1am, though. When you don't question why he's waited up for you as he opens your car door and his irises go from sparkling to concerned to deadly when he catches your red-rimmed eyes. When you explain the way you were stood up on your date.

Because that's when he calmly locks your car, takes your bag, and leads you to his living room, marked with your signature in every corner, to settle you with warm tea and open arms and a murmured, "c'mere, angel."

Because that's when you press against his chest, settle into his heartbeat, and let him take care of your mind and your body as securely and attentively as he's cared for each inch of your house for years.

Because that's the first of many times he watches your short trek home from his front porch in the middle of the night, arms crossed, sharp, affectionate possession carved into his face, refusing to go inside until he sees you through your living room window.

Because that's the first of many times you leave your mysterious, handsome, attentive, and much older neighbour's home with some undiscovered crack in your heart filled with molten gold the colour of his eyes, and you realize: you're so fucked.

Your staff thought he was terrifying.

This was, to be fair, not an unreasonable assessment. Zayne sitting at a bar in his dark coat, glasses on, expression carefully neutral, reading about cardiac valve regeneration while the dinner rush swirled around him, radiated an energy that made your servers instinctively straighten their posture and stop swearing in the kitchen.

“Your boyfriend is here,” became the unofficial signal for everyone to start acting professional.

He didn’t mean to be intimidating. You knew this because you’d seen this man eat an entire sleeve of cookies at 2am while watching a nature documentary about penguins, and because he once got so flustered by a compliment you gave him that his ears turned red for twenty minutes. But the restaurant staff didn’t know any of that. To them, he was the tall, sharp-jawed surgeon who looked like he could perform your annual review and your appendectomy simultaneously.

The teenagers, though. The teenagers loved him. Not in the swooning, blushing way, but in the specific way that teenagers latched onto any adult who treated them like a competent person. Zayne answered their questions. Zayne remembered their names. When one of your teenage hostesses mentioned she was thinking about pre-med, Zayne spent fifteen minutes of a slow Wednesday evening explaining the residency process with a lot of patience, probably the same amount he gave his own residents, and the girl walked away looking like she’d been handed the keys to the universe.

He knew your schedule better than you did. This wasn’t romantic so much as it was clinical—he tracked your shifts the way he tracked your blood pressure, your sleep patterns, your eating habits. Data points in the ongoing project of keeping you alive and functional, which he approached with the tender, relentless focus of a man who had chosen cardiology because the person he loved had a heart condition and he’d decided, apparently at age fourteen, that he was going to be the one to fix it.

When your period hit, Zayne didn’t talk in person to your manager. Zayne did something worse: he texted your manager. A single, polite, medically worded message about the physiological impact of dysmenorrhea on work performance, citing two studies, and suggesting—not demanding, because Zayne was nothing if not professional—that a modified shift might be advisable.

Your manager, who had a healthy respect for anyone who used the word "dysmenorrhea" correctly in a sentence, gave you the afternoon off.

You found out about the text three days later.

“Zayne. You sent my boss a medical briefing.” you bit back a smile, astonished yet not entirely surprised at the gesture.

He was chopping vegetables in your kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow, glasses slightly fogged from the steam. He didn’t look up. “I sent her relevant literature. What she did with it was her decision.”

“You cited sources.”

“Would you have preferred I didn’t?” the ghost of something dry flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I could have simply told her you were unwell. But I find that people respond more favorably to peer-reviewed evidence than to emotional appeals.”

You stared at him. He continued chopping, precise and even and utterly unbothered, and the warmth in your chest simmered the way it always did around him—slow, steady, the kind of heat that didn’t burn but never went out.

“You’re unbelievable sometimes.” you scoffed, amused and smiling so big it reached your ears.

“I’m thorough, my love.” He set the knife down and crossed to you. Pressed his cool hand to your forehead out of what you suspected was pure habit, his thumb brushing your temple. “There’s a difference.”

Xavier

Xavier just... appeared.

That was the only way to describe it. One day your restaurant didn’t have a silver-haired regular who napped in booth six, and the next day it did, and nobody could pinpoint exactly when the transition happened. He materialized quietly, without announcement, as though he’d always been there and you simply hadn’t noticed yet.

He ordered the same thing every time. Whatever you recommended. It didn’t matter what it was. You could’ve told him the special was a bowl of lukewarm soup and a bread roll and he would’ve nodded, eaten every bite, and left a neat, precise tip folded under his glass. Not flashy nor excessive, but simply the appropriate amount that suggested he’d actually thought about it, calculated the percentage, and rounded up because that was what you did for someone you loved.

He never sat in your section on purpose. You figured this out after the third week, when you realized he always chose whichever booth was furthest from your assigned tables—close enough to watch you, far enough not to be in the way. If you caught his eye across the dining room, he’d give you that barely-there nod, calm and warm, and go back to whatever he was doing.

What he was doing was usually sleeping.

Your coworkers had opinions about this.

“Is he... is he okay?” your colleague asked you once, genuinely concerned, peering at the silver-haired man slumped gently against the booth wall with his eyes closed, empty plate pushed aside, looking for all the world like a very beautiful, very tired cat in a human suit.

“He’s fine. He does that.”

“Should I bring him some coffee?”

“He’ll wake up when I get off shift.” And he always did. Right on time, every time, like he had some internal clock synced to your schedule. Eyes open, standing, jacket on, waiting by the door. Ready to walk you home because the route was dark and he just had to make sure you’re safe.

The teenagers on your staff were terrified of him, which was genuinely funny because Xavier was about as threatening as a sleepy golden retriever. But something about the way he carried himself at times—the stillness, the quiet intensity, the fact that his eyes tracked every person who got too close to you with a focus that was more hunter than boyfriend—made the high schoolers give his booth a wide berth.

He knew your manager by name. Your manager did not know how Xavier knew her name. This was never addressed.

On the bad days—the period days, the days when you moved through your shift with a heating pad shoved under your apron and your jaw clenched against the cramps—Xavier didn’t talk to your manager. He didn’t make a scene. He just appeared at the end of your shift with a bag from the convenience store near your apartment: painkillers, your favorite brand of chocolate, a hot water bottle and a packet of those instant soup noodles you only ate when you felt terrible.

He handed the bag to you in the parking lot, took your work tote off your shoulder and transferred it to his, and started walking.

“Xavie, you didn’t have to—”

“I know.” he adjusted the tote strap and kept walking. “I was already at the store.”

He was not already at the store. The store was twenty minutes in the opposite direction of his apartment. You knew this. He knew you knew this.

Neither of you said anything else. You walked home in the comfortable silence, his shoulder brushing yours with every step, steady and warm and there.

He was always just... there.

Caleb

The thing about Caleb knowing you worked in a restaurant was that Caleb was a better cook than your entire kitchen staff, and he would never, ever let you forget it.

“The risotto’s overcooked,” he’d murmur, barely glancing at a plate being run past your section, his cap pulled low and his long legs stretched under the booth he’d claimed as his personal territory every Tuesday and Thursday night. “Tell the cook to pull it thirty seconds earlier.”

“Caleb, you can’t tell my line cook—”"

“I’m not telling him. I’m telling you, baby. You can tell him.” He swiped a fry off the appetizer plate you were about to deliver, popping it into his mouth with a grin that was all teeth and zero remorse. “Also, those need more salt.”

Infuriating. Completely, devastatingly infuriating. And right. He was always right about the food, which made it worse.

Caleb became a constant presence at your restaurant the same way he’d become one in every other part of your life—by simply refusing to exist anywhere else. He showed up after flight briefings still half in uniform, jacket unzipped, looking like the kind of trouble that made your hostesses suddenly very interested in the seating chart near his section.

The teenagers worshipped him. Openly. Without shame. He was tall and athletic and had that effortless, golden-boy energy that made high schoolers want to impress him, and he played into it just enough to be charming—remembering their names, asking about their games, challenging your teenage busser to arm-wrestling contests during slow shifts that he won without trying and then pretended were close.

But his eyes always tracked back to you.

That was the part your coworkers noticed. The way he watched you move through the dining room—not casually and definitely not passively. The way a pilot watched a radar screen. Constant, precise awareness. He knew where you were at every moment, which tables were giving you trouble, which customer had been rude, which coworker had stuck you with their side work again.

He filed it all away. You’d learned that about the new version of Caleb—the Colonel version, the one who’d come back sharper and darker and more honest about what he wanted. He didn’t forget anything. He held it, sorted it, and deployed it later with a precision that was equal parts comforting and terrifying to you.

“Table nine was rude to you.”

“Table nine was just impatient, Caleb.”

He ate another fry. His eyes didn’t leave table nine for a very long time. Table nine left a generous tip and exited quickly. You chose not to investigate why.

He knew your staff better than some of them knew each other, because Caleb had grown up studying people—reading rooms, tracking hierarchies, figuring out who was trustworthy and who wasn’t. Your manager liked him because he was polite and charming and tipped well. Your manager did not know that Caleb had memorized her scheduling patterns and had, on more than one occasion, subtly rearranged your availability through a series of very casual, very friendly conversations that somehow always resulted in you getting the shifts you wanted.

When your period hit, Caleb didn’t negotiate with management. Caleb showed up at your apartment before your shift with a container of homemade soup, the heating pad you liked, and a text already sent to your manager from your phone—which he’d unlocked, because of course he knew your passcode, he’d watched you type it once six months ago—saying you wouldn’t be in tonight.

“Caleb! You can’t just do that!”

“Already did.” he steered you back toward the couch with both hands on your shoulders. Gentle but absolute. The grip of a man who had decided what was happening and was deeply uninterested in alternatives. “Sit down, pips. You’re not carrying plates for eight hours when you can barely stand up straight.”

“I can stand up perfectly—”

He raised an eyebrow. You were, at that exact moment, slightly hunched.

You sat down.

He tucked the blanket around you, kissed the top of your head, and went back to the kitchen to finish the soup, humming something under his breath, his shoulders relaxed in the particular way they only got when you were close and safe and exactly where he wanted you.

“I’m calling in tomorrow, too,” he added, back to you, stirring. “Your fridge is empty. I’m making enough for three days.”

“You have briefings—”

“Rescheduled.” He glanced over his shoulder. You caught the ghost of his smile—warm, certain, the smile of a boy who used to carry you home on his back and had simply never stopped. “You come first. You always come first.”

Your chest ached. The good kind. The kind that had been there since childhood and had only grown louder in all the years since—through the separation, the grief, the silence, and the impossible, aching miracle of his return.

You pulled the blanket tighter and watched him cook, and the soup tasted like home.

Sylus

Sylus didn’t come to your restaurant. Sylus acquired your restaurant.

Not literally. Not on paper. But within approximately two visits, every single person on staff—from your general manager down to the dishwasher who only worked Sundays—understood with perfect clarity that the white-haired man in the corner booth was not a person you kept waiting, served the wrong order to, or looked at sideways. This understanding was not communicated through threats. It was communicated through Sylus simply... existing. In their space. With that energy.

The first time he showed up, your floor manager nearly had a cardiac event. Not because she recognized him—most people outside the N109 Zone wouldn’t—but because Sylus occupied physical space the way a thunderstorm did. You couldn’t ignore it. You just had to decide how wet you were willing to get.

“Table for one?” your floor manager had managed, her voice only slightly strangled.

Sylus had looked past her, found you across the dining room, and the slow, proprietary curve of his mouth made your entire section of tables feel like they were intruding on a private conversation.

“I’ll sit wherever she is.”

He tipped like he was laundering money. Which—given his background—you occasionally worried he was. But the staff didn’t ask questions. The staff had developed a collective, unspoken policy of treating Sylus’ visits with the respectful caution of people who understood that this particular regular could buy the building and was choosing not to out of what appeared to be affection for one specific server.

The teenagers were a mixed bag. Half of them were openly terrified. The other half had developed the most transparent, mortifying crushes you’d ever witnessed, which Sylus navigated with the lazy amusement of a large predator watching smaller creatures attempt to bring him offerings. One of your teenage bussers once left a mint on his table with a smiley face drawn on the wrapper, and Sylus pocketed it without comment, and you watched a sixteen year old nearly ascend to another plane of existence.

He knew your staff. Not by effort—by intelligence. The man ran a criminal organization; he could memorize the name, shift pattern, and temperament of a twelve-person restaurant crew in his sleep. He knew which cook to compliment to get your food out faster. He knew which server was skimming tips. He told you about that last one privately, because he didn’t involve himself in things that weren’t his business unless they affected you, and someone stealing from your tip pool very much affected you.

The period situation was handled before you even realized it needed handling.

You’d texted the twins—because some things were embarrassing even when your boyfriend never made you feel embarrassed—that you were having a rough day. Cramps. Didn’t want to call in because you needed the hours.

Twenty minutes later, Luke texted back. In your work locker, you found a heating pad that was somehow already warm, a thermos of something that smelled like ginger and honey, imported painkillers you’d never seen before that turned out to work twice as fast as anything over the counter, and a note in handwriting that was elegant and unbothered and entirely Sylus.

Take these. Finish your shift if you insist. I’ll be in the parking lot at closing.

—S

p.s. If your manager gives you trouble, give him my number. I’d enjoy that conversation.

Your manager did not give you trouble. Your manager had never given you trouble. Your manager had once seen Sylus hold a door open for you and had immediately restructured the schedule to give you every holiday you’d ever requested off.

You finished your shift. He was in the parking lot, leaning against the car, arms crossed.

“You didn’t have to do all that, Sy.”

“Get in the car, sweetie.” he opened the door for you. “I made reservations.”

“Sylus, I work in a restaurant. I don’t want to eat in another—”

“Not at a restaurant. At home. I cooked.” the smirk softened into something quieter. “You’ve been on your feet for nine hours. Sit down and let someone take care of you for once.”

You got in the car, and let him.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

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