ashl-3-y

[ashl-3-y]

Jealousy - Caleb x reader

We’re sitting at the local pub, the air thick with the pulse of loud music. Warm light spills across the room, illuminating the swaying bodies of those who’ve chosen to dance. Glasses clink together, and laughter—sometimes teasing, sometimes flirtatious—ripples through the crowd.

“Are you listening?” My friend nudges my hand, jolting me from my thoughts. My fingers tighten around my glass of wine. I nod, and she launches into a rant about a boy who doesn’t deserve her. I’ve noticed that when she’s mad, she talks with her hands, gesturing wildly—or, like now, she plays with strands of her brown hair, twisting them between her fingers.

The blonde on my right sighs and reaches for the bottle of dark red liquid, pouring herself a drink before sliding the bottle in my friend’s direction.

She lifts her glass to her lips, takes a deep breath, and sips, her eyes scanning the room before flicking back to me. A sly smirk curls onto her face. I raise a brow.

She sets her glass down slowly, resting her elbow on the table and leaning in so only I can hear. “Your boy is here,” she purrs before sinking back into her seat.

For some reason, my gaze immediately starts searching the room. At first, all I see are people dancing, drinking, making out in the dim corners. Then my eyes drift toward the tables across the pub—until they stop on him.

His back is to me, broad shoulders relaxed against the chair. There are glasses on the table in front of him and his friends, half-empty, waiting to be finished.

“Don’t eat him up with your eyes,” the blonde teases in my ear.

My head snaps back to my friends. “I am not doing...that.”

The brunette across from me crosses her arms and tilts her head knowingly. “Do you perhaps—”

“Good evening, ladies.”

My gaze shifts to the voice’s owner: a tall, light-haired man standing at our table. His eyes flick between the three of us. “Can I get you a drink?”

I glance at my friend across from me, only to find her staring at him like he just walked out of a fairytale. Love at first sight. And judging by the way he looks at her, the feeling is mutual.

He joins our table, and I have to admit, he’s charming. Funny, respectful, cracking jokes now and then, but his focus remains almost entirely on my friend, watching her with an adoring gaze.

He buys us drinks, and the night flows on. I feel the alcohol settling into my veins, my thoughts hazy. Music throbs in my ears, and the flashing lights make my head spin.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

—

When I step out of the bathroom, the hallway is dim, lit only by fairy lights winding along the walls. The music is still pounding, but back here, it’s muffled, distant. People pass by, some heading back toward the party, others lingering in the shadows.

Then, suddenly, a hand wraps around my wrist.

Fingers slip between mine, intertwining.

“Who do you think—” I turn, ready to snap, but the words die on my lips when I meet a pair of lilac eyes.

“Caleb?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, wordlessly, he starts walking, dragging me along with him.

My back meets the cold wall of the corridor as he stops in one of the secluded corners. He stands before me, arms crossed, his foot tapping against the floor. His eyes lock onto mine, searching, questioning.

“Who was that?” His voice is low, irritated.

“Who was who?”

“The guy. At your table.” He steps closer, hands sliding around my waist. The scent of alcohol lingers on him, but so does something else—jealousy.

“I don’t know.” I exhale, my hands resting against his chest. His heartbeat pounds beneath my fingers through the thin fabric of his shirt. When I glance up, he’s already watching me. His gaze drags down, lingering on my lips. My face warms under the intensity.

He sighs before burying his head in the crook of my neck, arms wrapping around me—one securing my upper back, the other sliding around my lower waist, pulling me against him.

His lips brush against my skin as he murmurs something, the words lost against my neck. Each syllable sends shivers down my spine.

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” I whisper.

His hold tightens for a moment before he lifts his head, his cheek grazing mine as he does. He’s like a puppy, desperate not to be left behind.

“Don’t leave me,” he breathes, his voice barely audible.

My breath catches. His face is flushed, heat creeping down his neck, tinting the tips of his ears red.

“Are you jealous?” I tease, a quiet laugh escaping me.

He opens his eyes but doesn’t meet mine.

“You are,” I say, a little more certain now.

He frowns. “So?” His warm breath fans against my lips. “Am I not allowed to feel that way?”

His head tilts, lips hovering just inches from mine. The tension between us is thick, the air charged.

“You…” I murmur, my brows knitting together.

“Hmm?” he hums, his voice a vibration against my skin.

My hands slide up from his chest to loop around his neck, pulling him closer. The moment our lips meet, the world outside our secluded corner fades away. The kiss is clumsy, fueled by heat and the taste of wine.

Our breaths mingle, as he whispers the same words against my lips.“Don’t leave me.”

[ashl-3-y]

I like the library, and I like books. I like diving into fantasy worlds through the pages of words. After my busy life, I often find myself here, trying to escape the pressure of fitting in, trying to escape from my thoughts. 

As I walk between the shelves that hold thousands of books, my eyes wander through them. Each cover is so different, so unique, the stories between the pages are just as dissimilar, reminding me of humans. 

My attention is so occupied by them that I don’t notice the tower of books in front of me. In a second, the books spill all over the floor. For a moment, I just stare at them before crouching down to collect each one. 

As my hands reach for the last book, I see someone walking toward me out of the corner of my eye. My fingers wrap around the hardcover and lift it up, placing it on top of the others. 

“Miss,” he says, stopping next to me as I stand up. “You dropped this.” 

I glance at his hand, where he’s holding my book. “Thank you,” I say, my hand reaching out to grab it. As our hands meet, our gazes lock. Behind his glasses, I catch the wrinkles around his eyes and see the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile. 

With a dorky grin on his face, he says, “My name is Satoru. I’m reading this one, too.” 

Since then, I’ve started coming to the library more often. He always arrives before me, sitting in one of the corners, waving his hand when he spots me. We sit next to each other, the same book in our hands, and we read. Sometimes, I can feel his eyes on me, peering over the top of his glasses.

 

Sitting together in the library, surrounded by stacks of books, we’re once again reading. We’ve been talking for hours, about books, school, life and I pull out a romance novel I’ve been reading for a class assignment. It’s a popular story, full of angst, drama, and the classic love interests who can’t seem to get their act together. 

He lifts the book, flipping through the pages. His eyes scan the text behind his glasses, stopping at the first kiss scene. 

“Kissing in the rain?” he asks, his gaze glued to the page. “It’s so…” 

“Romantic?” I ask, my lips curving in a teasing smile. His head turns sharply toward me. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” he begins, scooting closer and sliding his finger along the page, reading aloud. “Who does any of this?” His voice is questioning. I sigh, rolling my eyes. 

“You’ve never kissed anyone, have you?” I ask, and I can feel his body tense up. His usual calm expression falters. He blinks rapidly, as if trying to process my question. His face, usually so composed, suddenly feels too warm, and his neck flushes with a soft, embarrassing heat. 

“Of course I have…” he mumbles, his fingers twitching at the edges of the book in front of him. His gaze shifts downward, his glasses slowly slipping down his nose. 

The seconds stretch into what feels like hours. My smile softens, and I can feel the air between us getting heavier, closer. His head turns toward me, his glasses resting on the edge of his nose, hair falling across his forehead. Satoru can feel his heart racing faster, each beat drumming louder in his ears. He doesn’t know what’s happening or why it feels like the room is shrinking, but every inch of him seems to pull toward me. 

We both move a little closer. His pulse thrums beneath his skin, and before he can stop himself, his gaze falls to my lips, hovering there for just a heartbeat. I lean in just a fraction, my eyes flickering between his, asking for permission in the most subtle way. 

Satoru’s breath hitches, his chest tightening. Without thinking, he closes the distance between us. 

The first contact is soft, tentative, as though both of us are unsure of what to do next. His lips brush mine, warm and gentle. When he kisses me again, he’s a little braver. His hands slowly move up my arms toward the back of my head, and my hand moves to the side of his face. 

The kiss lingers between us, leaving a little warmth that makes the world feel smaller and quieter. I glance at him, and he glances at me, a new kind of silence settling between us, not the usual stillness of reading. A slight smile plays at the corners of my lips as my hand gently moves to his face. 

Without thinking, I reach up, my fingers brushing lightly against his cheek before I fix the pair of glasses that have slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose during the kiss. 

“You’re not going to be able to finish the scene with your glasses all crooked like this.” 

[ashl-3-y]

I was lying on my rug, which was made of fur, the kind of fur that makes your whole body relax. In the background, I could hear the flames of the fire dancing in the fireplace, casting light across the room. A book rested in my hands as I tried to focus on the words on the page, attempting to direct my mind onto something other than him. 

A knock on the door breaks the silence. “Come in,” I say. I can see the snake-shaped handle of my door turning before it opens. I can’t see the person clearly at first, but the flames from the fireplace illuminate his face. With heavy steps, he walks toward me. I stand up quickly, my book falling to the floor. 

“Your Highness,” he says, kneeling before me in greeting, his head hung low. 

“I told you to call me by my name,” I say, reaching down to cup his face in my hands. I raise his head so that he is looking at me. The dark circles under his eyes reveal that he’s not sleeping well. “Do you perhaps not sleep well?” I ask. Silence. 

In response, his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me even closer to him. His head now rests against my chest. “Not without you,” he responds. “The nights feel endless when you are not around. It’s like I am lost, only waiting for the morning to come so I can feel whole again.” 

The knight remains kneeling, his hands trembling as he clutches my waist, as though afraid that if he lets go, I would disappear. My hand rests gently on the top of his head, trying to calm his racing mind. “You can always come to me,” I say softly. 

He remains kneeling before me, his hands still trembling as he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. There is a heavy silence between us, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air, as though it could suffocate us at any moment. His heart pounds in his chest, torn between his deepest longing and the responsibility tied to his duty. 

After a long pause, he finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “May... may I sleep with you tonight?” His words are filled with hesitation, a plea for comfort more than just physical. He is asking for something deeper, a moment of peace in a world full of turmoil and anger. 

My breath catches, my heart racing as I look down at him. I can feel the weight of his pain, his loneliness, and the exhaustion in his voice. 

“You don’t have to ask,” I whisper softly, my hands reaching down to gently lift his chin, so our eyes can meet. “If you need me, I’m here for you. Always.” 

[ashl-3-y]

Step by step, I am once again walking toward my classroom. The hallway looks like a never-ending tunnel, until I spot the door to the room I am supposed to enter. Once I am inside, I spot the friendly faces of my friends. Their chattering fills the back of the class.

During class, the only thing I can focus on is the white-haired man right in front of me. His leg bounces up and down like it usually does. Glasses resting on his nose. His expression is just as focused as ever. Is the lecture this interesting?

“Excuse me,” I must focus too, then, “Excuse me.” My eyes wander up just to meet his. My expression must be funny because I can see the corner of his mouth turning upward.

“Yes?” is the only thing that can come out of my mouth. I can see his eyes wander around my face before returning to meet my gaze. “Can I borrow a pen? Mine is out of ink,” he says while holding the mentioned pen in one hand. I reach down into my bag and successfully find one.

The next day, I am sitting in the library, occupied with my studies, trying to ignore the white-haired man's intense stare toward me. I can see him from the corner of my eye, glancing from time to time in my direction.

After an hour, I decide to leave, just to be followed by him.

“Excuse me,” he says once again, in that sweet tone of his.

I stop and turn around. Before I can say anything, he already reaches out a pen. “Here. Thank you for letting me borrow it.” My eyes focus on the pen before glancing up at his face. A cheeky smile spreads across his lips. “I forgot to give it back.”

A week goes by, and every day he finds a reason to talk to me, even if it is small.

Two weeks go by, and sometimes we even meet outside of school to study together.

A month goes by, and sometimes I find myself craving his presence.

Currently, we are studying in his room. He told me it does not bother him and that he is willing to let me into his private space. His room is tidy and simple. A sweet-scented candle is lit on his desk, its little flame dancing side to side. Some posters hang on the walls, and books fill the empty shelves.

He is sitting on the floor, his back resting against his bed, holding a book in one hand while his finger runs through the words in it. “You listening?” he asks, glancing back at me from under his glasses. I am currently laying on his bed, taking a 5-minute break. One hand of mine is draped over my face, shielding my eyes from the harsh glow of the room’s light, while the other one rests beside me lazily, forming a thumbs-up.

He scoffs. I can feel the annoyance in it, and the next thing I feel is the mattress sinking next to me. His fingers wrap around my wrist; his touch is light but firm. He pulls my arm away, revealing my flushed face. “Repeat what I just read out loud,” he says, his eyes focused on mine, his glasses slipping down his nose.

My silence is enough for him. “Should I put the words on your lips?” he asks, and I am stunned. His eyes are searching for my reaction, any confirmation that he can do what he is planning on doing.

I simply nod, and his lips immediately find mine slow and gentle. I cannot help but smile as his glasses slide down his nose, nudging my cheek.

[ashl-3-y]

We work in the same office. He always catches my attention. One thing I noticed that he is always writing. Holding his diary in one hand, while the other holds the pen. Sometimes I catch him glancing at me, sometimes I am the one whose eyes draft towards him. 

In the morning we usually greet eachother, sometimes I ran into him in the break room and chat about small things, before we head back to our work.  

Right now I'm sitting in the coffe shop near our company. He is sitting in the corner of the shop, writing. His glasses sitting on his nose. Pen in one hand. Eyes fixated on the paper, blonde hair falling on his forehead.  

I always wonder what is on his mind. What makes him so occupied in his thoughts. I sip my coffe and glance towards his way. I see him stand up and leave in a hurry. Forgetting half his stuff behind. I call after him, but he is already gone.  

Picking up his stuff, I manage to let his diary slip through my fingers. Opening on the latest page he was working on. I pick it up and my eyes run through the words.  

Most of the time I write it is about ordinary days of my life. 

Thankfully, it all changed since I met her. 

She became my muse. 

She does not know it, and she probably will not know it. 

She is like a piece of art. Getting my attention even with the smallest thing. 

Her sweet greetings in the morning feels like honey in sour tea. 

She probably does not aware of the fact how breathtaking she is. 

Her small glances makes my heart pound. 

Her eyes, oh her eyes are so precious to me. 

When they meet mine, I feel like she is reading me like an open book. 

I am afraid, one day she will see in them the love I feel towards her.

Before I could continue to read the beautiful words he puts on paper the diary is snatched from my hand. He is standing there, out of breath. His glasses slipped down on his nose, he must be running to get his forgotten stuff. 

Without a word he is putting away his things.  

“How much did you see?” he asks, back facing me. 

“I only read the last page.” I can see his back muscles tense up under his shirt. I try to  releasse the tension with the words first coming to my mind.  

“Your writing, it is beautiful.” Silence. 

He turns around, his eyes meet mine. I can see the wrinkles around his eyes as he sends a smile towards me. 

“I thank your kindness.” he says softly and pushes his glasses upwards. I can see he is willing to talk. So I ask him. 

“Who is your muse? I can feel through the pages that you really do adore that person.” he averts his eyes. “If you do not mind me asking!” I say and put my hands up in defense. 

He does not answer, but his eyes does anyway as they meet my own. I feel the skin on my face burn as he continues his stare. Golden brown eyes looking at me.  

“I guess you figured out.” 

Epilouge: 

I am currently making tea for my husband, who is already in bed holding a book in one hand. I make my steps towards him and see that he is actually writing something. A smile crawls on my face. 

I put down the cup on the nightstand. Before sitting down on the bed. 

“What are you writing?” he glances up at me from under his glasses. 

“A love letter for the woman dear to my heart.” he says simply and puts down the book on the nightstand. He sits up correctly and takes my hands in his. “Even though you already have a million of those.” A smile spreads across his face, his thumbs caressing my knuckles. 

A chuckle escapes from my lips. “I could never get tired of your writing.” He smiles at me fondly and his lips brushes mine.