blxssom-221

[blxssom-221]

A BITE THAT HEALS

STARRING: vampire physician!zayne x sick countess! reader

synopsis: you've fallen dangerously ill and now your position to be countess is threatened by your family that wants to sabotage your claim. with the outbreak of vampiric attackers going rampant, alongside the challenges that come with not being able to see the sun, you seek refuge in your physician's care. and eventually give in to your deepest desires at a a cost.

warnings: porn with plot. angst WITH COMFORT. mention of death, murder attempts, depictions of murder, death, you both want each other, eventual smut, dry humping, body worship, fingering, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vampire sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, you are NASTY FREAKS!

wc: 13,6k

an: Vampire Zayne. VAMPIRE ZAYNE!!!! I promise the angst won't make you cry. I think.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

The skies have lost their taste. Its colour is as mundane as the mushed texture of expired fruit. In any glimpse your eyes can catch, the clouds cast the sun aside as a salute to you — and your illness.

Your skin is pinched by a sliver of warmth before the curtains draw closed by the gloved hand of a handmaiden; one of many that relentlessly serve you. You gingerly scorn at the shadowed warmth emanating from the gaps between your sanctuary and the outer world.

As your eyes reluctantly draw away from the dull specs of light, your hands subconsciously reach for your arms, half covered by the gown being fitted onto your person. The day has barely begun, and yet your duties as regent countess come first and foremost above all.

Even when the world pities you. Even when you must enshroud yourself in the arms of darkness. Even your body betrays you, weakening faster than you can possibly grow old.

The days had blurred into months, dragging the old beauties of life to become mundane and distasteful. The only true source of exhilaration that remains is a particular practitioner who directly tends to your wellbeing.

“You must avoid attending the evening mass tonight, my lady.” One of your most trusted handmaidens says, wrapping the strings of your corset around her palms. “There have been rampant attacks reported over the last few nights.”

“The same ones as those from last week?” 

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Ensure that funds are sent to support the injured and sickly— mostly to the church and infirmaries.” You mutter, feeling your throat become irritated, again. Another illness to add to your agitations. “If I cannot help those in need directly, send my regards through this service. Ensure the reverends respond by tomorrow.” 

Your handmaidens nod and work effortlessly, ensuring your undergarments are secure before fitting you into your tea gown. It is the purest representation of elegance, your clothing. Designed to perfect and accentuate your figure, you have donned some of the best gowns and accessories the ton has seen yet. Your every appearance before society — both high and low born — have always left an influential mark.

Many suitors have bent the knee for your hand, many ladies have scorned your ‘theft of their gentlemen’ with your beauty, mystique, and charm. Mamas and patriarchs of the highest families have sent calling cards to request an audience— all of which went unanswered. You truly are the embodiment of divine beauty in mortal form.

And yet, you can barely muster looking at your reflection.

Despite the encouraging words of your handmaidens— granted to you as you grew in training to be secondary to your elder brother should he fail to inherit the title as Count— you struggle to see the person you used to be. Before the illness. Before the pain.

It had begun when your skin prickled and seared under the glare of the sun, an entity you once relished in dancing beneath. 

It was a leisurely promenade on horseback with your brother in the peak heat of the summer months. You had come down with an intensive fever after spending barely an hour outside. It appeared your brother suffered the same illness but not as intensely. Only after months of close observation was it confirmed that you had caught a strain of an illness. 

One that runs cold and deep within the blood of your ancestors. It rarely appears, which potentially was why your parents had neglected to inform you before their disappearance just months after you came of age and came out to society. That was eight years ago.

Your brother passed on two years after the discovery of your illness, leaving you as the sole heir of your family’s great fortune, and the title as Countess for the lack of a next of kin.

Or so you believed.

Once word had flooded into society that you would be the sole heir to the fortune in your family’s name, your aunt— sister of your father— returned after years of silence to retrieve what she claimed to be hers.

Your incentive, despite your weakened and vulnerable state as young as you were, was to protect what remained of your family’s legacy and to drive your cruel aunt as far away as possible. Unfortunately, your argument was considered weak, for you are an unmarried woman. 

She has a son, despite the rest of her children being girls, almost of age and accredited amongst the ton as a well-esteemed man. That public favour only goaded your aunt in her attempts to swipe your inheritance and leave you to rot.

Years of holding back tears and biding your time wore you down. The endless quarrels and battles withered your confidence. Word eventually came to your attention that the bodies of your parents were finally found, and gruesome a discovery it was.

It tore you apart to the point of you being bedridden for months. Your breath had grown hollow for some solemn dark years, your hands tightly gripped by your handmaidens and trusted attorneys begging you to stay strong just long enough to win.

As stubborn as you are, even to this day, you cursed your aunt with every fighting beat of your slowing heart. When your health finally stabilised after years of confinement and grief, your heart locked tight and grew colder. 

Your skin is almost as fragile as glass. Your eyes are still sharp regardless of the hollowed gaze you use to terrify that damned aunt of yours. Your fortitude hardened like steel over endless nights of gazing into the darkened night— the only time your eyes did not taunt you with pain just as sickeningly riveting as your grief and rancour.

“You must be careful in your steps, my lady.” Your handmaiden tuts as she pulls the strings, tightening your corset just enough not to harm you. “You’ll only harm your skin and deal great pain upon yourself should you overexert yourself.”

“Would it compare to what I have already suffered?” You ask, not tearing your eyes away from your reflection. Eventually you would have to face what remains of you in the mirror.

Your body took a great surplus of damage over those years of emotional and physical torment. Even the slightest pinch would feel like hundreds of blades piercing your flesh. The best physicians became useless in aiding you. Your hope had begun to diminish as quickly as your health did. Until a spark pushed you back to your graces.

He was the unconventional type, this physician. He held no discrimination between the classes that the hierarchy of your society stood upon— the physicians that failed to treat you often scorned at the alleged scars that cicatrised his flesh, or mocked his methods for his lack of “discernment” on the people he ought to treat.

That alone was more than enough for you to have him be the one to bring you back to greater health.

His attempts, while valiant, did little to bring you to be in a fit enough position to walk without an attendee by your side or a cane to support you in case your muscles give in to weakness. That being said, you praise him generously for trying. For believing that you are capable of healing, even if there are parts of your health that you’ll never see again.

The mere thought of him alone makes your lips curve up just a little.

Your handmaidens complete the rest of your gown in the midst of your reminiscence, and the bell from outside your chambers announces the arrival of your physician. He’s here.

The attendants have definitely noticed the rise in your mood ever since the arrival of your trusted doctor. Despite his unsocial tendencies and his especially dry sense of humour, they’ve taken note of how your body loses tension and relaxes so long as he is within close proximity.

Your hushed conversations mid-observation stretched on for prolonged hours— longer than any standard check up should be. Your smiles were always visible in his presence and only returned to being a rare treasure after he left. 

They definitely saw you smiling just a little bit right now. 

The doors to your chamber split open, gushing a scent of jasmine and lavender into the room. Your eyes flutter shut, letting the soft breeze greet you with a gentle kiss on your sensitive skin. By the time your eyes opened once more, you could see his gaze on you through the mirror.

“Good afternoon, Zayne.” You smiled. You had long forgone formalities over the stretching months of him treating you to better health. To be fair, you had developed quite a warm friendship.

“You seem to have more strength today,” He glances at your figure, nodding to himself. “You’ve managed to stand still for longer. That’s an improvement.”

“With your support, it is only fair to assume I’d regain my vigour quickly.” With a sharp look to the head of the maids at your stead, they scurry off with excited titters, likely on their way to report of your joy to the rest of the staff. They could all see the growing interest you had in Zayne, and they grew to enjoy his presence too.

Every trip made to your manor involved you pestering your butler to ask the chef to prepare sweet pastries, knowing he had a taste for them. Your handmaidens dressed you in some of your best gowns — which is technically all of them — giggling amongst each other for the little dates you would have with him, even if you wouldn’t refer to them as such. 

And yet you go on promenade with parasols in the afternoon together to stretch your legs. Any yet you share meals together. And yet you have been caught resting beside him by one of your handmaidens which she eventually swore not to tell a soul.

It was the happiest you had been in years. Of course, your servants would do anything to see you smile. The housemaids had even prepared a chamber for him in the event where he’d be needed overnight. 

“Is it not dangerous for you to roam to recklessly out there?” You ask, draping your shoulders with a shawl for more warmth. “There have been attacks all over the place.”

“It’s my duty to tend to the wounded and ill, my lady, even if I put myself at risk.” Despite your longstanding friendship, he still opts to be so formal. “What have you heard?”

“They call the attackers vampiric.” You sigh, taking Zayne’s extended hand to help you move to your bed. “Canines elongated and sharp, skin cold yet potent to deceive others with the illusion of warmth. Apparently some are still warm to the touch… I’ve heard they also have a great affinity for blood.”

Zayne only hums as his hands hover over your exposed neckline, awaiting your consent. You absentmindedly nod and glance to the covered window in longing. “Some say they hide in the shadows during the day, as the sun harms them.”

“Almost sounds like they are rather similar to you.” Zayne pokes your cheek with a subtle grin.

“Are you accusing me of consuming blood?” You gasp, holding your hand over your chest. Directly above his own. You swear to yourself that it was not intentional. 

“Perhaps you are,” His grin only widens, glad to see you entertained by his jibe. He extracts one of his tools from his bag, placing the cool metal on your chest, moving it around until he hears the soft drumming of your heart. “You might just stalk your way around the streets of town in the dark of night, finding your next victim to extract their very essence.”

Your ears are burning at such close contact. It’s not the first time his hands have been so close to you but it always leaves a lasting affect, sending flutters to your stomach and burning heat to your ears and cheeks.

The way his hazel tinted eyes always flicker between your chest and your gaze shoots shivers down your spine. Sometimes you wonder if his gaze ever lowers to the cleavage of your bosom— but you ought not assume he would be so bold.

“I would only want yours.” You whisper. His hands roam over the expanse of your chest, gently poking and pressing on your skin. It brings your breath to catch deep in your lungs, your pulse slowly jumping. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I— I would…” You quickly blink yourself out of your trance, glancing around the room to gather your thoughts. “I would only want the purest blood! Blood seeped in alcohol must have a nasty taste, no?”

“Perhaps,” Zayne pouts and leans away to store his medical tools in his bag. It takes all your energy not to make a sound, mourning the absence of his touch. “Or maybe you have a taste for the best blood the world can provide.”

“If I did,” You slowly gather your words as you lean closer to him. The way he is seated on your bed prevents him from leaning back. “Would you get it for me?”

Was this dangerously inappropriate? Of course it was!

Did you care? Well…

It did take a lot of courage for you to move so subtly. His reaction only makes your efforts more fruitful. His ears have a slight red blush creeping closer to his face and his eyes— those ethereal eyes— have already glanced off in another direction to avoid your gaze.

“I ought to remind you that this is purely hypothetical.” Zayne gently pokes your forehead. “What occasion requires you to dress so formally?”

Your smile slowly fades. Your aunt had decided to grace you with her presence for luncheon with her eldest son and daughter. In her letter, she referred to it as a moment for you to all bond as a family. As 'true kin’ meaning to support one another.

You hadn’t heard from the woman in almost two years ever since she left you in such a damaged state. You laughed hysterically when your butler reported it to you. Letting bygones be bygones is beneath you.

The rejection letter was halfway through being written when you remembered that any sign of resistance, knowing your aunt and her devilish ways, would only be met with corrupted legal pushback— and you were not in the mental state to handle such strain again.

You had no choice. You have to protect what remains of your family, even if it kills you.

“Luncheon.” You stiffly respond, feeling the icy chill spread through your body. The warmth once shared between the two of you slowly becomes overpowered by pure resentment. “With my aunt.”

Zayne’s lips purse into a straight line. “I see.” He shares your sentiment against your aunt. After all, it was her consistent harassment over the years that drove you to your illness being dramatically exacerbated. It took him threatening her with summoning your attorneys to drive her away, but the damage had already been done.

“When is it?”

Like a sick joke, the bell rings overhead, indicating the arrival of a guest. But you don’t need your butler to tell you who it is.

“I suppose now.” You slowly push yourself to your feet, rejecting Zayne’s caring hands to support you. You return to the cold, resenting tone that held you before his arrival. “Am I to assume you shall remain in the manor until dinner?”

Zayne curtly nods. “I’ll right beside you during luncheon. I just need to clean up here.” 

His heart tugs as he watches you leave your chambers, supported by a wooden cane. He has no need to pity you, for he has seen your strength. But he burns to help you in any way he can just to see that cold scowl disappear once and for all.

The luncheon goes as you expect it to.

The formalities pass through smoothly, your aunt pulls you into her embrace and squeezes her grip on you with her knowledge of your physical weakness. Fortunately, it was brief. She still reeks of strong floral perfume, only this time it’s far more potent.

Your cousins were more stiff with their greetings, giving you sneers and subtle jabs about your appearance.

“You still look so sickly,” The younger cousin snickered. The frills on her gown made her look like a peacock. “Perhaps I should send you my stylist to create a new wardrobe for you. One that won’t make you seem so… rude.”

The elder cousin, although younger than you, was silent and devoted more of his energy observing the interior of your manor. Almost as though he was planning what he wished to do with it.

The meals were delectable, as expected of your chefs. They are the best of the best, after all. When you began to host again, once your heath improved just enough to interact with others, your guests— mostly being close family friends— often commended the food provided and asked for recipes so that their chefs could make something similar.

You have always taken great pride in your staff, and always extended your gratitude for them being by your side in the most difficult time in your life. They stood by your side, fed you, bathed you, spoke stories of the current affairs in society to keep you up to speed, and treated you and each other like family to substitute for the one you lost.

Without them, there would barely be anything left of you. Without them, your fortitude to fight would have shattered. 

“This is quite the mediocre meal you have provided, dearest.” Your aunt tuts as she waves for your butler. “Take this scrap away. Even a cow would eat better.”

Your jaw ticks but you keep your gaze on the plate beneath you. You finished your plate, and considered the main course rather divine. Perhaps your aunt’s palate was not yet accustomed to more exotic meat.

“I see you haven’t ventured out beyond our country’s bounds.” You comment, seething each word with long-brewing venom. “Your taste buds have likely dulled from all the pork you eat.” One of the things your aunt resents about you is your sharp tongue. It’s why she is so persistent on pinning you down hard enough to legally overwhelm you.

You could see her brows knit together from your peripheral. Just as you intended. The elder of your two cousins merely snickered while the younger scoffed.

“Who is to say this foreign meat is even good?” She sneers, despite having stuffed her mouth with the very meat she insults moments ago. 

“You have too much confidence for one who barely interacts with society. Not to mention how dark it is in here, there’s barely any direct light here. I feel sorry for your staff, especially that practitioner.” Her eyes flicker to Zayne, who stands beside your staff.

He occasionally joins you while you eat just to keep close in case your agitations harm you. It isn’t uncommon for your illness to strike you at random, so he must have attended to keep an eye on you.

“Honestly, with the way you brood, I doubt anyone would want to be in your presence.” That would have struck a nerve if it was the first time she had mentioned it.

Your eyes grew painfully delicate in the presence of the sun— constantly burning or drowning in tears or drying up completely if you were outside for too long. The same applied to your skin. It began to physically ache to feel its rays on you. The only solution was to reduce the light exposed to you as much as possible. 

“Such a shame, indeed. I truly am not like you, dearest cousin.” You taunt as your gaze strikes her with contempt. “I believe it is only fair you dance around the public grounds under the sun while you cozy up with all the lords of the land. You ought to give them a visit on a promenade. I am sure one will be mad enough to raise your skirts.”

Just as your butler coughs back a chuckle from your callousness, she slams her hand on the table with faux tears brimming in her eyes. “You foul—“

“Now, dearest,” Your aunt cuts in, tilting her head in that same condescending way as she did all those years ago. “You ought not be so cruel to your cousin. After all, she is the closest you’ll ever have to a sister.”

“She is not my sister.” You are quick to interject her, silently cursing yourself for reacting so quickly. That only seems to fuel your aunt more.

“She is your kin.” Those eyes of hers twinkle, making it known that she’s seen you break just enough to poke at your pride even more. “You are the last of your father’s legacy, and yet you are barely fit to claim a dowry.”

From the corner of your eye, you see your butler, footmen, and maids twitch in agitation. You subtly raise your hand beneath the table, keeping them at bay.

“You are just moments from breaching the territory of a spinster, my dear.” Her false concern is slowly shifting into jeers of spite. Almost as if she waited those eight years to pin you down. “You have no match, no suitor. You cannot possibly think you can claim what remains of the fortune. You are a woman and your brother is gone.”

Your eye twitches at the mention of your brother, but you force yourself to maintain composure. “As a woman, your duty is to get a husband so that he may take over the title. So that you may pass down your forefathers’ legacy. Though that may not be a present option. Not when you can barely walk on your own without a cane and a maid by your hand.”

Through gritted teeth, you force yourself to speak. “You have no privilege to discriminate me for a hereditary illness. I had no involvement in living this way.”

“Oh yes, dearest.” Your aunt coos in that damned sneer. “We have all been praying for you all these years for your speedy recovery. But it does not seem that you have fared any better.”

You can feel yourself getting stiff with agitation. Your chest squeezes in tight, your breaths constrain and become shallow enough for the rise and fall of your torso to be visible and quick. You can hear the snickers from your cousins but they drown out into a buzz of noise.

You can see your aunt’s lips move but you hear no words. Her eyes narrow, her brows raise in pity as her smile widens just enough to see her gums so harshly pink that it feels unnatural to see. Her hands follow her words, flicking with each intonation of her voice, all so condescending, all so vile.

The pounding in your chest grows louder and louder, thumping into your head so harshly that you can feel it. Pulses of pain spread through your mind as hot flashes surge beneath your skin. It’s too much. Your corset feels tight around you, your shawl sets your skin ablaze in discomfort with every breath you take. But you can’t move your hands to take it off.

You’re trapped to only listen to your aunt break you down to pieces, just as she had all those years ago. To embarrass you, to harm you, to shatter you again and again and again until she is sure there is nothing left but a hollow shell that she can steal from.

“You are the blood of your father’s blood. But your father was strong. Like your cousins are.” Mentioning him so crassly brings your hand to tighten around the sharp knife beneath you. She has no right to even utter his name. None. “Our blood gives us the powers to wield such a privilege of the title Count. And you ought to have the same too… if it weren’t for those sickly genes from your mother—“

Before you can comprehend it, your body moves for you in spite of the inferno of agony driving you to crumble. Your hand tightly grips the knife as you charge to your aunt, vision blurred with tears and her neck being the only clear sight before you. One single cleave will silence her torment forever.

Your tea gown flows as you glide to her like a vengeful ghost, arm raised just high enough for the blade to glimmer in the air. “You shall speak no word of my mother, you wretch!”

Everything from that moment happens so quickly. The screams from your cousins, your aunt and the staff reign chaos in the dining hall. Clamouring footsteps and scraping chairs thunder on the floor as hands reach out to you, desperate to hold you back from committing an act you may well regret.

Tears fall from your eyes as you draw closer to your aunt, whose face is completely distorted with absolute fear and terror. Her hands shield her face and turns away, granting you full access to the veins surging beneath her skin.

One cleave. 

Just one cleave and that crone is dead.

All of a sudden, air fills your chest and snaps you out of your homicidal daze. Your head is tucked securely into a broad chest, while strong arms wrap around you tightly engulfing you in his scent. Zayne’s hold on you does not hurt as much as your body does from the overexertion devoted to murdering that woman. 

You can just barely hear her cursing you, panting and screaming for the staff to call for her carriage. You can hear your cousins, one wailing for her mother while the other curses you to damnation. You couldn’t care less.

Those gulps of air shiver into sobs as more tears flow from your eyes, from the pain of your muscles constraining and the grief of your beloved family.

You hear your name whispered to you in a hushed voice. “Breathe. Breathe, my lady.” Zayne’s voice brings back the warmth you shared just hours earlier. Just enough to soothe you, but not enough to silence your fury.

“I’ll kill you.” You pulled your head from his embrace to face your aunt once more. “You vicious dog, I will kill you if it is the last thing I do in this mortal body!”

You watch your aunt and cousins scurry towards the doors leading to the entrance and follow them with as much strength as your weakened body can allow. You watch them trip over each other, ignoring the guiding hands of your butler and physician in case you lose your balance. They don’t try to stop you.

“I will tear you limb from limb and end the bloodline by this very hand, I swear it! You will never claim the title of Count, and you will never claim this manor so long as I live!” As they enter the carriage, your aunt turns to you with a scornful smile on her face. The luncheon may not have ended as she desired but there is at least satisfaction from rousing you to anger. 

You collapse into Zayne’s arms once the doors completely close, shielding you from the light and the eyes of your kin. Tears blind you in agony, the surging throbs of your body spread until you can barely feel him lift you into his arms.

Your sobs are the only thing you can hear until his voice calls out to you once more.

“I’m here, my lady.” Only then do you realise that you have been returned to your chambers, enveloped in his arms. His scarred hands, both rough in texture and gentle in touch, stroke your skin lightly just to soothe you.

“I need— I must—“

“You must do nothing.” Zayne hums, pressing his cheek on top of your head. Your handmaidens silently entered your chambers to leave a comfortable dress for you to wear instead of the tea gown constricting you and overstimulating you. Once they have settled your garments, they leave as quietly as they came.

“I acted out of turn—“ You turn to face him, only to be stricken with more agony from such a quick movement.

“You were provoked.” Zayne urges with an unusual strain to his voice. His attempt to suppress his anger somehow brought comfort to you. To see him care so immensely for you was heartwarming. “She had tapped into the most sensitive topics to harm you. Of course you responded that way. You were hurt.”

“The manor is bound to fall into her hands from that reckless act alone.” You shivered, almost seeing that smug look on her face should she stand victor in the battle that has lasted a decade. “I am only left to pray that those vampiric folk consume them, or worse.”

Zayne can only listen to you cry as he holds you. As much as it would satisfy him to handle them himself, you are his priority first and foremost. 

“My lady—“

“My clothes,” You murmur, feeling the discomfort of your flesh being tied up so uncomfortably in your garments. You were just fine earlier, why do you feel so constricted now? You tug your shawl off your shoulders and reach for the silk strings at your waist to tug out the knot. “I need to take it off, it’s too much.”

“I’ll call for a handmaiden.”

“No!” You shriek, harshly tugging away but it just won’t budge. Your body still aches with the need to free yourself from the constraints, bringing tears to your eyes once more. “You have touched most every part of me from my bosom to my ankles, you have seen it all. I need you Zayne, pray, I need your help.”

It is truly difficult to resist you when your eyes brim with tears and pure desperation scorns you. He has to help you. He has to. Even if it is ungentlemanly. He is a gentleman, don’t get him wrong, but you come first.

His hands rest on your shoulders and push your gown slowly until he reaches your waist where the knot is securely tied. He tries as best as he can not to listen to your frustrated pants and instead concentrate on the task at hand. 

He smoothly undoes the knot, eyes fluttering at the sound of your relief. He can only imagine how hard it was for you to sit through such a horrid luncheon like that. If it weren’t for his logic, he would have dealt with them before you lost your temper.

Zayne slides your gown further down your body until it reached your hips. “Stand for me, my lady.” You slide off your bed without question, allowing for your gown to slip off your form and pile on the floor.

Still too overstimulated to care, you turn around and gesture for Zayne to help you with your corset and the rest of your undergarments. Upon the glimpse of your back, he immediately feels a familiar rise of arousal burn within him. Damn it.

Something about how delicate yet strong your back looks just riles him up. Each muscle is so defined yet soft in the way you move, your posture is always so poised, even the way you’re turning to glare at him right now is attractive.

“If you cannot assist me further, please summon my hand—“ Nope, nope, nope, he won’t allow it.

“I can do it.” He clears his throat and adjusts his pants to conceal the tent.

Zayne scoots closer to you, ensuring his growing erection remains hidden enough for him to undo the strings of your corset outside of your sight. He works quick and smooth, gently pulling at the knots to ensure you aren’t hurt. Piece by piece, he helps you remove your garments until you stand nude above him. He can only pray that his precum doesn’t leak into his slacks.

He reaches for your looser gown and swiftly slides it over your head. He watches the smooth fabric slide down your collarbones, down your breasts, covering your waist and hips until it reaches the ground with a gentle tap.

Only then can he exhale the air caught in his throat. Only then can he swallow the urges surging within him from your scent alone. A scent so rich that he had to clamp his tongue with his teeth.

“That should do it,” He grits, smoothing out the fabric around your waist. He can’t help but keep his hands on you there. It just feels right.

“Thank you.” Silence stretches between the two of you before you sigh. “I shall have to summon my attorney to make a plan. That woman will surely use that event against me.”

“I am sure you will be able to find your way to victory.” He assures you. “You’ve fought battles worse than one to claim a title.”

“I am a woman, Zayne.” You scoff. “Unless I am able to outlive them all, there is little I can do without entering criminal territory. It seems I have already acclimatised myself to that path.”

He hums in agreement, swallowing the laugh that almost escaped his lips. His thumbs gently massage your waist, ignoring how dangerously intimate the gesture is. You seem to ignore it too, fully engulfed in need to feel secure. To engulfed in the desire you have fruitlessly tried to keep at bay.

You are attracted to Zayne. How could you not be?

For a man so handsome, so respectful, so empathetic and devoted to seeing you return to better health, it is only fair that you have begun to dream of him. That you have begun to feel your core ache and burn for him, to leave you soaked in desire so much so that you’ve spent nights moaning his name into your pillow.

It is an impulse you do your best to ignore, but with the way he holds you so gently, with so much reverence, it truly is hard to ignore the growing heat in your core. You can only pray he doesn’t notice. 

“You ought to get some rest.” He advises, not as your companion but as your medical advisor. He glances out the covered windows to see the light filtering into your room. It’s much warmer. It must be dusk already. “I shall be leaving soon as well.”

You immediately step away from him touch, swiftly turning to show your shock and fear. But it’s always been that way. 

In daylight, he is yours. Confined with you in the manor so that he can ensure you are well. The only reason why he only arrived at noon today was because he had other patients to attend to. Once the sun sets beneath the horizon, the night claims him. And you can never understand why.

You hated that.

You were able to handle your time beyond dusk well, you had your own tasks to attend to as the regent of your household— the title being temporary due to the special nature of your case. You had a society to attend to, people to care for and fund. You had a life ahead of you.

But it was at risk of being taken from you. Your life nearly slipped from your hands if it wasn’t for his skilled assistance. Your motivation and discipline was dwindling before he gave you a reason to keep going. He reminded you of your compassion. He reminded you of how strong your bond with your staff was, and how that devotion extended to the people you were raised to uplift.

His presence in the daylight’s torture was your solace and his absence in the night’s embrace was your silence. But you want no more of that exchange. 

You want to be selfish. You want him. In both dawn and dusk.

“And if I suffer from any pain?” You spoke in a hushed tone, anointing your words with distaste. You understood his duties and his need for rest, but he could do it here. With you. “Where will I receive the help I need?”

Zayne merely gifted you a small smile as he took his bag. “The night is yours to claim, my lady. You can send for me.”

“The night is dangerous to roam these days.” You scowl at the growing distance between you. The shiver of ice hardens over your flesh once more. You hate how your comfort and warmth comes and goes with his presence. But without his service, his care, his companionship… what would you be then?

“Then I shall see you tomorrow morning.” He bows his head and turns to the hallway before him. Keeping his gaze ahead, Zayne’s voice drops an octave. “Don’t go outside tonight.”

Without another word, he stalks into the candlelit hallway leaving you alone once more.

The night is silent after he leaves. You’re antsy, brooding, on the verge of tears— not because he isn’t with you, no. Because the scandal of a luncheon you had is now plaguing your mind. You have been blaming yourself through tears, trying to find reason in your spur of madness. 

Your butler and handmaidens struggled to calm you and soothe you, but the teas they brewed and the stories they told of similar situations they had seen somewhat put your nerves at ease. Just enough to keep you out of harm’s way. 

Staring at the fire pit, you lounge in the sitting room. Your mind is racing with ways to cover up your sins. You know your aunt is losing grip on her finances and yet still splurges to satisfy the whims of your cousins. You could bribe her. But then she would blackmail you and demand more until she’s sucked your accounts dry.

You could actually kill her. But you cannot do it directly, you may not have the physical strength. To even out the hypothetical grounds, if you did, your persecution would drive your family name across the mud. And you’d be stripped of your assets regardless.

Each and every plan you concoct results in you ultimately losing or being forced to sacrifice something too vital to you. The only logical option would be to outlive at least the elder cousin. But since he is five years your junior you have your doubts, especially when you take your illness and physical weakness into account. 

The painting of you, your parents and your brother hands high above you. Their gazes were so warm back then. You would often see them in your dreams in your weakest hours, urging you to keep going. To fight. You have to keep going. You just have to.

You can’t let them win. You have to honour your family and claim what is yours.

The clock loudly chimes, indicating it is now midnight. Your butler swiftly collects your empty cup and bows. “I shall be taking my leave, as will the rest of the staff, my lady. Need I assist you to your chambers?”

“No, thank you.” You smile at the family portrait, gesturing to the cane beside you. “I have more than enough help right here.”

Glancing at the portrait, your butler smiles. “Rest well, my lady.”

You listen to his footsteps fade into the manor, and once there is complete silence once more, you rise to your feet. Your grip on your cane is tight from your body still being in shock. Your conviction, however, is stronger.

Your plan is both reckless and dangerous, you know. But you have no other choice.

You pace to the main entrance of the manor, sharply glancing at the footman by the door. 

“I trust that you will keep this to yourself?” You whisper and he nods affirmatively. He opens the large door, welcoming the nightly gust to kiss your skin in greeting. You can almost smell the eery musk in the air. The scent of danger. Regardless, you step out, tugging fiddling with the sleeve of your overcoat.

“Safe travels, my lady.” The footman mutters as the doors close once more. Your plan is unfolding perfectly.

What plan you ask?

Locating Zayne, of course.

Well, to be fair, it was not just that.

You intend to keep an eye on the process of your funds being sent off to infirmaries, churches, schools, and other places that require it. The transaction on your end has been successful from the report of your maids but there is something interfering with the receiving end in the town.

So you opted to investigate it yourself, outside of their knowledge. It puts you at a great and dangerous risk, but that is what you have Zayne for should you find him on time. You have also stored some of your medication in your purse as well, just in case things do end up going wrong but you plan to leave it in your carriage since the trip should be brief.

The carriage speeds into the town, illuminated by lanterns and candles radiating from the windows of the townhouses along the road. From what you recall during your occasional visits, it should be bustling with people, whether to attend festivals or for the more secretive ventures to the brothels.

The streets are empty and quiet. One thing you have never seen before in all your years.

Your carriage awaits your return outside the main church. You had letters sent to the reverend, informing him of your incoming presence so he would be expecting you. 

You push the arcane wooden doors open to be greeted with an eery quiet. Familiar to the holy silence you would hear whenever you visited to donate funds to support those in need, but far more disorienting.

“Reverend.” You call out, only to hear your voice echo through the walls. Your shoes click on the wooden floor with each step as you get closer to the altar. You had seen many of the ladies around your age marry here. You now scoff at the idea of ever getting married. You’re too old and you’ve lost the taste for entertaining suitors. 

“Reverend?” You call again to receive not silence, but a scream. 

A loud shriek that could be mistaken for one that a debutante would make if her dress were soiled. To your surprise, the very reverend you were waiting for stumbles into the hall both petrified and disheveled, doing what appeared to be adjusting his pants.

“I condemn you, devil!” He cries before he notices you. He pauses to catch his breath and straightens his robes. “Ah, my lady, now is truly not the time—“

“What is going on here?” You ask, scrutinising his panicked state. “What are you running from?”

“Vampire, my lady!” He shouts, gripping your shoulders to push you away. “There is a vampire that has breached these holy grounds, it just cannot be—“

In a flash his hands fall with him to the floor, pinned by what looks like a sharpened crucifix. He screams of agony make your ears ring. “Damn you, you demon!”

You turn to see who he curses, with slight fear rising up your spine. Adorned in black with specks of blood staining the fabric with eyes as green as an ember and as brown as the soil, the vampire stops in his tracks fully gazing on you.

“Zayne,” You exhale, unable to recognise the feeling behind your heart punching your bones. Your palms are getting clammy, your breath is growing more ragged, and yet your core burns with unsanctioned desire.

“My lady.” He sounds breathless, as if he was looking at you for the first time. Just as he parts his lips, his gaze averts to the reverend behind you. 

“So this is what’s gotten you so distracted.” You hear him chuckle before he clasps your wrist with his bloodied hands and drags you outside.

The cool winter wind sends shocks of ice cold shivers down your spine as snowflakes flutter onto your skin. You had almost forgotten it was the middle of winter. The harsh wind blows your overcoat open, exposing you loose gown to the freezing elements.

“Revered, unhand me!” You tug at his grip only to struggle as he pulls you down the stairs. A sharp jasmine scented gust rushes past you at the force dragging you away severs completely. You glance down to see his hand still on you but completely sliced from the rest of his body.

Utterly shocked, you shriek and fling your arm to force the hand off of you. A trail of blood drips into the snow, growing bigger and bigger until you see Zayne’s form hunched over the reverend, loud gnawing noises being the only thing you can hear.

“Zayne,” You whisper, only for your voice to fall upon deaf ears. “Zayne!”

His movements stiffen completely as he turns to face you. Blood is stricken across his face and dripping from his abnormally sharpened canines. His skin almost glistens in the cold dead of night, and those divine hazel eyes just look brighter.

Could it be?

Zayne always leaves the manor at night. He rarely eats when he’s with you and when he does, it is just barely enough to keep him satiated. He sometimes refers to himself as a vegetarian even though he consumes animal meat. He never sets foot outside without something to give him shade, almost like the sun harms him.

It could not possibly be. You’ve seen his ears turn red when he gets flustered. Although his hands are mostly cold, you’ve felt his warmth. But some vampires don’t become as cold as ice. It is rare but it’s possible.

The roads all lead to one answer. He is a vampire.

“My lady, it isn’t safe for you here.” Zayne wipes the blood off his lips onto his sleeve. He slowly reaches you, his steps crunching marks into the snow. You hadn’t realised how overpowering his height actually is until now. Until now, you didn’t realise how terrifying his gaze is, how almost obvious it was. 

You can hear the reverend gurgling behind you, clearly still clawing at what remains of his liveliness. Zayne did that much in just seconds. He could have consumed you at any given moment. Whenever he checked your pulse. Whenever he nursed you. When he drew blood from your flesh. Whenever he saw you bare before him. Whenever you shared the most intimate looks and touches.

And yet he never did.

“I—“ Your chest squeezes harshly, like hundreds of pins stabbing at your heart continuously. You gasp, watching your gaze reach the black moonlight sky as you fall to the ground. 

You can’t feel your body. You can barely hear Zayne calling your name. Your eyes dart around his face as he cradles you in his embrace, his blood stained canines glistening as his lips frantically move in a repetitive pattern.

Your vision slowly blurs and darkens, moment by moment. It’s almost peaceful. You can’t possibly allow it. You must fight on. But you feel so warm in his embrace. So safe.

With the waning remnants of strength left in you, your hand gently cups his cheek, staining your fingers with the blood that struck his face. 

“You…” The whisper is hoarse and thick with gratitude for him, fear for the future of your home, and resentment for all that could be taken from you. “So, so beautiful.”

“My lady, please.” Zayne’s voice cracks as he begs, his eyes welling up with tears. “You must stay strong. Maintain your strength. Overcome this shock, I beg of you!”

The pain only engulfs you more. “If I cannot avenge my family… if I cannot outlive them…” You worry as your grip tightens on his cheek. It takes only seconds before a perilous idea strikes his mind. 

It is risky, truly, it is. But he is running rather short for time. He knows of your ambitions and your deepest desires. He can give that to you. He can. But it would only give you something similar to the illness you already face. You may never be able to step into the graces of the sun again.

If your grit stays true and strong, Zayne may have no other choice.

“My lady, you can.” He whispers, canines revealing themselves with his deluded smile. So long as he restricts himself from taking too much, you will live. He just has to hold himself back just a bit longer. “You have to choice to live. Eternally. With me. We can outlive your relatives. Or kill them if it fancies you. You can keep your title. But only if you are willing. I don’t want to take your life from you.”

You slowly blink as his eyes become the only thing you can clearly see. Your heart drums against your chest as you weigh the options. You could live forever. But you’d never see the sun again. You may just outlive your staff too. But to protect your family name, to avenge yourself, and to have Zayne be yours eternally… to be like him would not be much different from how you are now. 

You were never going to truly recover. You’d always be a fraction of who you once were. Your aunt was right. But this? This is an opportunity. A chance to truly heal, even if your only connection to your family will be the legacy you live through. You had a shot and setting things right once and for all.

With a weakened smile your eyes fluttered as you whispered your final words as a mortal. “Give me the tools to avenge my blood.”

The following seconds are pure agony. The last thing you see is Zayne apologetically smiling with you. The last thing you feel are his lips gently pressing on your forehead. The last thing you hear, that gives your heart the sharpest twinge, “I love you.”

Once his teeth sink deep into your neck, your vision darkens completely. 

There is silence. And then there is pain.

Your body burns like it’s caught up in flames, white hot and striking your every nerve. Your lips tear open to scream but no voice or air comes out. Your nails claw at his flesh, to ground whatever sinking life is in you. It's endless, loud, and violent until it quiets down completely.

And then there is a new form of silence.

You can hear distant bells chime while they flow with the winter wind. You can see the smallest, most intricate details of a falling snowflake. You can smell the scent him. You can feel his grip on you tighten, gently shaking you to see if he didn’t go too far. You can hear his honeyed voice call your name in fear and worship.

You blink and see those hazel eyes, now more beautiful than before.

“My lady?” His voice is as clear as the morning serenade of the birds. He looks even more handsome now. It shoots pulses of need straight to your core. Along with that, comes a fresh sense of confidence like a coat of skin over your strengthened skin. You no longer feel pain with every movement.

Your hand squeezes his cheek to test your strength, pinching harder and harder until he yelps. “My lady, you must tell me if you’re alright—“

Ignoring your inhibitions, you pull Zayne down to your embrace, pressing your lips right onto his. His lips are soft like pillows and, if not for the taste of your blood, you’d assume he tastes sweet. It barely takes seconds for him to respond with equal fervour, wrapping his arms round your waist.

Your tongue pokes between his lips and he grants you access with a hushed moan, leaning forward to push you deeper into the snow. The cold is no longer as biting as it use to be. It doesn’t bother you at all now. The pain in your body has silenced. It’s been so long since you felt so at ease.

Is this what pleasure feels like? Is it the burning feeling in your chest? Is it the way that your hands rush to feel more of him like you won’t get the chance again? Is it the way you both move together in a lustful dance, sharing your hushed noises of pleasure and need together?

Perhaps it’s all of it. Perhaps there’s even more.

“Zayne.” You pant as you pull away, strings of saliva connect you to him. 

“My lady.” He whispers with reverence laced in his tone. His hands caress you with care. He must be in heaven. That kiss… not only did it send signals straight to his cock to rise harder than it has ever been before, leaving him near shaking. 

In the quiet cold, he can’t help but desire you now more than ever. To taste you, to feel you above him until you drive yourselves mad with pleasure. It’s an insatiable desire and yet he wants it. He needs you.

You can definitely feel his erection. And that only makes your arousal deepen for him. You were already grinding on him the moment your kiss had deepened. You press wet kisses all over his face, reaching for his jaw and neck as your hands explore the expanse of his clothed back. 

“My lady,” Zayne whines, but tilts his head just enough to give you the access you need to torment him with your affections. It seems his neck is rather sensitive to your ministrations. “You must contain yourself. We are still outside.”

You can feel your canines, now sharper than before, prodding your lower lip. It feels so unfamiliar yet so beautifully natural. You would grow accustomed to this change eventually, you’d go accustomed to this new strength that makes you feel so alive. You could do anything, be anything. Have anything. You starved for it. And now you can get it.

“The only person close enough to spread word of our misbehaviour is already dead.” You whisper in a tone all too erotic for Zayne not to moan at the sound of. “I cannot hear his pulse.” You are correct, the reverend had long taken his final breath before Zayne had bitten you. 

Before he had turned you into a stronger version of yourself. A vampire, if you will.

The scent of the reverend’s blood sets off a deep, voracious craving within you to hunt down any person you can find and consume them. You wanted to devour every damned member of society that wronged you. It cannot compare, however, to the ravenous desire for him. 

“I must return you to the manor,” Zayne tuts, bringing your lips to his for another lascivious kiss. Your tongues dance frantically, hands slowly reaching lower to your chest before he pulls away. “Your bloodlust will drive you to attack innocents.”

“But what about the reverend, I can—“

“You won’t consume something as tainted as that.” He cuts in, pressing a peck on your nose. “He has been manipulating people, and embezzling the very funds you so graciously donated. You don’t deserve something as vile as that.” 

He attacks your neck with kisses, pulling gentle sighs from you as his hands venture to your waist. “After all, I can only give you the purest blood. The most delectable, nourishing blood that world can provide. Come now, my lady, we must get you home.”

You’re surprised he remembered that little joke you shared earlier. You’re more surprised of how it unfolded to become your fate. Consuming the blood of others to satiate yourself. You can only hope that your staff will still keep you close and care for you and let you return the favour now that you’re stronger.

“The carriage is just nearby,” You eventually give in, pointing in the direction of where you should go. Zayne wastes no time in picking you up in his arms as if you are his bride and venturing to get you to safety. 

The trip is not long. It does not take long to return to the manor. It does not take long to sneak past your staffs chambers, all of them still being asleep. It does not take long for you to reach your chambers. It does not take long for his lips to be on yours once more.

The coats and shoes had long been abandoned on the floor. Your fireplace had been vigorously been prepared by him to keep you as warm as possible, still treating you with care and affection as he always has.

Hushed moans fill the crackling silence of your bedchambers with rustling clothing and wandering hands reaching to all the places that would be deemed scandalous to touch. But your concerns for poise are long gone.

You pull away from his embrace, gliding your tongue down his neck to suckle your mark onto his flesh and lean back only to see the mark fade as quickly as it got there. 

“We tend to heal rather quickly.” He sheepishly smiles. “For example,” He takes your wrist and suckles hard on your skin. You can feel his tongue glide over your skin as his eyes pierce yours, arousing you all the more. Once he pulls away, you can already see the bruise starting to fade.

“You strength has dramatically improved, along with your agility and endurance.” He explains as he presses hot kisses on your skin. “You can run faster, you can protect yourself in any situation of danger,” His hands squeeze your waist harder than before as he nuzzles his nose into your skin, inhaling your scent.

“You can last much longer in more intimate experiences too.”

Your eyes almost twinkle at the sound of that. You aren’t ignorant of what you’re about to do. You’re more than old enough to have invested in the tools necessary to give yourself pleasure in the absence of a person to do it for you. But now you wanted to get a taste of pleasure with him.

“I want to test that out.” Your voice comes out sultry and dripping with need. He can’t even resist you if he tried. You turn around, gesturing to the gentle knot tied at the back of your gown. “I may need your assistance.”

Zayne moans at the sight, his cock violently twitching and leaking in the confines of his pants. “Of course, my lady.” His patience draws painfully thin as his pulls the knot apart to allow your gown to flow, still accentuating your figure.

His hands gently pull at your neckline until your gown falls to the floor. He rushes to pull off his garments, piece by piece until you both stand nude together, warm and vibrating with need. His hands subconsciously reach to cover the scars running up both his arms, having forgotten they were there.

“Those scars,” You whisper, reaching for his hands. “May I?”

Zayne rarely allows anyone to look at his arms. But for you? He trusts you to be gentle.

Your fingers touch each and every one, grazing over the bumps and roughened skin and feeling the contrast between scar tissue and skin. There is no pity in your eyes, only wonder and care.

“You don’t think they’re unsightly?”

“No,” You shake your head, bringing his forearm to your lips. You press a gentle kiss onto one of his scars, ensuring his gaze holds yours. “I think they’re very beautiful. In fact, if we had met when we were younger, I would have drawn birds and leaves on them every single day just to show how pretty they are.”

That makes Zayne laugh, releasing the tension held tight in his shoulders. You always knew how to grace him with your charm when he least expected it. He would let you draw on his scars any moment you wanted to, kiss and admire them whenever you needed to. 

“You can draw on them if you’d like.” He offers, guiding you to your bed before he gently lays you down.

“Please, I’ve outgrown that passion.” You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. You peck his lips. “I’d like to try other things with you.”

“Oh?” He teases, returning your peck with a longer kiss. “Like what, my lady?”

“Perhaps this.” You gently pull him to your lips, grinding your hips against his erection. His moans softly muffle in your mouth as he moves in tandem with you. His tongue glides over your lips as his hands gently knead at your breasts, pulling sweet moans from your lips.

Your bodies fit so close together like puzzle pieces, it would be a crime to let go. Drops of precum drips and spreads around your skin, making you very much aware of how needy he is for you. He’s just so big, so hard, he’s dripping and twitching just desperate to feel you in every way he can.

“My lady, please.” Zayne sigh on your lips, eyes squeezing shut. You just appear so much more lively, he has never seen you smile so much before. He has never seen such serenity in your eyes. He wants to give you more, and ensure you never suffer again. 

“What’s wrong?” You grin, ghosting your fingers down his back. From the way his cock twitched again, more aggressively than the last time, he definitely enjoyed it. “You seem so flustered.”

“Don’t be a tease.” He rasps, averting his gaze from you. Perhaps he ought to give you the same sensation. He bares his fangs, sharp and glistening with drool from his hunger for you. 

His lips explore your neck, tasting your skin, whining at your taste. He licks a stripe of hot saliva down your collarbones right to your breasts. He latches to your hardened nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud while his hand massages the other.

“I want to show you how much pleasure you can have,” He nips your breasts with his canines, burying his face deep in your cleavage. “I want to give you everything I have. May I?”

Open mouth kisses trail your skin in a pattern down from your breasts right to your hips. His hands reach down to your thighs, caressing you gently. He must know just how much it riles you up from that smirk plastered on his face.

Your face feels hot. Perhaps it’s because of the fire burning on the other side of the room, maybe it’s your arousal spreading so far around your body you can barely think. You’re practically dripping, you can feel it start to soak the bedding beneath you.

Your desire for him only intensifies the further down he goes until he rests his head between your legs. His nose dips close to your entrance, slowly inhaling deep as if the most heavenly scent was within you. A soft moan escapes his lips as his hands stroke your thighs with unconditional adoration.

“May I pleasure you, my lady?” He asks again, eyes glistening from the shine of the flames illuminating the room. How could you deny yourself such joy? You deserve to give yourself everything.

Your hands find purchase in his soft black locks and push his head closer and closer to your soaked cunt. “Of course you may,” You sigh, leaning back on the silk pillows behind you. Just for a better view. “Don’t hold back.”

My, oh my, does he take that seriously.

Zayne’s tongue slides up both sides of your folds just to get a light shiver out of you. His fingers knead your thighs to soothe your nerves while he teases you. Is it to get you trembling with need? Of course not, he would never torment you that way. Yet. 

His tongue circles your entrance, gathering as much of your dripping slick as he can, relishing in his tastebuds awakening to savour you completely. “Goodness, my lady, you taste divine.” He groans from between your legs.

You can’t help but sink your teeth into your arm to withhold the noises threatening to come out. All that teasing is just so stimulating. He’s barely doing anything and yet it feels so good. 

“Is that so?” You huff. He nods frantically, swiping his tongue up and down, sliding gingerly over your throbbing clit, spreading your arousal all over you. It’s utterly riveting, your legs instinctively twitch in his grip and close in on him only to be pushed back open.

Zayne tuts to your legs, pressing hot, wet kisses on you, mouthing and spreading your slick all over your skin. “Don’t move, my love.” He murmurs, licking long lines up to your knees. The sight is so erotic that you can feel more of your arousal gush from within you. Has he always been this lewd?

“Continue teasing me and I might writhe.” You struggle to bite back, shivering and whimpering from his ministrations. His fingers circle your entrance like his tongue did, occasionally pushing inside bit by bit before pulling away. 

Those hazel eyes glance up to admire you, despite your disheveled state. So beautiful, so much more powerful now that you feel so much better. He’s most grateful that the made the call to turn you, consequences be damned.

His lips curl as he takes your clit in his mouth, gently flicking his tongue at your bud. His fingers tease and swirl over your entrance before pushing his fingers inside, slowly spreading them open to stretch you out.

“O-Oh, god,” Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers tug at his hair. That only fuels Zayne to do more. His fingers push in and out of you, moving faster in his pace. Your slick gushes out of you like a waterfall, overwhelmed by the pleasure being amplified by your newfound strength.

Zayne hums into your pussy, slurping away at your clit. As your thighs tremble, potentially indicating your climax, he pulls away with a soft kiss. He can feel your slick dripping down his chin. It’s all too good to be true. Devouring you, pleasing you, seeing you so healthy and well after years of bearing witness to your suffering.

To see you so joyful and pleased just gets him harder. He can’t help but grind his hips into the bedding, losing the last of his composure and discipline. 

“Does it feel good?” He already knows it does. He just wants to hear it from you. You nod, panting out soft moans, but that isn’t enough. 

You yelp from the pain of him nipping your inner thighs with his sharp fangs. “I need you to tell me, my lady. Does it feel good?”

He’s such a tease. You always knew he had a flirtatious streak but you never knew he’d be a tease like this. “Damn you, Zayne, it feels wonderful.”

“I’m glad.” He muses, pressing kisses onto your skin. He moves closer and closer to your weeping pussy, fingers still deep inside curling until he finds just what he’s looking for.

One push is all it takes to have your head thrown back with the loudest, most melodic moan he’s heard from you. You tug his hair hard, bringing his hips to buck right into the sheets. Electric currents shoot up his spine, just strong enough to make him so so close that he could cum on the spot.

But he can’t. He must get you to cum first. He has to bear witness to you unwinding to pure pleasure. 

His fingers slip out of you to be replaced by his tongue. He just has to taste the source. His tongue curves just right, slurping up your juices as if it is holy water, licking up whatever falls down his chin and attacking your cunt like a man starved.

He would rather consume you like this on his knees for eternity. Your taste alone satiates him more than blood ever would. 

His fangs gently prod your swollen folds, only adding on to the relentless stimulation from his tongue fucking your hole and his fingers rubbing calloused circles on your clit. The bed rocks from his body working to please his own desperate needs, his moans go straight into you relentless and desperate to give you more.

“Zayne!” Your cries bounce of the walls of your bedchambers as you tug and pull him closer, so much closer. It just feels so divine. Just as divine as all the stories you’d read if not better. A tight coil stretches within you, growing hotter and tighter by the second. “It feels so good, I’m about to—“

“Cum?” His honeyed voice is literally seeped in arousal in such a lustful rasp.”By all means, my lady, give in to your desires.”

He just keeps moving so fast and so intensely you can barely think. Switching between his tongue and fingers, the overwhelming pleasure pulls your back into a feline arch as your climax rushes over you like a storm.

Despite your cries, Zayne takes it as a signal to give you more. He does not stop his relentless ministrations, slurping all your juices, nuzzling his face as deeply as your body will allow him to.

It’s too much. Your clit just stings from the overabundance of pleasure and yet you keep pushing him closer to you to get more. You tug and pull at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer and it might as well be if it means this satisfaction is eternal.

Still, you want more.

You pull him away from you reluctantly, empathising with his whines to continue. “Come to me.” You don’t have to tel him twice.

Zayne crawls atop your form, dropping wet, cum-slick kisses along your skin. He stops at your neck, where the bite marks have almost healed completely, and licks his way up slowly, slowly, until he locks onto your lips once more.

You can taste your essence fall onto your tongue, exploring his taste and inhaling his scent like air. You’re still vibrating from the aftershocks of your climax, so warm and open to receive much more.

Your hand reaches for his cock, hard and throbbing from his neglect to satiate himself. It’s so hot to the touch, so large in your hands that you wonder if you’d ever be able to take him in your mouth, let alone your pussy despite how much it soaks for him.

“My lady, you don’t have to worry about my needs.” Zayne whimpers right into your ear as your grip on his shaft tightens. With the movement your position will allow, you stroke his length and memorise each detail you encounter with your fingers.

You count two veins running from his base and joining before they kiss his reddened tip. His thickness alone makes your mouth water and your cunt soak with even more arousal as if you hadn’t just cum moments ago. You press your lips on his cheek as you stroke him, grinding your hips against his cock, soaking him in your desire.

“I want to.” You whisper, licking his lower lip. “We ought to please each other, no?”

Your eyes, damn you, your eyes draw him in and hold him captive in your embrace. If not for your charm and luring voice, your eyes alone would bring him to his knees and have him willingly deliver the world to your hands.

Zayne is utterly spellbound and he would not want to be anywhere else.

“Are you sure, my lady?” He cautions, taking your hand in his to kiss. “If you say yes, I am not sure if I’ll be able to stop.”

That alone makes your walls clench. “Good. I’m very sure.” You find new comfort in his lips. The manner in which he moves in tandem with you seems as though you were made for each other, like two pieces fitting into one. It’s hot, it’s passionate, it’s perfection seeped in desire.

He aligns his tip with your pussy, gently tapping it to tease you once more. Your cunt almost sucks him in completely, grabbing at his length upon him pushing himself in just until you swallow his cockhead completely.

You both sharply inhale from how tight and warm you feel together. Zayne’s head falls into the junction between your neck and shoulder, mouthing your flesh with kisses and moans. Your arms wrap around his back, fingers digging into his muscles.

You spend seconds like that. Suspended, just barely beginning to experience such divine pleasure. Just absorbing how good it feels before it gets much better. 

“So beautiful,” His muffled voice whines into your skin as if he’s inscribing his affirmations deep into your soul. “So intelligent. So generous, so kind, so divine, my lady.”

Before you can muster a response, his hips push deeper into your cunt with impatient speed until he’s completely bottomed out inside. The silence in your room is disturbed with your joint moans and the slick squelch of his hips beginning to move in a pattern, in and out and in and out, until your skin claps from his thrusts.

You grind your hips into his, following his growing speed as the pleasure between you builds like pressure boiling over. Still overstimulated from his tongue and fingers, your walls clench and squeeze on his girth, sucking him deeper and deeper inside with the sole intention to milk him of all he has.

Your moans sounds like a symphony to him. To hear you so profane and relishing in your own needs, clawing his back with your nails, digging your heels into his hips while your legs wrap tight around him… he’s so grateful to be the one to grant you this pleasure. 

Loud clap clap claps echo and bounce off the walls, accompanied by the obscene squelches and plaps of his hips pounding into yours. Your lips travel around his neck, biting deep into his muscles to channel the orgasmic pleasure building up from the penetration and friction driving you up the wall.

“S-So good— harder, Zayne!” You whine in his ear, clawing his scalp as you tug his head back. His cock twitches inside you from the ravenous ache, which urges him to pound his hips harder and harder until his tip pokes your most sensitive spot, pulling pleasure cries from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So tight, my lady,” He moans into your ear, so graphic with his words. “It feels— fuck— I’m so close.”

His grip on your hip tightens as he coils his arms around you to keep you close, so tightly bound together that you become one in your pursuit to drown in this satisfaction. He has to get you to cum again. He must. To feel you squeeze and clamp down so tightly on his cock may just bring him to see stars. He must bring you to your climax more strongly than before.

You can feel your edge teetering by with even more intensity than the last. You can barely concentrate from how his relentless ruts drive your eyes right into your skull. You’re both slick with a coat of sweat making you move smooth and wet together. 

You his face up in your hands, kissing him to taste him once more. You’re addicted. You are the way he feels inside, the way he tastes, how his devotion knows no bounds. It’s just too good. Tongues overlap, spilling and mixing your spit together while your teeth clash recklessly as your core screams for release, so tight that one more thrust will make it snap.

Zayne quickly pulls himself out, leaving your cunt pulsating and dripping from his unexpected absence. Before you can react, he sits on his knees and pulls you closer by the hips. Those muscular arms gently push your legs back just enough to hook them on his shoulders.

His hair lays drenched on his forehead as he pants on your skin, licking lines as far as your ankles while keeping his gaze on you. His cock gently rubs up and down along your folds, teasing his tip in just a bit only to pull out and rubs against you again. 

The stimulation from his cockhead kissing your clit brings you to claw the sheets beneath you, tears brimming in your eyes from how good it all feels. 

“What game are you playing?” You keen, both intrigued and irritated by his teasing.

“You must be so hasty, my love.” That grin of his is soaked with titillation, fangs glistening over your skin to graze and nip. “I want you to come undone from my cock as you did with my tongue. The only way to do that is to heighten your senses as best I can.”

His tongue slithers a trail of spit around every part of you he bites. His head nuzzles your legs, watching your gaze glaze over from how turned on he’s making you. He has no shame in sounding how good it feels to tease you like this, even if it drives him insane to withhold both your climaxes just a bit longer.

“Zayne,” You whine, thrashing your head into the pillow. “Zayne, I beg of you, cease your teasing!”

As much as he loves to tease, he cannot bear seeing you struggle so much. “Of course, my love,” He pushes your legs further back until they meet your chest. “I would never deny you of such a pleasure.”

He slides in smooth and fast, his cockhead instantly hitting your sensitive gummy spot in a better, more intensive angle. Your vision goes completely white for a fraction of a second, almost, almost enough to make you cum there and then.

You sink your teeth into his flesh from the intensive stimulation. It’s all so deliciously good. You can barely think. You can barely perceive anything outside of his face scrunching from the pleasure of you squeezing around his cock, of his eyes rolling back, of his moans and profane praises slipping through his lips right into your ever listening ears.

“So fucking divine,” He blabbers, completely losing all rational thought. There is only you. Only your desires. Only your pleasure. His mind is going completely numb and his only thought is you. You. You. “So tight. You feel absolutely perfect, my lady, I want to please you, make you feel so good.”

And that just does it.

Your eyes roll and cross completely, your toes curl and your nails claw at his scalp as that string finally snaps and tips you over the edge. Your throat goes hoarse from your cries as waves of your climax hit you like waves, pulsating and squeezing so tight that it brings Zayne to his climax as well.

Hot, thick ropes of cum shoot into you, coating your walls completely white as he fucks his seed deep inside. His voice cracks between each moan, singing your praises for the night to hear. His hips keep moving, pushing his cum in as deeply into you as possible, plugging it inside with his throbbing length regardless of the sting of overstimulation.

It takes just moments from you to cool down from the pleasure burning deep within you. Your moans fade to breathless gasps for air, your ministrations finally halt until you rest in each other’s arms with the crackles of the fire pit being your ambiance.

Zayne slowly presses soft pecks on your cheeks, your forehead, your temple, worshipping you in the afterglow of your unwinding, whispering words of affection to you as exhaustion starts to overcome you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is hoarse and raspy, yet as soft as a whisper. Barely able to move, considering you are both still very much snug in your mating press, you hum with a smile. He swiftly eases your legs, turning you both over so that you may rest more comfortably.

“Very much so.” You could be like this forever. Comfortable and safe in his arms. But when daybreak arrives, you will have to deal with your newfound fate.

Zayne can tell you’re deep in thought. He nuzzles his nose on your cheek to grab your attention. You rather enjoy his act of affection. “What is plaguing your mind, my love?”

“We have to find a way to disarm the tension.” You grumble. “I can outlive them all now, but that would dwindle my aunt’s persistence. And the staff… how will they respond to seeing me in this state?” Your recent act of devotion shared with him slowly dawns upon you. “What will my handmaidens think when they find us in the morning?” 

A twinge of doubtful worry pokes Zayne. His lips curve into a pout as his eyes widen like small balls of light. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Absolutely not.” You cut him off. How preposterous of him to even think that way. “My concern is not their opinion. I would be more than happy to have you by my side for eternity. It’s the giggles and teasing looks they will give me that I worry about.”

“I think I can handle that,” He laughs, nuzzling you again to ease your tension. Let your servants tease you, he thinks. It’s an open signal that you have found joy again. He assumes there will be initial concern and shock considering he never informed them that he is a vampire, but they will soon grow accustomed to it.

If not for the sake of acceptance, then they would for the sake of their Countess. Which you will soon be, by all means necessary.

“Worry yourself with it when the sun rises.” Zayne pecks your lips once more. His cock slowly rises between you as you snake your arms around him.

“The night still has pleasures for us to indulge in.”

[blxssom-221]

making you a good girl | o.y. x fem!reader

synopsis: part two of this

warnings: smut, yuuta is whiny as fuck, so is reader :3

You knew you were in for something when you arrived home. The tension in the car after he had fucked your throat before cutting it short was palpable to say the least. But this was far from standard nothing. It was so unlike him, so uncharacteristic and strange, he seemed almost possessed. Not entirely himself. Still somewhat there, that much was evident from his cracked whimpers and the familiar touch of his nimble fingers, but everything else was completely foreign.

With Yuuta, your loser boyfriend who was normally too scared to say 'no' to paying for your manicure, sex was normally quite plain. Perhaps he was a little more submissive, allowing you to use him whilst you slammed yourself down on his cock. Not caring that he was overstimulated after cumming three times, he'd wait until you finished. But aside from the unintentional overstimulation, you supposed your sex life could be described as vanilla.

Not bad, per se, but definitely nothing astoundingly unique or 'kinky'. And definitely not rough, especially on his end.

“Nnng- Yuu!” You gasped in between a yelp and whine, the feeling of his cock spearing into your cunt your cunt sending you nearly a foot up the mattress.

Pretty nails clawing into the sheets and mattress, one would surely break. Toes curled so taut they hurt, and your stomach and chest dragging up the bed, then back down again with each of his desperate, punishing ruts. Despite fucking you so pathetically, it was the best it’s ever been. Scolding you with good dick, leaving you screaming and sobbing, hiccuping into the comforter, making you regret every insult you ever threw his way.

He had his normally gentle hands gripping your hair, ensuring your pretty, mascara tear stained face shoved in the pillow, muffling your mewls. “Y-You sorry yet?”

“Y-Yes- hick- M’sorry, baby!” You choked out, drool soaking the pillow as he continued to drag his cock against the plush, warm walls of your pussy. Quick and sloppy. “D-Didn’t mean t’be so mean- S-Shouldn’t have s- Fuck! said that t’ya-“

His hands trail down from your head to your back, pushing down, getting you to arch just right for him. Tongue poking out in cute concentration as he focuses on continuing his less than rhythmic ruts whilst manoeuvring you into a position that pleased him. This was the first time he got to choose, and he planned on taking advantage of it. Because who knows when he’d have the courage to finally stand up himself again.

Chest pressed even deeper into the mattress, his cockhead kissed the walls of your sloppy cunnie at an entirely new angle now, just almost hitting the one spot you taught him to find with his fingers. He knew damn well where it was. The bastard was purposely avoiding it.

“Yuu, baby please-“ Hiccup, “Pleasepleaseplease-“ The soft plap! plap! plap! sound that echoed throughout the room grew louder, quicker in succession as you fucked yourself back on him. Craning your neck, you rested your cheek against the pillow, pouting sweetly with furrowed brows. Eyes pleading, almost promising you’ll be so good, you’ll never be mean again if he just gives you what you need. Like he always does.

His fingers pressed harshly into your waist, thin brows knitted together as his mouth popped open further, spilling out soft pants. When his eyes met yours, he nearly crumbled. Resolve almost faltering at that sweet, innocent look. But he knew better. He was almost too used to that look. The look you used to get everything your manipulative heart ached for. And this was a punishment. He couldn’t give in that quickly.

With a deep groan, his hand planted sharply onto the soft flesh of your ass, “Y-You sure you’re sorry?”

“Hngg- Yes! Yesyes, m’so sorry, baby!” You sobbed softly, face once again finding the soft, cushiony pillow it had been buried in moments ago. You hugged it tight, shoulders tense and legs quivering as you popped them upwards, using your feet to press against his back in a weak attempt to push him further inside your cunt. As if he could get any fucking deeper.

Maybe he didn’t have it in his heart to punish you too harshly, you could be so sweet when you wanted to.

The second apology satisfied him enough. To most, a second apology might have been the bare minimum considering how you used him as a wallet most of the time. Considering how you called him a loser, a reject, a pushover, a guy you normally wouldn’t even give a chance to. But to Yuuta, it was more than he had ever gotten from you before. So, it was enough. He can work on your manners some other time.

Using the strength he so rarely flaunted in front of you, one arm circled around your waist, heaving you up right. Back flush with his still clothed chest once again, only now upright. Then, the piston like movements of his hips resumed, angling just so to reach that little nook inside you had silently been begging for him to fuck up against.

Your nails dug into the forearm that kept you pressed against him, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Uh, uh-“ You squeaked out, “G-Gonna— fuckfuck, gonna cum-“

“Pleaseplease-“ He moaned, all strangled and far too desperate sounding for the facade of dominance he was trying to give off, “Cum, baby, w-wanna see it- wanna see you-“

Whilst your hips moved to fuck yourself back on his long, hot cock, his free hand fumbled clumsily for your clit. The slick coating his fingers as he played with your pretty pussy until he finally caught it, rubbing uncoordinated, quick circles, using the correct pressure that you had drilled into him. You taught him how to fuck you just right. Lord knows he needed it when you first started fucking.

Both equally as whiny, unable to tell your whimpers from his, you felt a stiff tension deep in your stomach. Growing tighter and tighter, only spurring on quicker with the messy ministrations of his fingers on your clit. You were sure he was feeling a similar way too. The muttered curses he let out and the cracking of his voice was always his tell.

“Cum f’me, please? Please, baby, y’always look so pretty-“ He laid open mouthed kisses to your cheek as your head remained lolled back against him, mouth so filthy and messy a trail of spit connected his lips to your warm skin, “Need’a see it, s-so bad.”

“U-Uh huh, c-cummin’, Yuu-“ Nails digging into his skin further, your mouth fully dropped open. Every inch of you tensed, thighs shaking and knees threatening to let against the mattress. The only thing keeping you from falling face first into the softness of your shared bed being his singular forearm against your stomach. “Babybaby, fuck!-“

The pulsing of your pussy, that sweet fluttering and the tighter than before clench was enough for him to let go himself. “S-Shit, oohhh-“ He whimpered, punctuating his orgasm with a few quicker thrusts before a final, finishing snap, much deeper than the rest.

You couldn’t see his face, but you could only imagine how sweet he looked. Nose scrunched up, eyes fluttering between being closed and open as they rolled back as far as they could go, he always looked so pretty when he came.

You didn’t know how long it took for you both to stop panting, but soon you were laid down in bed once more, under the sheets with Yuuta above you. Back to being your dog, back on his leash as he looked down on you, stroking your hair and humming low. He smiled soft and ginger, thumbing over your tear stained cheek.

“You can be such a good girl sometimes.”

@gumigirl part two just for u bby

[blxssom-221]

TAILSPIN — part one

〔 𝒾 〕 "I'm sorry that I can't be her," you say, tears interlaced with every word. You circle back to her endlessly, the loop remaining unbroken. The dead girl's footfall is everywhere, and you're breaking with every step she takes across Caleb's heart. "I'll never be. We both know that, but don't expect me to be waiting around for you to realize I deserve more than a man who looks at me and only sees a ghost."

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞�� 𝐱𝐢𝐚 𝓍 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐦𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 8805 (estimated 20k for full story) ⋮ 18+ ⋮ angst with a happy ending, smut, canon divergent as mc dies in the initial explosion and not caleb (he still gets injured thus requiring his biomech arm), coworkers au, rivals to lovers, fwb, miscommunication + jealousy, semi-toxic dynamics, mentions of ptsd and grief, dom!caleb, semi-public sex, size kink, manhandling, gagging (glove as a gag aye), multiple orgasms, marking, dirty talk, degradation kink, "sir" kink, spanking, edging, overstimulation, oral (f + m receiving), cum-eating, unprotected sex, creampie

⌗ 𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐢'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── First story on this blog! I decided to release this first part because I'm so excited to post the first chunk! I hope you guys enjoy it because it was a pleasure to write. Shoutout to @tinycatharsis @xylatox @aeristudios @frenchkisstheabyss and @xomakara for reading this first part as well as @hyukalyptus for doing editing magic on it, I love you all so much ♡

Caleb doesn't know what to do about the dog tag.

The present is years old by now, but it looks the same as it did when he received it. It's not rusted or faded, and there are no dings or scrapes to buff out. The care of its owner shows with every gleam and glisten of the necklace in the sunlight. He hasn't taken it off, not once. Not until a few days ago. Not until the clasp came undone from the impact.

The only sign of wear on the jewelry is the missing gemstone at the center of the silver apple that rests next to the dog tag. It's ironic in a sense, but Caleb can't fathom how.

His and her friends sniffle and hiccup with every inch of dirt that's laid out over the coffin. Caleb insists on doing this part of the service alone, no matter how long it takes. The act stains his suit pants through the process of covering each square foot, but he doesn't care if he looks unkempt or not. Most things don't matter now, anyway.

The funeral home director suggested Gran’s and the hunter’s services and burials be over the course of two days—yesterday and today. “You’ve already been through so much,” he whispered with an authoritarian sympathy only elders possessed. “Take this one day at a time.”

One day at a time is hellfire, a kind of agony one only understands when life crumbles around you at once. The gut-punch of losing his caretaker would've taken enough time to heal from on its own. But Caleb doesn't understand how to navigate this additional pain that pales in comparison to the previous set of wounds, still fresh as the day they were inflicted upon him. “How does a person recover from the devastation of watching the girl he loves die right in front of him?

The Deepspace Aviation Administration's mandated grief counselor recommended grounding techniques for wandering thoughts, especially ones related to the accident. "It wasn't an accident," Caleb interrupted him when he used that word. "Don't mince words."

"However you see the situation, Mr. Xia, focus on what is in your current nexus of control when your mind spirals."

Following the doctor's orders, he takes a deep breath and tries to feel the ground underneath his feet. All the while, he clutches the dog tag around his neck tightly as the ceremony concludes.

She gave it to Caleb the day he left for Skyhaven. He promised her, foolishly, he’d return to their childhood home as often as possible. Time constraints of their everyday lives that kept them apart could not sever their bond; Caleb wouldn't let it. She might’ve been a hunter, and he a pilot, but their constant course was always back to each other, no matter how briefly those lines converged.

If only he knew their time together would run so short, too short for him to finally pluck up the courage to say he couldn't live without her. And now he has to make peace with the fact that that lost declaration is his new reality.

Without thinking, Caleb lets the metal dog tag pierce his skin. The necklace slices the inside of his palm open slowly. It takes ten minutes and the crowd around Caleb dissipating for him to notice blood running down his shirtsleeve. The loneliness gives way to an indifference that shields him from physical consequences. All he senses is the thrum of his heartbeat as the wind meets his open wound.

If nothing else, the hollowness will remind him it was real and he was once whole. That's what will keep him from spiraling ever again. From expecting the world to be kind to him now that his soul is irrevocably destroyed.

2 YEARS LATER

"And this is the loading bay for each squadron and their respective aircrafts. Yours will be around two dozen, and you'll meet your subordinates later on today once we establish your security clearances." Damien, your new boss and one of the many majors of the fleet continues with the tour of the base. His harping about the procedures and commandments is background noise as you navigate the space together. You're aware of what you can and cannot do as a Farspace Fleet member, even more so now with your new rank.

It's not as if lower-leveled privates don’t know their way around. You've been to the loading bay many times, taking the route to and from excruciating missions in the past year like clockwork. You could label each piece of a plane's equipment and list their purposes by heart if given the opportunity.

With your recently appointed title as First Lieutenant, you are well aware things will change. Subtly, for sure, but just enough to tilt you off your axis, hence the necessity of such a tour. "We need to show you what it means to be a part of the company with a fresh lens, so to speak," Damien had said curtly during the first hour of the tour, like you were a child on her first day of preschool. Maybe it was more for them than you, seeing as you already felt the shift in your previous colleagues' demeanor. Some of them were happy to see you move up in the world, while others sneered from the sidelines.

It didn't matter to you, regardless. Ty, your best friend and a newly appointed Second Lieutenant, is the only person you need beside you to face the career change. And she's even more elated than you are. It's been three days, but she's remained star-struck, especially by the glamour of her new badge and uniform.

"I can't believe this is actually happening," she repeats for the third time in two hours. "Wonder when we'll get to see our new guns."

"Seventy-two hours and you're already chomping at the bit for target practice," you comment with a smile. She's still playing with the golden stars on her coat as she walks, and you nudge her in the shoulder to remind her to stop.

"Don't pretend you're not antsy either. If the rumors are true and they have our names engraved in them, you're gonna shit yourself," she says with a wink.

"Fleet personnel are forbidden from tampering with company equipment, especially for cosmetic purposes,” Damien interrupts with his objective voice. “It's sanction number twelve if you need more clarification on the matter.” There's no admonishment in his tone, but no humor either. You and Ty look at each other, biting your lips to keep the laughter from escaping.

Damien proceeds with his lecture until everyone is at one side of the bay. Masses of opaque grey clouds melt into the surrounding concrete and you could almost forget you’re at work. The city without-a-doubt lives up to its name—the sky is your haven in every sense of the word. 

You always dreamed of flying away one day and it seems possible now more than ever.

That is until a masculine hand yanks you from the edge of the runway, the strength of his forceful fingers burning your right bicep. "Watch it!" a voice you've never heard before cuts through the air, domineering and deafening.

Within seconds, your face is inches away from Caleb Xia. The colonel’s violet eyes sear through your own while his shoulder-length hair blows in the breeze, letting the edges of his wolf-cut glint in the sunlight. 

The only information you gleaned on the colonel came from company paperwork and sultry whispers of nurses and comrades. Never expecting to see him in person, you took all the gossip as myths at worst and warnings at best.

Now, you see why the rumor mill spins with his name on each spoke.

"Did you forget this base is almost five thousand feet above Linkon? You could kill yourself if you're not careful." His voice is threateningly calm. On-lookers would say his demeanor is on the cusp of normal if it weren't for the intensity of his gaze, the heaving of his chest, and the tightness of his fingers around your upper arm. His grip loosens, but his stare remains staunch.

You gulp and respond in haste to avoid furthering your newfound embarrassment. "Apologies, Colonel."

Though his grasp releases, his gaze lingers across your face and you wonder what assumptions he's making in his mind. Have you already stunted your career growth before it's had the chance to bloom, like a seed plucked too quickly from the soil?

"Are these the new lieutenants for Squadron Eight, Damien?" Caleb says the words without looking at the major. His words come with an aura of mystified disdain, and your jaw clenches. Initially, you were nervous in his presence, but now you feel talked down to and rightfully agitated. One mistake during a first impression did not dictate your entire worth to the fleet. Ty sees your eyes beginning to blaze, and she pleads with her own for you to calm down.

You grind your teeth together to keep a response from leaving your mouth, but the second the next words come off of his tongue, it's over. "Looks like this one has to remember the boundaries of her bearings."

"Nobody asked you to remind me of my faculties, Colonel Xia. I'm more than capable of that responsibility."

Suggested edit: Preparing for Caleb’s harsher words—or even another death grip on another one of your limbs—he chuckles instead. The edges of it sting your pride once again. He beckons your group of three to walk alongside him. Only then do you realize his second-in-command, Gideon, is standing by and waiting for the colonel to finish his impromptu business.

Clearly, Caleb has other plans.

You remain close to Caleb's side as the other three in your party stay a distance behind, all of them clearly intimidated by the man at your left. You walk for a while before stopping a few meters away from a set of aircrafts parked on the opposite runway. They're painted with the classic fleet colors of gray, black, and red, along with their squadron numbers marked in white text on one side.

After clearing his throat, Caleb smirks. "If you're so aware of things, you must know the fleet wouldn’t exist without the power of our arsenal." He turns to face you head on again, expression hardening with a smile so bright it stuns you. "So, First Lieutenant, what was the original—"

Too easy.

"The C-5M Super Galaxy was the prototype for the fleet's F35s. Taken from the American Airforce until its dissolution in 3012, the bones of that plane are in use today across all our operations through the Deepspace Tunnel and beyond," you finish Caleb's eventual question seamlessly. 

But you refuse to look at him directly and instead train your gaze on the faraway planes, tracing the slopes and curves of their structures in a loop. "The only alteration the fleet made to the C-5M," you continue, "was lighter aerodynamic design so squadrons and cargo could move across the space-time continuum more efficiently."

You can't contain your smug smile or how wide it spreads before you turn to meet Caleb's eyes once again. "And that's just for our carrier crafts. Do you want the origins of our reconnaissance and bomber planes too, Colonel?"

In a move you don't expect, Caleb's expression softens. An emotion lurks beneath his irises; it refuses to let the smile meet his eyes. He still steps forward again to shake your hand, his touch much gentler than before. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. You may actually survive moving up the ranks."

Silently, Caleb motions for Gideon to make their exit. Damien stutters out a comment on needing to speak to the colonel further about a different matter, leaving you and Ty alone to reflect on whatever that intrusion was. Caleb doesn't look back once, but you sense the longevity of his purple eyes lingering over your form. The ghost of his presence still pierces past your muscles and buries deep into your bones, even as he continues further down the strip of pavement toward the fleet's headquarters.

"So, he seems like a peach," Ty comments first before a breathless laugh spills from her lips. "He is very attractive, though."

He's definitely something, you think to yourself. You're just unsure of what that something is.

"Firearm accuracy estimated as follows: ninety-four percent. Firing distance could be a factor in the remaining six percent deficit. Please practice again for an updated calculation."

The Shotbot's cheerful voice threatens you, or at least you think so. It wants you to throw its spherical body across the room with the way it taunts you. Back when you were too green, you might have. But you have to be better than that, calmer than you used to be. Quality results for a lieutenant don't come in haste, and definitely not with heightened emotions.

"Will do, bitch," you mutter, breathless from the exertive exercise. You kick a few spent shell casings on the training floor as you walk back to the practice bench, your hammering heart in tow. You place new bullets in the magazine, one at a time with quiet precision until it feels hefty in your palm again. The gun's weight lowers your frantic heartbeat, your rushing pulse steadying to an even tempo.

When chaos is all you’ve known, you make peace with storms and weather through until they’re over. Weapons make weathering those storms easier.

A deep chuckle comes from one edge of the training space, and you recognize it like a windchime above your front door despite only hearing it a few times. It holds curiosity with a sharp gleam. Its sound cuts through you like a knife as its owner waits to see if it's worth striking what's on the other end of the blade.

"Ninety-four. Is that your personal best?"

You laugh, but it's too airy to hold any emotion. It's more for theatrics than anything else. Your gun clanks sharply on the bench when you set it down.

You turn to see Caleb staring you down smugly in his tank top and sweatpants, training clothes immaculate in comparison to your crew shirt and spandex shorts drenched in sweat. You don't let his appearance faze you, though. You keep your spine straight and your face steadfast as you reply. "What's yours, Colonel?"

Caleb tsks, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I asked you first, bluebird." Seeing the surprise in your eyes, a laugh erupts from him again. "Don't freak out. It wasn't that hard to find your old code name."

"You were investigating me?"

He contemplates his next words with a pout. "Think of it as gainin' intel. It's a small part of my job description to oversee the new fish in our big pond. Especially one so close to drowning the other day."

You roll your eyes, leaning back behind you to grab your pistol. "I think we established that I can handle myself just fine."

"Prove it."

You quirk an eyebrow. "You want more oral history on the fleet? You could've just said so."

Caleb's smirk sits in contrast with the tick of his jaw. A million emotions flash across his face, but it's indecipherable past the two tells he's shown. He raises a hand, and your gun shoots out from your palm. It whips through the air until it lands in his own. "Hand-to-hand combat. I'm curious to see if your accuracy is better in this facet of battle strategy."

Damn him and his gravity evol.

Many comrades of yours who fought with him on the frontlines commented on his physical manipulation of guns, melee weapons, and even body parts that left them stunned. He clearly knows how to use it to his advantage, particularly in times like this to humor himself.

"Will you be using that trick of yours when we fight?"

He shakes his head, crossing his heart with the hand not holding your weapon. "Promise," he responds, but you don't trust it. Not until you see him in action.

Caleb can't figure it out.

He's dodged most of your combos, your left fist considerably weaker than your right. Has to be her stronger hand, he thought when he cleared another punch aimed for his jaw. He even landed a small jab to your ribs after one too many exertions left you open in a reckless move.

Yet you're still standing.

You remain stubbornly active in the fight all the same, throwing more hits out and blocking where you can like you haven't exhausted enough energy already. Caleb has to respect the moxie you possess. It's admirable for any soldier to continue on in the presence of an opponent who outnumbers them in a multitude of ways.

You won't win; he knows this. But the hope in your eyes—coupled with the thought that you still believe you can—confuses Caleb further.

He likes your eagerness to find his weak spot in the fight, the vulnerable point that will give you the upper hand. It begs the question of what he still has yet to learn and admire about you. This then leaves him in a stalemate with his original set of unanswerable questions: Who are you? What is it about you that's pulling me in? Why do you remind me of someone I don't want to remember?

Caleb's questions turn into frustration as the fight carries on. He regrets starting this at all. He wishes now you would concede and admit defeat, throw down your arms and stop stirring up the contents of his heart that have sat comfortably untouched for so long.

He could finish this dance and let all of it go, accepting the fact his curiosity will peak here with no definite resolution to his inquiries.

Still—

"Damnit, just quit already," Caleb barks. He hits and blocks faster in an attempt to drain what's left of your stamina.

You laugh, the sound deflated from your fatigue but still possessing a spark of challenge. "That'd be too easy."

Caleb doesn't recognize he's pinned you down to the floor with both his body and gravity evol until he feels the rubber of the floor mats against his calloused fingertips. You gasp in surprise when you fight to get up with no success, his evol keeping you supine. Your reaction spurs more of his irritation to the surface, the emotion rising faster than he's prepared for.

"You have no self preservation, do you?" he asks with bite. His body is equal parts taut and tense above you. Both arms rest on either side of your face as he tries regaining his composure. His chest bumps yours with every respective inhale and exhale you both take.

You smirk up at him. "Just enough, Colonel."

A metal bard pricks Caleb’s side, thankfully not yet piercing his skin. With each inch pressing harder into his skin, it cuts through his tank and the threat of it puncturing his skin is unnerving. But you don’t let it, not when you’re the one controlling it.

Caleb may not know much about you, but he estimates you won't go so far as to kill him during the first week on the job. At least, he doesn't think you will.

He huffs a breath of surprise, his interest spiked more than before. "Your file never said anything about an evol."

A corner of your mouth quirks up, and his breath catches. "Nobody ever asked."

He feels like a teenager again, caught sneaking out by his Gran or flunking a big exam. To name the ticking in his chest feels impossible. The time bomb is indecipherable, one Caleb doesn't know the wiring for.

"Ninety-seven."

Your eyebrows quirk, the skin between them folding. Caleb commits the expression to his memory without meaning to. It's too cute, somehow. "What?"

"My accuracy. It's ninety-seven," he whispers. His lips are a few feet away from yours that are molded into a small grin. Both of your sweat-covered faces sit a handful of breaths apart.

It's unprofessional, his behavior. From using his company clearance to dig into your file to training with you like this, he sees every misstep he's taken to get to this point and recognizes what an idiot he is. He should pull away quickly before he moves any closer, and he knows he will.

But an unnameable force tugs him down, holds him there in the moment for a little bit longer. He's helpless; the damn weighted bomb in his chest won't let him escape.

You look around the room in a clear display of nerves, unsure how to continue. "I need to get back to the armory. Ty will be looking for me."

Caleb nods like he's ready to let you go. His own survival skills kick in, telling him to sit up and step away from you. "I'd say," he starts while recollecting himself, "your evol would be incredibly useful in battle. I'll update your file to reflect this fact and consider your potential for upcoming missions."

You rub your sore arms and wrists as you acknowledge his words. "Noted, Colonel. Thank you."

He clears his throat suddenly, hiding the blush of his cheeks behind his fist. "Caleb is fine, Lieutenant. I think we've skipped the need for titles when we're in situations like this."

"And what situations are those?" you jest.

Caleb chuckles. You ride the ebb and flow of his emotions like a wave, your banter a match for his without much effort. He likes that, too, maybe a little too much. "When we're alone, I guess."

You giggle too, so softly he thinks he imagines the sound. You stand up from the floor with weak limbs, but you manage to extend a hand to him in agreement. "Also noted, Caleb."

Caleb may not understand it or you just yet, but once he does, he'll be able to put it to bed for good without issue. Only then will he feel less tepid, less like something inside of him has just cracked.

Caleb wasn't kidding when he said he would consider you for future missions because of your evol. It was only a month into your new position when your squadron became a staple of the fleet's recent set of cleanup jobs and intergalactic conquests. You liked to assume it was by your own merits and not due to the glowing recommendation Caleb passed to his higher-ups, but you knew better.

Slowly, you proved you were capable of more than even Caleb anticipated. Despite your efforts, it didn't stop conspiratory eyes passing over you when you and the colonel were in the same vicinity. He sure gets close whenever she's around, don't you think?

The murmurs of your comrades couldn't keep you from doing your job, though. It may have chipped at your patience day after day, but you could only show so much of your crumbling resolve. You initially believed the fleet was all about space travel and battlefields. Now, you realize it's a tightrope of commands and surface-level courtesy, a constant rotating door of fighting and pony-showing.

The return to Skyhaven for a few days is necessary, to say the least.

Exhausted and drained, you slept in until noon the first day you arrived home and ate takeout alone for the first time in months. You could do as you see fit, with nobody to answer to or have under your wing. Your apartment is as messy as you left it, but you prefer it that way. 

And now, walking through the city via the intricate skyway bridge, your battery recharges with every step. Almost thirty hours ago on the aircraft you called your second home, you were on the verge of fraying from the ever-present spotlight. Now, you can be a silent spectator without a title or set of responsibilities. It may be for only a few more days, but it's enough.

As you watch the cotton-candy clouds adorning the dusk sky, your mind wanders around the same unrelated subject. What’s Caleb doing now? Is he enjoying time off? Did he opt out of a home visit? Is he still working?

Maybe you shouldn't be thinking of your boss's boss in this manner, but you have to assume it's normal given how much time you spend together. Besides, neither him nor anyone of importance is around to tease you, so what does it matter?

"Galileo, wait!"

The second before you’re given the chance to shout, a gargantuan German shepherd tackles you, forcing your back to the ground with her forepaws. The pup, apparently named Galileo, brushes her brown and black fur against your cheeks, sniffing and licking your face as you sit up by your elbows. Why she opted for kisses as a greeting to a random stranger instead of a bite, you don’t know. 

But you recognize the owner in question like the back of your hand. He runs up to the both of you, his eyes blazing with horror. "Shit—Gal, come here!"

At Caleb’s command, Galilea jumps off your lap, circles around him, and sits perfectly in front of him with a pleased expression. Her tails wags as she awaits Caleb’s behind-the-ear scratches. Clearly, she loves him, letting you finally release the chuckle caught in your throat from meeting her. 

Caleb joins in on your laughter with his own. This time, it's not accompanied by the cockiness or calculation you're used to. It's carefree, light but stuffed with pleasant surprise.

You quirk an eyebrow up at him. "Is this how you charm women? Stick your dog on them?"

He extends a hand out to you, chest still rumbling with humor. "Only the pretty ones. Can't help Gal for knowing the difference."

You're about to bite back with a snarky comment—Oh, so you think I'm pretty, Colonel Xia?—until you flinch.

You feel the burn from your palm coming into contact with his, realizing your skin is covered in scrapes from the fall. What felt like nothing from the fall now feels like the sting of a thousand papercuts.

"Damn," he exclaims. "You need to disinfect those now." He helps you up by the elbow rather than the hand, so gently you think he's mistaking you for a feather instead of a full-sized adult. His gaze lands on the towering apartments at the bottom of the bend. "We need to get you back so you can get cleaned up."

"Yeah, I have a first-aid kit in—" A sudden realization cuts your sentence short. "Caleb. Did you look up where I live in your intel-gathering mission?"

Caleb smirks. "Gotta be thorough, right?" He releases you to tug on Galileo's leash, signaling for her to start walking again. As you both follow suit, Caleb says, "Besides, you can't be upset at me. That's no way to treat your neighbor."

Some time after the two of you make it to Caleb’s door and you stand by as he rifles through his cabinets, he appears from the bathroom with bandages and ointment in his hands, his steps quick and deliberate. "This won't take long."

You giggle to yourself, stifling the laughter with the back of your hand. When a crease forms in his brow, you say, "Why do I get the feeling you've said that line before?"

Caleb chuckles and brushes you on his way past you, patting the spot next to him on the couch once he sits down. "Careful, Y/N. I don't think it's wise of you to make assumptions."

Caleb's apartment in the building opposite of yours is immaculate, not a speck of dust or any embarrassingly opaque stains in sight. He expects absolute precision when you're on the base, so it shouldn't be a shock he's as regimented in his everyday life.

Galileo settles near Caleb's feet as he inspects the wounds on your hands. "They're really shallow. Shouldn't need more than a few days of bandaids and antibiotic cream."

You huff a breath. "Didn't think you could pass yourself off as a doctor, too."

He rolls his eyes playfully. "I know a guy, who actually is a doctor. Taught me a few tricks before I joined the fleet."

You hiss when the first splash of ointment coats your cuts. The pain ebbs once Caleb rubs the cream in, the numbing agent working quickly. "Better?" he asks.

"Much. Thank you."

He hums, pleased by your gratitude. He takes a bandage and begins unwrapping it, careful not to tear the plaster. Your eyes flit across his living room as he works on your hands. Many see him as an enigma, an uncrackable puzzle. But sitting between his legs as he mends the cuts still spotting with blood, you realize there's two men in Caleb Xia that only few people get the opportunity to witness.

This fear-inducing colonel, someone who you initially found to be far too patronizing, is one half of him. He takes no prisoners, does not ask before he does, and seems to chill every man below him to the bone. Yet, this part, the Caleb that is often hidden from public view, intrigues you to no end.

He has few friends yet clearly dotes on his dog, many chew toys on the floor the only form of disarray in his space. He plays his role in the sky with domination and smugness, yet has shown intense care for you that goes well beyond normal boundaries. And, funnily enough, he seems to be incredibly efficient at assembling airplane models, many plastic aircrafts lining his bookshelves.

You don't know this Caleb like you do the colonel, and yet it feels like you could figure out what makes this version tick easily if given more time. And you want to discover those ticks, so much it rattles you. Maybe it's because some part of you recognizes his framework, his ease with being comfortable alone. Or maybe it's because he gives you the same inquisitive stares you're starting to throw his way.

Is he as curious to understand you, too?

"Wanna share your thoughts with the class?" Caleb asks with a close-mouthed grin. A dimple pops out from his cheek, one you didn't notice before.

"What made you want to join the fleet?"

Caleb laughs, but it's entirely artificial. It's too measured, more careful than careless. You can tell the difference by now. "I thought I would find answers to this thing that happened to me a long time ago. And once I realized I wouldn't, that it was a dead end that didn't really have a resolution, it was too late to turn back. Now, I like the shiny attire and equipment."

You giggle at the tail-end of his answer. "Is that why you climbed up the ranks so quickly? Because you were on a search for something that mattered to you?"

"That, and I'm devastatingly handsome. Who wouldn't want to see me in a colonel's uniform?"

The smile on your lips doesn't wane, but the remainder of his answer comes back to the forefront of your mind. His need to repair what broke him a long time ago flicks at one of your subconscious nerves viciously, although you don't show it on your face. He senses it though, looking up at you with those violet eyes brimming with curiosity. You know he wants to know how you would answer without him having to repeat your question back to you.

"I wanted to belong," you confess. "I've always been very out of place, no matter how hard I tried to fit in. At school, at the foster home…" You trail off, immediately regretting sharing such a private part of your life. Caleb may be friendly, but is he truly a friend, someone more akin to Ty than Damien or Gideon? "The fleet's always given me structure, a purpose to fulfill, friends that understand what it's like to struggle and succeed together. Ty used to think it was crazy to like being on the brink of death all the time, but—it's better than being alive and alone."

You hoped Caleb wouldn't laugh at you or craft a funny comment in response to your honesty, but you're more than relieved to find your hope in him wasn't misplaced. All he does is nod and continue fixing up your hand, a solemn expression dressing his face. "I didn't grow up in a traditional home, either. I had a caretaker and…a sibling, but…" The muscles in his face tighten, his jaw bone practically protruding from the skin. He has to be biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from going completely over the edge. You've never seen him like this, skating past his usual composure to leave himself incredibly open.

You shake your head at him, unable to see him torture himself further. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I thought since you told me the truth, it's only right to do the same."

The smile Caleb gives you in response upends all the contents of your stomach, stuff that has to be the makings of both butterflies and livewires. As he takes your bandaged hand in his, his breathing regulates itself as your skin touches. He rubs the outer edges of your palm with his thumb, and your previous regret eases a little. It makes you believe the needle is moving closer to friendship, to being safe in your vulnerability. Maybe even something more. You've never been good at emotions or letting them fly freely, but with him, you want to be.

And that makes a piece of you shift back into a place, a piece you believed was buried way before you could give it a home.

An hour into the gala, Caleb's ready to go home.

The liquor tastes too cheap for him to be drinking on purpose. The rooftop venue overlooking the entirety of Skyhaven isn't anything special, sans the twinkling lights surrounding the bar and dance area. And Caleb's schmoozed more than half of the current partygoers a million times before this event, so there's nobody worth impressing tonight.

Worse yet, the person Caleb wants to put his effort into talking to hasn't shown up, and most likely won't.

"Parties aren't my thing," you told him a few days ago on the aircraft, taking you both home for another mandated break. "Besides, it's for some brigadier general's retirement right? Nobody will notice me missing."

Caleb does, though—so much so that your absence twists in his gut.  In every search he's done across the sea of faces for your daring eyes and smart mouth, he grows more restless. Does that not matter to you by now?

"Smell this," Gideon interrupts Caleb's thoughts with a drink an inch from his face. The younger guy practically dumps all the liquid onto his boss's jacket in the process of…whatever he's doing.

Caleb sets his whiskey sour down on a nearby glass table. "Man, kiss my ass."

"Seriously! That battlefield medic Anya gave it to me, and I can't tell if it's laced with a love drug or something."

Caleb sniffs the rim lightly. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, but it's cute how inept his subordinate is to this stuff. "Smells like a classic strawberry margarita to me."

Gideon huffs. "You say it like I shouldn't be concerned."

"Because you shouldn't be. Be grateful someone's interested in buying you a drink in the first place."

"Says the guy who hasn't gotten any since his DAA days," Gideon spits back before taking a sip of his margarita.

Caleb has the next barb on his tongue, prepared to strike Gideon like a viper eager for an easy kill, but it disintegrates. He can't be bothered with a comeback now, not as he loses all sense of gravity seeing you walk through the double doors like a vision.

Your dress, bordering between modest and suggestive, is the richest red Caleb’s ever seen. Like a ripe apple ready to be plucked from a tree. The silk hugs your curves while the drop sleeves show off your shoulders and neckline—a mouthwatering view. 

Caleb shouldn't look at you like a dog with a bone dangling in the air in wait, but he doesn’t remember why. Even if he did, would it matter? He’ll gravitate back regardless, the instinct to admire you like second nature. It’s easy, letting you to steal every coherent thought from his grasp. All that matters right now is you and the garment that's inducing his lust-filled eyes and dry mouth that begs for some form of relief.

No— not just any relief. Caleb knows this, knows the name of the remedy he seeks. But he doesn't know if it's worth it to cross that line, lay himself bare for you when he's been burned before.

Then again, he was burned for not risking anything back then. Perhaps he should do the opposite this time.

Just as he's about to greet you, he sees an underling that he knows too well creeping over to steal the honor first.

Caleb's body has to be on fire from the way the sight in front of him eats at his flesh. Jace Lee, a major above your rank but leagues away from Caleb, pulls grins and giggles from you like a charlatan with a cheap magic trick. And you feed into his ploys, entertaining a man that isn't Caleb with no hesitancy.

He wants to scream, kiss the idiot's jaw with his fist, and pull you away from this place without a second thought. The feelings that bubble to the surface are almost foreign. He hasn't felt this way since…well…

He downs his whiskey in a few sips before excusing himself from Gideon's side. He saunters to you and Jace, and he sees your demeanor change. It's a lot clearer now, the curtain lifting with every step. Jace is a courtesy, a polite conversation you have to entertain. But when you see Caleb coming over, your amiable smile becomes one of challenge and eagerness just for him.

It can't be in his head what he's witnessing change before him. "Jace, pleasure to see you. Apologies for missing you before." Jace eagerly takes the higher-ups hand. Caleb lets the idea of clenching down with a vice-grip level of strength pass across his brain. He can't be an asshole right now, not when you're this close.

Caleb then takes your hand and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, his own action creating an electric tingle in his spine. "You clean up exceptionally well."

Trying to hide the new color on your cheeks is of no use, but he finds you captivating all the same. "Thank you, Colonel. Actually, Jace and I were talking about a new carrier mission planned for next month. Can I find you later?”

As if you needed to ask.

Caleb retracts his hand and nods all the same. His heart rests in his mouth as he walks away to leave you to your conversation. It remains there, heavy and pulsing, when he walks to the bar to order a glass of vodka. 

Caleb shouldn’t feel jealous right now. He thought his jealousy ended with the thoughts he had long ago about MC, his heart a tangle of emotions he had no words to justify unraveling back then. Now, you’re the cause for his undoing, and he’s unsure how to reconcile the war in his heart.

He orders another drink with a shot of tequila. The alcohol burns as it slides down his throat, but it doesn’t matter to him. He’ll drink anything if it helps to take the sting away from his racing thoughts and unkempt feelings.

Caleb stirs in his bed with the urge to rise quickly and find you. He’s unsure how he’ll get up with a dull ache in his skull from all the drinks he consumed, but all he knows is that he can't take it anymore—the unsaid words, the tension in every sinew that he’s composed of, the way he yearns for you.

In the haze of liquor, he remembers your arms wrapped around him on your way into his apartment, body hefty but his thoughts heavier as he came through the door.

“You looked really pretty tonight. I forgot to say so. I mean—You always look beautiful, but this dress is…” He ran his fingers over the material, each passing of his hands against the silk torturous.

“Thank you, Colonel.” Your giggle caused a deep knot in his chest.

 “I wanted to kiss you the second you walked into the bar,” he confessed, bashful despite the boldness of his words. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, actually.”

Your body tensed as you dropped him on the bed, but you still ran your fingers through his hair, admiring each gold-spun strand like a treasure.

“Sleep it off, Caleb.” You looked at him so gently; it drove him crazy to not press his lips to yours then and there. “Tell me all of this when your head's clear in the morning.”

Nothing could have kept him from remembering every word and action. He’d say it all again on a loop if you wanted him to. He tossed and turned in his bed two hours after that, willing the fog of alcohol to clear from his brain. If he waited and saw it pass, then he could do what he's wanted to this entire frustratingly slow night. 

He definitely can’t wait until morning. That's not possible.

Now, with a semi-sober head and a chest overflowing with desire, right now, he needs to know for sure what you want before he goes any crazier.

He tiptoes into the living room on bare feet, trying to stay quiet but still focused on his mission. His heart clenches seeing you belly-down on his couch, snoring lightly with no blanket or pillow to provide you comfort.

The guilt creeps down his body for leaving you in this state while he was buzzed, but relief runs straight past it once he realizes you didn't leave for a reason.

You wanted to stay; he can't imagine the pain he would've felt if you hadn't.

He sits on the ottoman nearby and runs his fingertips over your cheek, his feelings firm on his palate yet partially stuck in his throat. Saying the words came so easily with liquid courage, yet repeating them is like walking through quicksand.

"Wake up, bluebird," he whispers. The only other sounds outside of his voice are your gurgles and whines from being pulled from your dream.

The minute your eyes open, a hazy smile creeps past your teeth. He feels his heart ease and jackhammer in the same second.

You rise from your spot with a yawn. "How are you—"

Caleb doesn't give you a chance to continue your question. He presses both hands to either side of your neck and acts rather than thinks, slamming his lips down onto yours.

The moan that slips past his mouth when he presses his tongue to the roof of yours is instinctual; it's too good to keep quiet about. He presses you into the cushions behind your head as he kisses you deeper and longer without reservation. Maybe the key to the courage he needs is savoring every bit of you he can before releasing it all verbally.

When you part, a string of saliva connects your mouths together, and he almost groans again at the sight. He wants to go back to kissing you breathless and forgetting the rest of the world around you both exists, but he needs to say the words again so you know he means it.

“You told me to tell you this when I had a clearer head," he whispers. "And I think it’s more than clear now.”

One breath to focus on the present moment. Another to quiet the fear. And one more for good measure.

"I want you. I've wanted you for weeks, and I can't stop myself. So don't ask me to…unless it's not what you want." A piece of his heart withers at the thought that your first kiss could also be your last, but he continues on. "I'll do my best to walk away and we can stay friends, but if you feel the way I do, let me give you all of me. Because it's killing me not to."

By the end, he isn't sure if he's breathing. With the quiet contemplation on your face, he's questioning if you're breathing as well. Dying on that couch in front of you wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, forever eager to know the thoughts swimming in your mind. If he has to go out that way, so be it.

Then, one side of your mouth quirks up, and he thinks he might see another day of existence. "Show me how much you want me."

Your words are his wreckage and his freedom.

In a flash, your dress is draped over the ottoman like it’s worthless. Caleb's an inspector by nature, a pilot who looks on all sides before committing to a course of action. He has to admire each line of your body with a kiss. Take his time with each pass or squeeze of his hand on your skin.

He pays great attention to your chest specifically, kneading one breast as he keeps the opposite one's nipple in his mouth. Sucking, biting, tugging. He's not innocent, and you should've known the second you met him. But it's another thing to experience the sin he's eagerly providing, and he doesn't mind teaching you every lesson he has to offer.

You're incoherent by the time his hands rest on your hips, mumbling and moaning in a language he gathers isn't English. He's itching to take your panties off, but is too enraptured by the wetness that's soaking through the fabric to do so.

"You're drenched, sweetheart." Caleb kisses the damp spot on your underwear, your puffy clit thrumming from the sensation of his lips, even through the cotton barrier. "This all for me?"

You nod like it's all you know how to do, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. "Only for you."

He chuckles darkly and pulls the panties to the side. His tongue licks a fat stripe across your folds, taking its sweet time on the trail up to your clit. A wanton sigh escapes your lips from the sensation. 

Another laugh escapes him from your eagerness to meet his lips with your center. “You’ve never felt this way before, have you, sweetheart?” he asks between more licks and slurps. “Nobody’s ever touched your pussy like this?”

“Shut up,” you respond breathlessly. He continues on, lost in lust and admiration for your body. Why did it take so long to get to this point?

"You like it, beautiful?" Caleb asks rhetorically, knowing the answer in the way you raise your hips to meet his face. "Do you like how my tongue feels?"

"Yes, yes—oh fuck—yes." It must be hard to form logical sentences once he slips a finger through your wetness. He sets a pace meant to scissor you open thoroughly. What will it be like when his cock is inside of you? It makes him ache between his lungs thinking about it.

His mouth wraps around your clit as your walls clench around his digit, eager to keep it inside when he retracts. "You’re sucking me in so well." Caleb admires the view, his hand exiting and entering you like it's where it's always meant to be. "Maybe I'll keep you like this forever. Never let you leave and fuck you stupid every second of the day." Another drag of his tongue against your clit, and your breath hitches. "Do you want that beautiful? Want to be here with me?"

"Of course, please," you plead. "Oh god, please let me be yours, Caleb. Will you let me?" Most girls confessing such a thing would blush something scalding, but you don't care an inch or a mile. You just want him to let you fall apart, and he senses it.

The urge to whine threatens your lips as he pulls himself off you, but it dies when he yanks his suit pants and underwear down in one swoop. Pre-cum coats the tip of his cock, the skin of his length red and throbbing. He's ravenous by now, his patience up to this point kept him at bay to prepare you for what's been coming. What he's been so eager for the second he pinned you down in that training room.

"I want to feel you around me when you come," he whispers before taking another kiss like a thief in the night. You curse at the taste on his tongue and he hums, pleased in knowing it’s your own arousal. 

Tapping the head of his cock against your clit, he coats it in your arousal like he’s dipping a finger into a pot of honey.

When it presses against your gummy walls, Caleb almost comes right there. He doesn't know how he's survived up to this point without knowing how you feel. If this was what was waiting for him all this time, he's a fucking idiot for denying himself. His hip bones press to yours when he's fully inside, sheathed completely despite the tightness encasing his cock.

He wants to move, but he's too busy staring into your twinkling eyes  already glazed over from pleasure. Thinking back to your earlier question makes him pulse against your heat. 

Will you let me?

He needs to give you the answer before he loses himself in you again. "You never had to ask, beautiful. We've belonged to each other for a long time now." He swallows your resounding cry with his mouth as he thrusts his hips.

It's heavenly, better than any plane ride he's ever taken, the funniest jokes he's ever heard, and all the desserts on the planet combined. It's just the two of you, your bodies glistening in the moonlight and his soul being wrapped up in you like he's wanted it to be since the start.

If this is what it's like to fall, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to hit the ground when it's all over.

He moves at a faster speed, thrusting in and out of you with a precision that is just as sharp as his marksmanship. You bite down on his neck to stop from screaming out in pleasure, and Caleb laughs like he's still drunk. He likes his skin between your teeth more than he imagined.

"That's it, sweetheart," he says between two brutal thrusts. "I want all of it."

All of it you gladly give. Running your nails along his back, you mar the skin there in your quest towards your high. You thrust up and into him with your own hips, and Caleb almost loses it then. You're too good at this, too perfect for even his fantasies. "God, sweetheart, I'm gonna come if you keep it up."

"Do it," you murmur. "Fill me up, Caleb. Give me all of it so I never go without you again."

That does him in, like Icarus flying too close to the sun. He falls without protest or trepidation. And you fall with him, clinging to his shoulders as ropes of his cum coat your insides white. It's warmth, heat, desire overflowing past maximum capacity.

Caleb clings to you in the aftermath like a life preserver, chin in the crook of your shoulder and his hands tightly wrapped around your middle. You feel spent and sticky, but he still litters kisses all over your skin like you're the oasis in the middle of a desert. You've never looked more beautiful.

And when you stare into each other's eyes coming down, your shared arousals seeping out from where you two meet, you both know everything has changed.

"Caleb, I can't breathe. Loosen up," you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

The ends of his sweat-soaked hair tickle your neck as he nuzzles in closer. "I can breathe for the both of us just fine."

"Caleb!" You turn in his hold to protest further, but he steals another kiss from your lips before you can gladly give it. Once again, like a bird called back to its flock, you're lost in him. And, in you, he's found.

He's freed from the fear you're going anywhere without him. The physical reminders you're here keep his doubts at bay.

They keep him from admitting how much of a liar he is. How he's keeping a part of his life from you. How he'll always tuck away the fraction he's certain will make you run from him without a second thought.

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@filmnings @innocygnet @prkhaven @frenchkisstheabyss @xomakara @tinycatharsis @pinkjellyz @bambiihee @xylatox @asiatic-apple @humanjarvis

© 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗞𝗘𝗨; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[blxssom-221]

Watching Caleb ! �� ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 1.3k

a/n: this was another request!! yk who you are anon <3 hope this was okay!

content: voyeuristic reader, exhibitionist caleb, solo masturbation, slight dirty talk, praise kink (caleb), you guys match each other's freaks

––

You feel it the moment you shift closer. He's hard. Really hard. Right against your thigh. You freeze, your heart leaping in your throat as you pull away.

"Caleb, I'm sorry—"

"Hey, hey." His hand darts out to wrap around your waist to keep you from going too far, his voice strained. "Don't worry about it. I can... handle it later."

Guilt prickles your skin.

"I know," you start, the words muffled as Caleb kisses you again. "I wish I weren't so nervous.. I mean, I want to do things with you but I—I just—"

You're ranting now. You can feel him smiling against your lips, like your rushed words are somehow endearing.

But it's all true. For the past few months, all you guys have done is hold hands, kiss, cuddle a little, maybe even tease the idea of doing more, but never actually following through.

And Caleb never pushed you. Never. If anything, he was always the one who pulled back when he felt you tensing.

"Pips, I promise it's fine."

Then he's kissing you again, slow, like maybe his lips will convince you.

But you shift again, and you feel him again; he must be painfully hard. And you know Caleb. He'll endure this for hours if it means your comfort.

"Does it hurt..?"

Caleb lets out a breathless laugh against your lips. "No. I'll be fine," he repeats.

You swallow hard, your heart racing. "Maybe it wouldn't be so scary if... if I got to watch first."

Caleb blinks, gently pulling back to look at you. "Watch?"

You nod, biting your lip. "Only if you wanted to."

His breath hitches. Then slowly, he starts again, "You.. want to watch me—" He pauses, clearing his throat like saying it out loud in front of you is more embarrassing than actually doing it. "Jerk off?"

Your cheeks flush a dark red, nodding again. But when he's silent, you quickly blurt out, "But you don't have to—! I'm sorry. That was weird—"

Caleb shakes his head. "No, no. I just... wasn't expecting that is all." He hesitates for half a breath, searching your eyes—then he slips his underneath the waistband of his sweats and starts tugging them down.

"I can show you if that's what you really want."

He's shaking, his breath a little uneven. Whether it's from need or nerves, you can't tell. Maybe it's both.

"I do."

"Are you sure?"

You nod, pulling back to watch him.

At that, he tugs his sweats the way of the rest down and starts palming himself through his boxer. He's slow. Teasing. Not deliberately, he just can't help it. He's been like this for hours. He wants to make sure he wrings out every drop of his release.

He lets out a small breath when he thumbs the underside of his cock.

Your breath quickens, heat pooling in your stomach as you watch him.

There's a damp patch on his boxers when he finally tugs them down to free his aching cock. He's been leaking the minute he started kissing you. But again, your comfort always came before anything else.

Carefully—almost like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind—he wraps his hand around himself.

He meets your gaze, his dick twitching at the way you just... stare. You look at him as if he's something sacred and pure. Not as what he is—filthy and so desperate for you it hurts.

"You..hahh.. you're really gonna watch me?"

Your eyes dart up to his face. "Yes.. I really.. wanna see how you do it."

Caleb groans, his grip on his cock tightening. "Yeah, okay."

He strokes himself faster. Just slightly. Enough to feel a familiar heat creep up his spine. "Oh, fff—" He bites his lip, eyeing his glistening cock. "I'm.. I'm so sensitive right now."

You blink, then quietly ask, "Is it because of me?"

Caleb grunts, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back. "Yeah. Because of you."

This type of stuff has always scared you. The male body part always has. But you find an odd sense of comfort in Caleb.

He just looks so good—every part of him.

"T-talk to me.. Fuck.. Please?"

Your mouth suddenly feels dry.

"I don't—I don't know what to say. You just..." You squeeze your thighs together, heat rushing between your legs when he looks at you like that. So expectantly. So devoted.

"You look so good like this." Your eyes dart down to his weeping head and you lick your lips. "So pretty."

Caleb groans, pre cum leaking out and coating his fingers. "Y-yeah? You think I'm pretty?"

You nod.

"Say it. One more time."

You feel a lump in your throat as you slowly breathe out, "You're so pretty."

Another strangled sound slips past his lips as he rocks his hips into his touch.

It's unfair, how he can look so good doing such filthy things. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks every time he can't handle looking at you, sweat clings to his brow, and his stomach curves inward whenever he strokes himself just right.

"What are you thinking right now?"

Caleb lets out a breathless chuckle, the sound caught between a moan and a groan. "Nng'no. No, I can't tell you that, Pips."

Oh, God.

“Please tell me,” you whisper, your voice smaller but firmer.

Caleb groans, jaw clenching. “Pips… fuck… I shouldn’t.”

“I want to know,” you breathe, leaning closer, your pulse hammering.

His hand stutters around his cock; he can’t stop.

“I’m thinking about…" his eyes flick over yours like he's debating whether he's really about to say it. Then— "I'm thinking about how pretty you’d look on your knees for me. Mouth open… fuck… begging to taste.”

His voice breaks, shame and desire blending together. “God, it’s so fucked— I shouldn’t—”

But your thighs clench, heat pulsing so hot it hurts. "No. Please tell me more."

His hand stutters over his cock, lips parting on a broken pant. "I—I might come too fast." Even as he says it, he doesn't slow down. He keeps working himself over at the same pace like he can't help it.

Because he can't. Not when you're staring at him like that and leaning closer like you need to memorize every debauched second of this.

"I want to know what else you're thinking."

"Pipsqueak..."

"Please."

Caleb gives in with a groan. "I'm thinking about.. how I wouldn't last a second in you," he admits, his hips jerking into his hand. "One thrust and I'd—hah... fuck—I'm gonna—"

He tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut. He can't even warn you before he's cumming.

He gasps, his muscles growing taut as he gently works himself through his orgasm.

He's a mess. His chest is heaving, his breaths are leaving him in broken little pants, and his shirt is stained in his cum.

Caleb breathes hard, looking at you through hazy eyes.

"Holy crap.. I didn't—I didn't expect that to feel so good."

You can only stare. He's still so beautiful. Even after he's been wrecked.

You don't know what possesses you to do this next. But wordlessly, you grab his hand, bring it up to your lips, and lick off his arousal.

Caleb shudders, his dick giving a valiant twitch as your tongue swipes across his fingers.

"Sh—shit. Pips, wait, it's probably salty."

When you pull back, Caleb's brows are furrowed with concern. But you just lick your lips and give him a sheepish smile.

"It tastes good."

Another twitch.

Caleb groans. "Don't say stuff like that. You're gonna make me hard again."

A quiet laugh bubbles out your chest. "Maybe I can watch again..?"

Caleb huffs, bringing his (not cum slick) hand around the nape of your neck and pulling you into a soft kiss. "Fine. But give me a minute, yeah?"

You nod, smiling against his lips. "Or maybe I can actually try..?"

"No, no, you don't have to do anything you don't want to, Pipsqueak."

"I want to."

"..Really?"

"Mhm.."

Caleb huffs, squeezing his eyes shut. "Okay, give me a second then."

You giggle, kissing him back.

––

WORKING AS FAST AS I CANN‼️

go to my taglist if you want to be notified for future posts! 🫶🏻

taglist (tysm for all ur support!! <33) : @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @heartyluv @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @beaconsxd @haleaf @politefawn @colonelpantysniffer @villainessobsessed @lioria @inlovewithsylus @tired7o7 @justwinginglife @itsmysmut @bitewiththis @littleboomerang @aenishas @inzayneforaj @opalesquegirl @sudenuryg @lamogliedizayne @rurushow @viviiswrr-d @rina-lidou @puppytruther @animegamerfox @00haru00 @thelittlebutton @lilacsandhysteria @syncaleb @meulilac @horanghaeegr @astheskycries @perfect4taehyung @rychltruly @sylusqt @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @peachlycheetea @calebsbabyapple @goochfiddler99 @lewdcifer778 @minivia @bidisasterforevermore @c-l-stinnett @thesevro @mindnumbed @alysaria @astr4lbedo @love-and-deepstrays

[blxssom-221]

cw: pussy slapping/impact play (?), dacryphilia, gege mention at the end

The first slap of Caleb's hand to your pussy has you jumping in surprise, draws a surprised moan straight out of you as your eyes shoot open in shock. Your hands immediately scramble to his biceps, needing to touch him, needing to ground yourself.

Your gaze meets violet eyes, mischievous and daring before he does it again. This time, the sting travels up your hips and your walls clench around air.

"Caleb," you call but you're not sure if you're scolding him or asking for more. All you know is that Caleb's unable to wipe off the smirk donning his face, studying you, watching to see how far he can push it.

"What," he asks, mocking in just the slightest. His fingers press into your folds, dip into your dripping mess and then drag the wetness along your cunt. "Do you want me to stop?"

You can only purse your mouth in response, tongue between your teeth as you bite back a "yes" because the truth is, you don't want him to stop. But you don't want to admit that you want him to keep going. How could you dare to let him win?

It's a losing battle anyways. (Is it?)

Caleb laughs at your silence and then brings his hand down once more. Harder. Hard enough that tears spring to your eyes from impact.

He swallows the cry from your mouth with his own, tongue slipping in to taste your sweet whimpers as he fucks his fingers into you until you’re reaching your peak.

He leans in after, tongue sliding up your cheeks to clean the tears that trail down them.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re such a good girl. Gege is sorry. Xia Yizhou shouldn’t be so mean to you.”

[blxssom-221]

[Yami returns after a mission]

Black Bulls: WELCOME BACK CAPTAIN YAMI!

Yuno, arm wrestling with Asta: Hey.

Leopold, also arm wrestling with Asta's other hand: What's up?!

Yami: Hello my favorite idiots and the two idiots who never seem to hang out in their own squads.

[blxssom-221]

[blxssom-221]

Private Signal

Summary: You stumble across Caleb’s camboy stream one night—curious, anonymous, and intent on staying invisible. But his quiet confidence, soft dominance, and unfiltered authenticity start to unravel you. What begins as a guilty habit turns into a slow-burn obsession… until the unthinkable happens: you meet him in real life. And he recognizes you.

Drawn together by undeniable chemistry, late-night conversations turn into touch, and a private moment becomes something deeper. Caleb isn’t performing anymore. And neither are you.

As walls come down and control shifts between you, you’re both forced to ask: is this still just fantasy? Or have you finally found something real?

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

pairing: camboy!caleb x reader

tags: modern au (college), slow burn tension, not-so-secret identities, drama, romance, eventual smut, second person POV, loneliness, emotional vulnerability, minor insecurities, sexual intimacy, sensuality, fluff, you’re both D1 yearners, body worship, teasing and flirting, emotional confessions, mutual obsession, streaming world

warnings: explicit language, sexual content (18+), voyeurism themes, dom/sub undertones but also switch!caleb and switch!reader, reverse power dynamics, riding (cowgirl), unprotected sex, fingering, cunnilingus, MINORS DNI.

word count: around 7.5k

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

You find him on a Tuesday night, half by accident, half by algorithm.

The screen glows dimly against the soft dark of your bedroom, a gentle reminder that you haven’t had real human interaction in over 14 hours. It’s not that you’re lonely, not exactly. It’s just that you’ve grown too comfortable being alone—letting your laptop hum in place of conversation, your favorite streamers talk at you instead of to you. It started as background noise while you worked on grad school applications, then morphed into something closer to routine.

But tonight’s different.

Tonight, the thumbnail that catches your eye isn’t vulgar. No flashy filters. No explicit title screaming for attention. Just a man with a lopsided smile and the name “Caleb | Just Chillin’ 💻” hovering above a modest view count.

You almost scroll past. 

But something about the way he looks at the camera—like he’s not trying to sell anything, like he’s inviting you into something slower, quieter—makes you pause. Just for a second.

You click.

The stream opens with him laughing, eyes scrunched up and soft, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to broad shoulders. His hair’s tousled like he’s run his hands through it one too many times, and there’s an unpretentious intimacy to the setup: no neon lights, no fake moaning, just his laptop perched on a desk in what looks like a real apartment. 

“—no, I’m telling you, I almost short-circuited the entire board,” he’s saying, talking to the chat like he’s mid-story. “I was soldering at 3 a.m. with one eye open. Never again. I’m not losing my eyebrows to robotics.”

A few scattered emojis flood the chat. He grins at them, and you don’t realize you’re smiling too until you catch your reflection in your screen.

He talks more about his engineering project. Answers questions. Occasionally someone tips him, and he thanks them with a warm, genuine softness that feels entirely unscripted.

It’s ten minutes in before he leans back and adds, almost offhandedly, “Anyway, you guys didn’t just come here for me to rant about AI and lose my voice. You want something else, yeah?”

His voice dips then—like the drop in temperature before a storm rolls in. A subtle but deliberate change. He drags his chair back slightly, leans closer to the camera with a look that’s both lazy and precise, eyes hooded under the soft fringe of his hair. 

“Tell me what kind of night it’s been,” he says, voice lower now, slow like honey. “Long day? Need to unwind? Or maybe you just… missed me.” 

He smirks—just a little—but there’s no arrogance behind it. Just the soft awareness of someone who knows he’s being watched. Someone who likes being watched. 

You don’t type anything. You just watch. 

He doesn’t rush. Caleb never does. He starts by stretching one arm behind his neck, muscles flexing under the sleeve of his shirt as he yawns like it’s innocent. His other hand drifts down, skimming the edge of his waistband in that maddening, unhurried way he does when he knows he has time—when he knows they’ll all wait.

His gaze flicks to the chat, and a slow smile curves his lips.

“I know some of you had your hands down your pants since I logged on,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie. I can feel it through the screen.”

He unbuttons his jeans without looking down, letting the soft sound of metal and denim click through the mic. It’s deliberate. Controlled. There’s something almost ceremonial about the way he eases the zipper down, his thumb grazing the fabric underneath. 

He palms himself through his briefs, exhaling slowly. 

“Not even hard yet,” he says with a soft chuckle, almost like he’s talking to himself. “You guys are too easy.”

But his breath hitches just slightly as he presses his hand down firmer. His thighs shift wider. His free hand rests lightly on the desk, fingers curling in toward the keyboard as if resisting the urge to grip the edge.

The fabric darkens with the pressure. He runs his palm over himself again, slower this time, more intentionally. His hips twitch. 

You’re already breathless. 

“You ever have one of those nights,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “where you don’t even wanna come right away? You just wanna feel it for a while?”

His eyes flick to the screen again. The pause drags deliciously. 

“Yeah. I think that’s tonight.”

He pulls his briefs down enough to free himself, and the soft, low sigh he lets out as he wraps a hand around his cock is almost intimate. Like he’s alone. Like you aren’t watching. Or maybe because you are.

“Feels good already,” he murmurs, pumping slowly, base to tip. “Been thinking about this all day. About someone watching. Wondering if they’re turned on, too. Wet. Hard. If they’d touch themselves the same way I do…”

He trails off with a groan as his hand twists subtly on the downstroke. 

His head tips back slightly, mouth parted. He keeps the rhythm lazy, almost teasing himself more than anyone else. His thumb slides over the head, spreading the slick there, and his breath catches—just once—but it’s enough to make your stomach twist. 

“I don’t think I’m gonna last long,” he admits, jaw tight, hand speeding up just a little. “Not when I picture someone on the other side of this screen with their legs open, just… watching me. Quiet. Like they can’t breathe.”

His hips lift once, involuntarily. He gasps—soft and ragged—and you see his knuckles go white on the desk. 

“You’d let me watch you too, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, eyes locked on the screen. “You’d let me hear how you sound when you come. Bet it’s pretty. Bet you’d say my name.”

Your thighs clench, your breath shaky. The chat erupts, but your attention is fixed on him.

Caleb groans again, desperate now, the rhythm falling apart with each stroke as he chases the edge. 

And then—

“Oh, fuck—“

His voice breaks, his body tensing as he comes with a gasp, hot and slick over his stomach and fingers. His jaw slackens, eyes heavy-lidded but locked on the camera, as if he can see you even though you haven’t typed a word. 

He rides it out with a low, satisfied moan, slowing his strokes, breath hitching with every aftershock.

And then—quiet.

He exhales slowly, catching his breath, chest rising and falling. He glances at the screen, cheeks flushed, sweat shining at his collarbone.

There’s a long pause before he speaks. 

“You still with me?” he murmurs, soft and hoarse.

You nod, even though he can’t see.

And for one stupid second, you swear—

It feels like he’s smiling just for you.

When you finally log off, your chest feels a little lighter and your skin a little warmer, like he handed you something you didn’t know you were missing.

You sleep better than you have in weeks.

—•—

It doesn’t become an obsession.

Not at first. 

You only tune in again two days later, drawn back by something you can’t quite name. Maybe it’s the way Caleb’s voice fills the room, warm and steady, or the way his fingers tap thoughtfully on the edge of his desk as he talks through his day. The screen flickers softly in the dim light, but it feels like he’s speaking directly to you, not the faceless crowd. 

Then the next week. And the week after that.

Soon, you start checking the sidebar for his username like it’s a small beacon in the noisy sea of online chatter. When you see him go live, your heart flutters—a mix of excitement and hesitation. You tell yourself it’s no big deal. You’ve watched streams before. This is normal. Casual. 

Except it’s not.

Because Caleb doesn’t just undress.

He talks.

And not in some sleazy, artificial way, the kind you’ve seen too many times before. No desperate calls for attention or forced coyness. Instead, he reads comments with the relaxed energy of someone catching up with friends in a coffee shop, like every username in the chat is a familiar face. When he makes a terrible pun about quantum physics, you can’t help but smile—even if you’re the only one watching. 

He slowly tugs off his shirt like it’s no big deal, like peeling away layers after a long day. The casual ease in his movements makes it feel intimate, not performative. 

And he’s so pretty it’s disarming.

Not just conventionally hot—though he is that, too—but the softness in his gaze, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs genuinely, the slight flush that creeps up his neck when someone tips too generously or sends a flirtier-than-usual message.

He never fakes anything.

No act, no mask, no performance.

That’s what gets you.

You find yourself looking forward to his streams the way you used to look forward to lazy summer nights in high school: aimless, glowing with something slow, secret, and full of promise. You imagine the quiet hum of his voice as background music to your evenings, a balm to the weight of your day.

You never comment. Never tip. Never leave a trace of yourself behind. 

But you’re there. 

Always there. 

Sometimes you wonder if he’s looking for you. 

Not you, specifically—how could he? You’re just one of a few hundred names flickering silently on the viewer list. Invisible.

But still. 

There are moments—small, impossible moments—when it feels like he pauses right where you’re watching him from. When his eyes flick just slightly to the left, gaze heavy on the screen, like he’s searching for something he can’t name.

Like he knows someone’s out there who isn’t saying anything.

Someone who’s just… watching.

And somehow, it always feels like he lingers for you. 

He has a habit of talking to the silence between comments. Long stretches where the chat quiets down, and he’s not doing anything provocative—just sipping water, or leaning back in his chair, absently rubbing the back of his neck. Like he’s giving space for someone to speak up. Someone who’s been holding back. 

Your chest tightens every time.

But you don’t type. You stay quiet.

Because this—this ritual you’ve created—isn’t about being seen.

It’s about seeing him.

And God, you do.

You see the way his voice softens when it’s past midnight and the chat slows to a crawl. The way his fingers ghost over his lower lip when he’s thinking. The way his knees bounce when he’s excited about a new build, a new schematic, a stupid story from class. The way he laughs—completely unguarded—when someone catches him off guard in the chat.

And you see the way his mouth parts when he starts to touch himself.

That’s the part you never expect.

How quiet he gets. How reverent.

He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t perform.

He sighs like he’s been waiting all day. Slides his hand beneath the waistband of his briefs like it’s an exhale, not a show. You can see the way his breath stutters when he starts stroking himself, his lashes fluttering as his head tips back against the chair. 

He talks through it sometimes—not dirty, not loud—just murmurs. Describing what he’s thinking, what he’s imagining. And the longer you listen, the more you realize it’s never a fantasy about being watched by a crowd. Not really.

It’s always one person.

One pair of hands. One mouth. One voice.

And you start to wonder if maybe you’ve slipped into his imagination too. 

You’re lying in bed one night, the screen dimmed low, the glow from Caleb’s stream flickering softly across your sheets. He’s been live for twenty minutes, humming to himself between lazy conversation and half-formed thoughts about some new robotics project.

He’s wearing a loose black hoodie and nothing underneath. The zipper’s halfway down. His chest is just barely visible beneath the fabric, and his hair is messier than usual—he’s been running his hands through it all night, fingers tugging distractedly whenever he gets flustered reading the chat. 

He laughs at something. Looks directly in the camera.

“Some of you are too quiet tonight,” he says casually. “Lurkers, huh? It’s always the quiet ones.”

Your stomach flips.

You tell yourself it’s not directed at you.

It probably isn’t.

Except the way he says it—soft, teasing, almost like a dare—makes it feel like it is. Like he knows you’re there. That you always are.

You stare at the blinking cursor in the chat box.

You’ve never typed anything before. Not once. You’ve always liked the safety of silence—the invisibility it gave you.

But tonight… something’s different.

Maybe it’s the wine. Or the way he looks right into the lens like it’s just you and him in the room. Or maybe it’s the way you ache with the quiet loneliness of wanting to be seen.

Your fingers move before you can talk yourself out of it. 

“Been here the whole time.”

You hit enter. The message appears between a flood of usernames and tips and emoji spam.

You immediately regret it.

But he sees it.

You know he sees it, because he pauses. Just for a second.

His brows lift—just slightly. A smile curves his lips. Not a smirk. Something softer.

“Have you?” he murmurs. His voice drops. “That’s good to know.”

The chat moves on like nothing happened. He doesn’t.

Every so often, his eyes flick back to the lens. His voice shifts—lower, more careful. He starts directing his words less toward the crowd and more towards someone singular. Someone watching. Someone who’s always watching.

You.

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

The coincidence shouldn’t be possible.

But then again, the city’s smaller than you give it credit for.

You’re at your favorite café downtown, lost in your laptop and a very bitter americano, when a familiar voice reaches your ears. Just a casual hello to the barista, a murmur of thanks—but it cuts through the low hum of chatter like static.

You freeze. The voice is too distinct. Calm, warm, easy.

Your head lifts instinctively. And he’s right there.

Caleb. 

Not the one behind a webcam. Not filtered through your screen in dim lighting with chat scrolling beside him. The real version—soft olive hoodie, black jeans, and the same tousled hair that never quite obeys gravity. 

He’s tucked into a booth near the window, bent slightly over his laptop with a half-eaten croissant beside him, one long leg stretched out and taking up space like he owns it.

You stare. 

Too long. 

His head turns—subtle, but sharp—and your eyes meet.

His lips twitch into a crooked smile. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Do I know you?” he asks, voice low and amused, like the start of a private joke. 

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You stammer something incredibly unconvincing—“You look familiar”—and immediately regret it.

He cocks an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. His gaze flickers down your frame once before returning to your face, the smile deepening. “Yeah? You sure it’s not just deja vu from all the late nights?”

You freeze. 

That’s not a guess. That’s a test.

You scramble to play it cool. “Maybe,” you say, trying to sound casual. “You just have one of those faces.”

“Oh, I do,” he agrees easily, a glint in his eyes. “The kind people remember even after closing their browser.” 

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

He’s enjoying this. Not in a cruel way, but with that same slow, teasing edge he uses on stream—like he already knows what you’re thinking and is just waiting for you to admit it out loud.

Then, after a beat: “C’mon, don’t make me guess your screen name.”

Your breath catches. “I never use it.”

“Mm.” He taps a finger on the edge of his cup. “Lurker.”

You want the earth to open up beneath you.

Instead, he gestures to the empty seat across from him. “Well, mystery lurker—might as well sit, yeah? I promise I’m less intimidating in person.”

Against all reason, you do.

You slide into the seat, feeling off-balance and way too warm. He watches you settle in, chin propped lazily in his hand, like this whole moment is just a continuation of a conversation you haven’t even started yet.

“Didn’t expect to get recognized,” he says, tearing a piece off his croissant and offering it to you. “But I’m flattered. You’re cute when you panic.”

You glare at him, cheeks burning. He grins wider, unabashed. 

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice softening a little. “I’m messing with you.”

You take the croissant. Bite it just to have something to do with your mouth. It’s buttery, flaky, criminally good. Probably the best thing you’ve tasted all week. 

He leans forward a little, nodding towards your coffee. “Black, no sugar. You look like someone who drinks caffeine and spite.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

“I mean that in a respectful, deeply impressed way,” he says. “It’s a vibe.”

You laugh, despite yourself. He smiles at the sound, then holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

“Glad you came over,” he adds, quieter now. “I like knowing who’s behind the screen.” 

And just like that, the teasing eases into something gentler. Something real. He’s still playful, but the sharpness gives way to warmth—to genuine curiosity. You talk. You ask about his robotics project, and he answers with excitement in his voice and flour on his sleeve.

He listens when you tell him what you do, leans in a little closer when you say something smart, something funny.

He doesn’t treat you like a fan. He treats you like someone he wants to know.

You thought seeing him in real life would shatter the fantasy. But somehow, Caleb is even more dangerous in person—because he’s real. And kind. And charming in a way that doesn’t feel scripted. 

And when he leans back in his seat, lips parted around a smile, eyes flicking back to you like he’s memorizing the way you look at him—

You know exactly what kind of game you’re in.

And you’re no longer sure who’s watching who.

—•—

The cafe is quieter now.

The lunch rush has passed, and the staff have switched the playlist to something softer—lo-fi guitar and rain sounds humming beneath the warm clink of mugs. Outside, the light is changing, filtering through the windows in long golden stripes. Time feels stretched.

Caleb’s coffee is long gone, but he doesn’t make any move to leave.

Neither do you.

He’s still leaned back in his booth seat, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes fixed on you in that quiet, searching way. Not devouring. Not interrogating. Just… watching.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice low and a little husky.

You nod before you even think about it. “Sure.”

He tilts his head. “Why’d you never comment?”

The question hits harder than you expect. It’s not even accusing—just curious. Honest.

“I mean,” he continues, lifting one shoulder in a soft shrug, “you watched. Regularly. I felt you there. Always the same time. Always quiet.”

You grip the edge of your coffee cup. “You noticed?”

He nods. “Yeah. There’s this… presence. Energy, I guess. I pick up on things like that. Someone lurking, but consistent. Focused. And your username? That little message you finally dropped?”

He smiles, slow and knowing.

“I knew it was you the second you walked in here.”

You flush, instinctively wanting to shrink into yourself. But you don’t. Not under his gaze. Not when he says it so gently, like it’s something special—not strange.

“I guess I just liked watching,” you say quietly. “Without… being part of it.”

He hums. “Fair. There’s something intimate about silence, isn’t there? Something private.”

You nod. And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then he leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose. 

“But you’re not silent now,” he says. “You’re here. Sitting across from me. Talking. Laughing. Looking at me like you don’t know what to do with your hands.”

Your throat tightens.

He’s not wrong.

You’re very aware of your body. The way your fingers twitch. The heat under your skin. The flush in your chest that has nothing to do with the coffee. 

He watches you for another beat.

Then, softer: “Do you want to see me again?”

Your eyes snap up to his. 

The question hangs between you like a held breath—not casual, not charged. Real.

You nod. Slowly.

“Good,” he says. “Because I was gonna ask you anyway.”

He sits back, the tension easing out of him like a quiet exhale. He picks up the last bite of his croissant, tosses it between his fingers, then offers it to you with a boyish grin. 

“I’ll even buy the next coffee. But only if you admit you’ve fantasized about me at least once.”

You laugh, more startled than you mean to be. “Caleb—“

He leans in again. That grin never fades.

“Twice, then?”

Your cheeks burn. 

He winks. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

And in that moment, with the golden light spilling across the table and the warmth of his smile blooming under your ribs, you realize something:

This might be the beginning of something you didn’t plan for.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t mind not being in control.

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

You hesitate outside his apartment door, heart thudding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips. He told you it was casual. Just coffee again. “No pressure,” he’d said over text, with a winking emoji that made you roll your eyes and bite your lip at the same time.

But there’s nothing casual about how nervous you are when the door swings open.

Caleb leans against the frame, barefoot, wearing a soft white t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His hair’s still damp from a shower, curls resting in soft waves over his forehead. 

He smiles the moment he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm, calm—like this is just another stream, another Wednesday. “You came.”

You swallow. “You invited me.”

He steps aside and gestures you in. “And you said yes. That’s the important part.”

His place is minimalist but cozy—concrete walls softened by warm lighting and mismatched furniture. There’s a half-unpacked drone kit on the coffee table, a stack of worn philosophy books on the shelf, and a sweater flung over the arm of his couch like he forgot he lived here alone.

“I was gonna offer wine,” he says, walking into the kitchen, “but I figured you’re more of an iced coffee at 9 p.m. type.”

You blink. “How did you—?”

He grins, pulling two cold brews from the fridge. “You’re not the only one who notices things.”

You settle onto the couch while he hands you the drink, his fingers brushing yours. The touch is fleeting but sends a slow thrill up your spine.

For a while, you talk—about anything but streaming. About books. Music. The kind of weird engineering problems he’s trying to solve this week. You ask questions, and he answers like he’s talking to a friend he’s known forever.

You ask about the little robot arm half-assembled on his desk. “What’s it supposed to do?” 

“Technically? Assemble circuit boards,” he says, leaning forward, suddenly animated. “But I programmed it to recognize hand gestures. Eventually, I want it to respond to facial expressions too—like a little assistant that knows when you’re stressed and brings you tea.”

“Or pulls the plug on your stream when you start oversharing.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

And then, somewhere between topics, the silence falls. 

Caleb leans back, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. He’s close now. Too close. His thigh brushes yours, and he doesn’t pull away. His scent—clean skin, faint coffee, something earthy and unmistakably him—wraps around you like static. 

“You’re still nervous,” he says gently. 

You try to laugh it off, but it’s breathless. “Am I that obvious?”

“A little,” he replies, tilting his head towards you. “But it’s kind of cute.”

His hand moves to your knee, slow and confident. Not possessive—more like a silent reassurance. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything, but promises something. Something steady. Something deep.

“I think I make you a little crazy,” he says.

It’s not a question. It’s a truth, laid out between you with that maddening calm of his, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear it fall from your lips anyway. 

You meet his eyes, and there it is again—that look. 

The one you’ve seen in flashes on stream, when the camera catches him mid-thought or mid-desire. Focused. Steady. Like he’s stripping you bare without lifting a finger. 

But now, there’s no camera. No screen.

Now, it’s just for you.

“Noticed it at the cafe,” he continues, fingers trailing feather-light up your thigh. “The way you looked at me when you thought I didn’t see. Like you didn’t know whether to run or climb into my lap.”

Your breath stutters. 

His smile is coy. Controlled. Dangerous.

“You’ve been undressing me with your eyes since the first stream, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because you have.

His hand slides higher, palm warm through your jeans, not rushing—just existing there. Testing. Waiting. Claiming space like he’s always had permission. 

“Go on,” he says. “Deny it.”

You don’t even try.

His hand flexes slightly on your thigh. “You don’t have to be quiet this time,” he whispers, voice lowering into something almost dark. “There’s no chat. No crowd. Just me. Just us.” 

You exhale shakily, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. There’s nothing performative in his touch—nothing forced. Every move he makes feels precise but natural, like he’s reading your pulse through the palm of his hand.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear.

“So tell me what you want.”

You shiver. And he waits.

Patient. Still. He could sit there for hours, letting you set the pace, even as he hovers like gravity itself—ready to pull you in the moment you ask.

And that’s what undoes you.

Not the heat. Not the closeness.

But the control he gives you without ever letting go of his own. 

“I want you,” you whisper, barely audible. “I’ve been wanting you.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His eyes are darker now. Less amusement, more intention. More need. 

“Yeah?” he says softly, searching your face. “Say it again.”

“I want you.”

And then he kisses you. 

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just real.

His mouth is warm and slow against yours, lips moving with the kind of hunger that simmers under control—not a storm, but something deeper. Like he’s savoring you. Tasting you. Memorizing the way you respond to him.

You melt into him instantly—fingers threading through his damp hair, your breath hitching as his hands settle at your waist, grounding you. You can feel the tension in his arms, not from hesitation, but from holding himself back.

When he shifts and pulls you into his lap, it’s effortless—like your body belongs there. Like he’s done this before in a dream he never told you about. 

His fingers brush under the hem of your shirt, knuckles tracing the warmth of your skin. Every touch is a question, every brush of his lips a slow escalation. 

“You’re even better up close,” he murmurs between kisses. “I should’ve known.”

You laugh softly, dizzy from the heat of him, from the way he handles you like something both precious and already his. 

“You’re not what I expected,” you whisper. 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. “No?”

“No.”

A beat. 

Then he leans in again—this time kissing you harder, deeper, like a silent challenge.

“Good,” he says into your mouth. “I’d hate to be predictable.” 

He’s not performing. And neither are you.

This isn’t a stream. There’s no audience. 

Only touch. Breath. Heat. 

And a connection that’s been building far too long to hold back now.

His lips skim down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s tracing every heartbeat with his mouth. You tilt your head back, breath catching as his hands explore—fingertips dragging under the hem of your shirt again, this time firmer, bolder. But never rushed. Caleb touches like he’s savoring the shape of your responses, learning what makes you melt.

He pulls back to whisper, “Can I?”

You nod, breathlessly. “Yes.”

He peels your shirt upward and off, languid enough that the fabric brushes every inch of your skin. His eyes drop, drinking you in with a kind of hunger that isn’t about conquest—it’s about worship.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re even more beautiful up close.”

You don’t know how to answer that. You just feel your skin flush hotter under his gaze. 

His fingers trace the edge of your bra, teasingly. “You always stayed silent in chat,” he says, voice darker now. “But this? This is the version of you I want to hear.” 

He slips the strap off your shoulder with a featherlight touch. 

“Every sound you make tonight,” he leans in, brushing his nose against your collarbone, “I want to earn it.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and the sound makes him smile—soft and dangerous all at once. 

He moves his hands down, resting them on your hips as he lowers you back into the cushions, kissing down your chest. He unclasps your bra with a practiced flick and pauses to press a warm kiss to the center of your sternum, right over your racing heart.

“Still nervous?” he whispers.

“A little,” you admit, voice breathy.

He looks up at you, eyes heavy but focused. “Good. Stay here with me. Let me show you how easy this can feel.”

He kisses lower. Down your stomach. Down to the waistband of your pants.

He doesn’t speak as he undoes the button—just watches your face while his fingers work with quiet precision. When he finally peels them off, he does it leisurely, reverently, like unwrapping something fragile and deeply wanted.

And then he kneels between your legs.

The sight alone—Caleb on his knees, hands on your thighs, looking at you like he’s about to devour you (and he is)—makes your stomach flutter with anticipation.

“You’ve thought about this before,” he says, dragging his fingertips along the inside of your thigh. “Tell me what I did in your head.”

You’re already trembling. “You really want to know?”

“Oh, baby…” He leans in, lips brushing over the damp fabric of your underwear. “I love knowing.”

Then he presses his mouth to you, over your panties, a gentle kiss that still makes your hips jerk. He grins.

“So reactive,” he says softly. “Bet you’d fall apart with just my mouth.”

He doesn’t wait for permission this time—because he already has it. You gave it with every shiver, every breathless look, every whispered “yes.”

He hooks your panties down, slow and deliberate, and settles in. 

And then—

His tongue is soft, precise. He doesn’t rush. He teases first, long strokes that make your thighs shake, then zeroes in on the spot that makes your breath catch, circling with just enough pressure to make you feel it—then backing off, again and again.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he murmurs against you, voice so low it vibrates through your core. 

You moan, fingers tangling in his hair, and he groans in response—loving it, like every sound you make is a reward. He locks eyes with you while he works, never looking away, watching how your body reacts to every flick of his tongue, every suck, every lazy stroke of his fingers when he adds them—just one at first, sliding in smooth, curling deep until your back arches.

“Good?” he asks, though he already knows.

You nod, but it’s barely coherent. “Yes—God, yes.” 

“Then give it to me,” he says, voice oh so gentle. “Come on, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do.

You fall apart with his name half-formed on your lips, choking out a moan, body shaking under his mouth, breath punched out of your chest like he’s stolen it. He doesn’t pull back until you’ve completely unraveled. 

He kisses the inside of your thigh, as if to say: I’m not done with you yet.

And when he finally lifts his head, lips slick, hair tousled from your fingers, his expression is pure contentment. Lazy, warm, gorgeous.

You pull him up by the collar of his shirt, and he goes willingly, breath ghosting over your jaw, his hands planted on either side of your hips like he’s waiting for permission to kiss you again. 

But this time—you don’t let him.

Not yet.

Instead, you push him gently back onto the couch.

He blinks. Caught off guard—but only for a second. 

“Oh?” he says, lips curving into a slow grin. “Is this the part where the silent viewer takes control?”

You straddle his lap before he can say anything smug again. 

His breath hitches.

The shirt rides up slightly as your thighs bracket his hips, and you press your palms to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath soft cotton. He watches you—completely in awe. Not stopping you. Not even teasing anymore. 

Just waiting. 

You tug his shirt up and off. He lifts his arms without hesitation. Your eyes drop to his chest—lean, defined, scattered with little moles you’ve only ever glimpsed on stream. But this is different. You get to touch. You get to see him flinch when your nails drag across his stomach. His muscles twitch.

“Still think you’re in charge?” you murmur.

He exhales a breathy laugh. “Not even pretending anymore.”

You smile—slow, dark, hungry.

Then you lean in and kiss him. This time, it’s your pace. Deep and possessive.

He groans into your mouth, hands gripping your thighs now—but not guiding. Just holding on. You grind against him, and his head falls back with a low moan.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, this time harder, and his hands tighten. His cock is hard beneath you now—very hard—and you pause, just to feel him twitch through the thin fabric of his sweats. He’s panting now, head tilted up, eyes fluttering shut like he’s trying to stay composed. But he can’t. You’re undoing him. 

So you lean in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Take them off,” you whisper. “Now.”

He obeys without a word, lifting his hips so you can peel his sweats down. He kicks them off and watches as you settle back onto his lap—completely bare above him, skin warm and flushed, eyes dark with want.

He looks like he’s trying very, very hard not to come already. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re dangerous.”

You smirk. “You have no idea.”

You guide him with one hand, teasing him at your entrance—so close but not yet there—and his breath catches in his throat, every muscle tight with restraint. 

When you finally sink down onto him, he gasps.

His hands shoot to your hips, but you grab his wrists and pin them to the couch cushion beside his head. 

“Nuh-uh,” you tell him. “Not yet.”

He groans, eyes squeezing shut as you roll your hips slowly, deliberately, controlling the rhythm.

“You like this?” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Letting someone else take over?”

His eyes open—dark, wrecked, so soft. 

“Yeah,” he whimpers. “Especially when it’s you.”

And then you ride him. Slow at first, then deeper—dragging every sound out of him with every rock of your hips. He’s breathing ragged now, murmuring your name between curses, his hands still pinned, his back arching every time you grind down just right. 

“You feel—so fucking good,” he chokes out.

You move closer, panting against his mouth, dizzy from the rhythm and the weight of his gaze and the pressure coiling low in your stomach. He tries to lift his head, to kiss you, but you pull back—teasing—and he groans like he’s unraveling right beneath you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, lips ghosting his ear. “Who’s in control now?”

He exhales a broken laugh, heaving. “You. God, it’s you.”

“Say it again.”

“You’re in control,” he pants. “You’ve got me, baby—fuck, I’m yours.” 

And when you finally let him touch you—let his hands find your waist, your chest, your jaw—it’s only because you’re right there too.

When you come, you do it together—tangled and breathless, your forehead pressed to his, bodies trembling, gasping each other’s names like a prayer. And when it’s over, when you collapse into him and his arms wrap tight around you, neither of you speak. 

There’s no audience.

No performance.

Just sweat, breath, and skin. 

And something very real beginning between you in the quiet that follows. 

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

You don’t move for a long time.

Your head rests on Caleb’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into something that feels like weightlessness. His arms stay wrapped around you like muscle memory, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your spine. 

Neither of you speak. There’s no need to.

You’re both too full of whatever this is—sated, flushed, wrapped in each other like you’re trying to memorize the shape of the quiet. 

Eventually, Caleb stirs. 

Not to push you away, but to tug the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around you both. He presses a kiss to your forehead like it’s instinct. 

You murmur, “You always this good at aftercare?”

His chest rumbles with a low laugh. “Only when I really like someone.”

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. And there it is again—that same calm intensity. The one he used to give the camera. Except now it’s softer. Vulnerable. Real.

You reach up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You okay?”

He nods, then pauses. “Yeah. Just…” He exhales, eyes flicking away for a moment. “Trying to believe this is actually happening.”

You smile. “It is.”

His thumb strokes your shoulder. “You’re different,” he says. “You didn’t want to be seen—but you watched everything. Quiet, careful, always there. And then tonight…”

You raise an eyebrow. “What? Surprised I took control?”

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head. “Not surprised. Just— impressed.”

You laugh heartily, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “God. What now?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he does, his voice is quieter. “I used to think streaming was the only way I could be… close to people. Controlled closeness, y’know? One-way intimacy. No real risk.”

You lift your head slightly to look at him. His eyes are distant—like he’s replaying something.

“I started during lockdown,” he says. “Not because I wanted to show off or make money—though that didn’t hurt. It was more like… I didn’t know how else to connect. I liked the attention, sure. But it was safe. No one could really get close. Not unless I let them.”

He glances at you, expression unreadable.

“And then you showed up. Present, but unreachable. And suddenly I was the one watching. Waiting. Wondering.”

You swallow, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. 

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” he admits. “You were the first person I wanted to know outside the stream.” 

You trace your fingers along his collarbone, trying to slow the flutter in your chest. “So what does this mean now?”

He looks at you like you already know the answer.

“It means I want you in my real life,” he says. “Not just in my chat window. Not just for tonight. Not just because of the sex—You.” 

You bite your lip. “Even if I’m terrible at flirting?”

“You just pinned me to the couch and ruined my life,” he deadpans. “I think you’re doing fine.”

You laugh again—giddy now, heart full and aching in the best way. He pulls you closer, his nose brushing yours. “You know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think you should guest star on my next stream.”

You groan, hiding your face. “Absolutely not.”

He smirks. “We don’t have to do anything wild. Just let people hear your voice. Maybe sit in my lap, whisper something filthy in my ear. Drive the chat insane.”

You swat him lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m serious,” he says, though he’s still grinning. “I want them to know who’s responsible for the look on my face these days.” 

You blink. “What look?”

He cups your cheek, brushing your hair back. “This one,” he murmurs. “Like I finally got exactly what I wanted.” 

And just like that, the teasing fades again—replaced by something softer. Intimate. You kiss him—slow and tender, with none of the heat from before. Just closeness. Connection.

He wraps his arms around you again, and this time when you rest your head against his chest, it’s not just post-sex warmth.

It’s something steady. Something real. 

And for the first time, you don’t feel like a lurker anymore. 

You feel seen.

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

BONUS:

It starts like any other stream.

Caleb’s in his usual setup—soft lighting, loose hoodie, hair slightly damp like he didn’t bother to dry it all the way. His voice is smooth, lazy as he greets the chat. Casual.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes flicking across the messages flooding in. “Look at all of you. Already feral and I haven’t even said anything inappropriate yet.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretched over his head with a slow, deliberate arch of his back. A few neck veins pop. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The chat explodes.

[user257]: oh we are SO back

[suburban-cryptic]: i’d let him ruin my credit score

[midnightriot]: his VOICE today?? what the hell caleb

[entropy.core]: he’s glowing wtf is that post-nut aura????

Caleb grins, reading one of the messages out loud. 

“‘You look different tonight.’” He tilts his head like he’s thinking. “Hmm. Maybe I’m just well-rested. Or maybe I’ve been… distracted.”

More chaos ensues in the chat.

[wired-and-feral]: CALEB????

[dev0tchaos]: oh he’s BEEN RUINED

[heliumbite]: if he says ‘good girl’ again i’m throwing my laptop into the ocean

You’re behind the camera, just barely out of frame. Curled on his couch in one of his hoodies, sipping iced coffee. Watching him like you always used to—except now, you’re in the room. 

And you don’t think he’s going to mention you. You think he’s just going to do what he always does—tease the chat, toe the line, keep the mystery alive. 

But then—

“Actually,” he says suddenly, glancing off-camera.

To you.

“I’ve got company tonight.”

Your head jerks up. You blink. Wide-eyed. 

He’s smiling. Slow. Wicked.

You shake your head no. Mouth don’t you dare.

He ignores it completely. 

“She’s shy,” he says smoothly to the chat, watching you over the top of his mic. “But she’s here.”

The chat loses its goddamn mind.

[zeroiq]: SHE???????

[aggressivelyvanilla]: girl reveal girl reveal girl reveal girl reveal girl revealgirlrebaek

[bot404]: no bc who is SHE

[ParadoxDeluxe]: he said SHE. WE’RE NEVER GETTING PEACE AGAIN

Caleb leans into the mic, lowering his voice.

“Remember that anonymous message last stream? The one that said I looked like I needed someone to kiss me quiet?” 

He pauses.

Smirks.

“She followed through.”

You make a choked sound from the couch. Caleb just laughs, completely unbothered. 

“Should I let her say hi?” he teases. “I mean… you’ve all been so polite tonight.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed and does not stop smiling.

“C’mon,” he says, turning slightly toward you. “Just one word. Make their whole week.”

You roll your eyes.

Then in the most casual, devastating voice you can muster, you lean in just enough for the mic to catch it and say:

“Behave.”

The chat detonates.

[calebeater]: OH MT GOD

[purplefish_69]: WHOEVER YOU ARE MARRY ME

[clickbaitaddict]: she sounds like she stepped on my throat i am SCREAMING

[calebsimpdaily]: CALEB BLINK TWICE IF YOU’RE SAFE

Caleb is beaming now. Fully leaning into the chaos. 

“She’s kind of perfect,” he says, like it’s just a casual fact. Like he didn’t just drop a nuke on his entire fanbase. 

You throw another pillow at him, and this time he lets it hit him. Grinning like he’s never been happier. 

You mouth, you’re evil.

He mouths back, worth it.

And later, after the stream ends and he turns off the lights and you climb into his lap and kiss him like the whole world’s gone quiet, he whispers against your skin—

“I wasn’t kidding, you know.”

You blink. “About what?”

“Having you on stream again,” he murmurs. “You’re kind of amazing at ruining lives.”

You smirk. “Yours included?”

“Especially mine.”

end.

✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

a/n: Grinning like the Cheshire cat, hands rubbing together like a fly, legs kicking in the air.

Yes, I play Love and Deespace LMAO. I haven’t played for a few months now and I just returned again yesterday. #needthatsobad

(will be crossposted on ao3)

[blxssom-221]

summary. It didn’t matter that you loved him first. The only thing that mattered was that he loved her, and she loved him.  tags. Non!Mc x LADS, angst, hurt/no comfort, unrequited love, reader isnt mc!! now playing.I love you, I’m Sorry by Gracie Adams

“You were the best, but you were the worst As sick as it sounds, I loved you first”

It was unfair. 

Every universe, every dimension, for some reason, you always fell for him. 

A prince, a God, a dragon– every one. You loved him. In every, single, one, you always did. 

He was the best thing to ever happen to you, really. A stretch, but it was true. Soft hands, gentle eyes, and in every single universe, in every life, you were there with him. 

But she was always there, too. 

If he looked at you with those gentle eyes, then the gaze he has every time it lands on MC was sickeningly sweet, gentler– loving. If he had ever held you for a moment, a hug, a handshake, a helping hand, with soft hands, then the way he held her was softer. In those ways, he was also the worst thing to ever happen to you. 

Because just as he became the reason for your heart to beat quicker, he was also the reason why it began to break.

It was truly unfair– how he was the one your heart kept choosing, yet his own heart never chose you. Of course it didn’t, because there was MC.  

In the same way you loved him, he loved her. 

You were always on the side, then, weren’t you? Cursed to watch them fall for each other while hiding the way your heart broke into pieces. 

It’s a sick, sick feeling, especially when you couldn’t help the ugly emotions of hurt, anger and jealousy. Because you loved him first, before she came along. Because you were always by his side before she was, weren’t you? 

It was unfair, how your feelings seem to be nothing but a stepping stone for their love story. It didn’t matter that you loved him first. The only thing that mattered was that he loved her, and she loved him. 

“I was a dick, it is what it is A habit to kick, the age-old curse”

There were times in your lives where you harbored deep resentment for the two. There were moments where your anger, your jealousy got the better of you and you became the worst version of yourself, and you took it out on them. It is what it is, but those were moments that you wished to never repeat. Times and lives that you bury deep into your mind, locked away, but never forgotten so you would never repeat those mistakes again. 

Funny, how even then, you never deemed your love for him as a mistake. 

Because loving him was a curse, and also a blessing. 

You hated him, you hated MC, but at some point, you stopped hating them– because they don’t deserve the hate you had harbored. No, they don’t deserve it. 

Even so, those feelings never truly went away, and even now, as you watch him fall for the Hunter, you couldn’t find it in yourself to even harbor any other deeper feelings other than hatred for yourself, and the feeling of being resigned to your fate.

You were resigned to a lifelong curse of falling for someone you can never have. And that was all you could do.

“I tend to laugh whenever I'm sad I stare at the crash, it actually works”

It was easy. After many lives of pretending, the smile was easy to pull off. The casual “I’m okay!”, the laughs in moments that needed a laugh, and in every life, that was all you could do. 

Laugh. Smile, and stare at the wreck of who you are. 

It works. It made things easier to move past from. But it never truly healed those hurts, did it? 

Instead, it strains your cheeks, it leaves laugh lines that remind you of how much you have to pretend, how much you had to laugh just to keep the underlying sadness hidden. 

Because who are you to stand against fate? 

It never worked in the other lives, so why would it work now?

So whenever MC casually invites you out for a hang out, whenever he greets you with a smile, you nod, you smile, you laugh. Even when seeing them together hurts. 

It was easy to pretend. 

But it never truly got easier on your heart. 

“Making amends, this shit never ends I'm wrong again, wrong again”

It doesn’t matter how many times it happened. The universe doesn’t care what you think about your situation.

It was unfair. But that was what life is. 

You, always the one to fall, and never be caught.

©ahnaiee [do not repost, copy, translate, or modify]

[blxssom-221]

where gravity made you stay

synopsis: It begins with a cake, a candle, and a question:

“But it’s your birthday, Gege,” you whisper, voice tight with longing. “And your homecoming…” He only shakes his head, gaze falling into yours like a vow. “No,” he says, quiet but certain. “It’s ours, Meimei.”

After months apart, you both return, changed, haunted, raw around the edges. But gravity pulls you back together. What starts with laughter and flickering light spirals into something deeper, a night of worship and ache. Bodies relearn each other. Hunger turns feral. Promises are carved in moans, in bruises, in skin.

This is love—unspoken and ruinous. It tastes like frosting and salt. It ends in a whisper, a vow, and the weight of him inside you.

wc: ~31.7k

tags: angst, fluff and smut, emotional sex, penis in vagina sex, possessive behavior, possessive sex, body worship, jealousy, marking, mirror sex, unsafe sex, oral sex, cunnilingus, nipple play, nipple licking, spanking, multiple orgasms, sexual overstimulation, degradation, power imbalance, dom/sub, pseudo-incest, pseudo orthopedics (cn trope), love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, healing sex, reunion sex, slow burn, aftercare, inappropriate use of evol (love and deepspace), birthday sex, hair-pulling, haircuts, neck kissing, kissing, suicidal thoughts, heavy angst, domestic fluff, homecoming

notes: Hi! Thank you so much for clicking and reading this large fic. It’s currently June 30th, the final day of Juneleb/XiayiJune, and though I’m very, very late, I’m also incredibly self-indulgent with this piece. Here it is, a big and filthy slowburn. I hope you'll enjoy it!

“Thank you for visiting! Hope you enjoy the birthday cake. Send my wishes to the lad for me!”

The bell above the store chimed softly as the door closed behind you, a muted thud sealing away the warm glow inside. The soles of your shoes landed on uneven stone, the rocky pavement beneath you slightly damp from earlier rain. Around you, the world moved on without pause, children laughing near the park swings, couples tangled in each other’s arms beneath lamp posts that flickered like stars on earth. The scent of roasted peanuts from a street cart lingered in the air, mingling with something sweet, maybe caramel, maybe memory.

You didn’t move. Your foot hovered mid-step, caught in a moment of uncertainty as your gaze snagged on the radiant glow of streetlights and the silhouettes of unburdened happiness dancing in the distance. Their laughter echoed like a distant melody, muffled and far away, as if you were submerged beneath the surface of a tranquil sea. The world was a postcard, beautiful, distant, unreal. And you stood at the edge of it, unable to touch any of it.

“Hey.”

A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, pulling you back into your body.

“Oh, come on, girl. What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you hate the cake!”

Tara’s voice rang with practiced cheer, her smile all sunlight and effort. She still wore her full hunter’s uniform, the straps across her chest slightly loosened now that the mission, or the shift, was done. Sometimes, you thought she looked like someone out of a dream. Not because she was ethereal, but because your brain kept slipping between what was real and what used to be.

You blinked at her. Then to the side, where Simone stood, ever the quiet observer, her fingers tugging at Tara’s arm to ease her grip off your shoulder.

“Let her be, Tara,” Simone murmured, her voice low, almost fond. The warmth that had touched you disappeared like vapor, like breath on glass.

You pressed a hand to your forehead. A headache, maybe. Or something deeper, a sense of disconnection that gnawed at you. 

Where were you again? What time was it? Why did everything feel like you were waking up halfway through a memory?

You looked down, your fingers tightening around the handles of the paper bag in your grip. It was a luxurious thing, stiff, glossy, heavier than it looked. Orange ribbons curled neatly around the handles, tied like something celebratory. Inside, cushioned carefully, sat a baby blue cake box. The corners of it were pressed in just slightly from how hard you’d been holding it. And on top of the box lay a cream-colored envelope with your handwriting on it, the ink just barely smudged from your thumb. Happy Birthday, it said, written in your slanted cursive like you were still pretending he’d be there to read it.

Ah.

It was his birthday.

Your older brother’s birthday.

Or—no. Not anymore. “Used to be,” your mind corrected bitterly, like a voice that didn’t belong to you. The thought pierced something soft in your chest, something that hadn’t fully healed. You couldn’t even remember letting go of the bag, but the moment your brain caught up, it was already too late. Your fingers had loosened, and the whole thing slipped from your grasp, dropping with a sickening thud onto the rocky pavement. The cake hit the ground hard, the impact tilting the box, crushing one of the sides. The sound broke through the street noise sharply, enough to jolt Simone into pausing mid-sentence, Tara spinning on her heel to look at you with wide eyes.

But you didn’t meet them. Couldn’t. Everything around you blurred, a ringing in your ears muffling even their worried voices. You were too busy spinning, spiraling—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb. The name echoed inside your skull like a storm siren, so loud it made you dizzy. Your heart twisted violently, your breath stuttered. You missed him. You missed him in a way that hurt your bones. You missed him in the way your body remembered grief even when your mind was trying to forget. These past few months hadn’t just been lonely, they had been hollowing. Quiet, subtle, like being bled dry by something invisible. You hadn’t even realized how much of yourself had been carved away until now, standing in the middle of the street, staring at a crushed birthday cake on the ground, and realizing all of this was still for him.

If someone had ever asked you what Caleb meant to you—what he was to you—you wouldn’t have had an answer. Not a real one. The words stayed lodged in your throat like thorns, sharp and threatening, ready to tear your insides if you tried to say them out loud. Some things weren’t meant to be spoken. Some things were too sacred, too complex to be pressed into the shape of a sentence. Because Caleb wasn’t just your step-brother. He was never just one thing. He was your sun, bright and blinding, the center of everything. His love had always been loud, full-bodied, dazzling in its warmth. But he was your moon, too. Gentle. Watching. Always there, even when he wasn’t in sight. You didn’t have to look to know he was around. You just felt him. Quietly orbiting, pulling you back when you drifted too far.

When your grandmother passed and the house went quiet, when you lost the last of what held your childhood together, it was Caleb who picked up the pieces. He was barely more than a boy, still soft around the face, but he stepped into the storm like he was born for it. He worked job after job, long hours that stole the light from his eyes, but he still came home to cook for you. Still called you his girl. Still kissed the top of your head before bed, even when he was too tired to eat. He never complained. Not once. He carried the weight of your grief on his back, made it look effortless, like lifting you was something he was proud to do. He gave everything, until there was nothing left to give. And he smiled anyway. Because that was who he was.

And still, even that didn’t explain it all. Because he was more than your brother, more than your guardian. He was your first ache. The first person who ever made your stomach twist with something too big to name. You tried to bury it, of course. You told yourself it was affection, just too much of it. That the closeness was natural. That the way your eyes followed him didn’t mean anything. But it never left. The feeling stayed. It grew with you, threaded itself into your skin like something inevitable. You learned to smile around it. Learned to watch him love other women and keep your mouth shut. But every person you touched after him was just another way to pretend you didn’t still belong to him. They were distractions, every single one. And none of them came close.

You remembered the way he’d tease you, voice bright with mischief, hand warm around yours as he pulled you through fields of sunflowers taller than your heads. 

"Meimei! It’s almost my birthday. I wonder what my cute little sister has planned for me?" 

His grin was so wide it could eclipse the sun. He always said your name like it was the first word he ever learned, and the last one he ever wanted to say. And you’d snap back at him with a playful sneer, threatening him with the one food he hated most. "Lamian with cilantro?" And he’d groan, scandalized, giving you a dramatic swat on the back while you burst into laughter. That memory felt untouchable now. Golden. Preserved in light.

But what came after was softer. Quieter. He didn’t ask at that time. He just told you. You still remembered the look in his eyes when he confessed, eyes darker than dusk, full of something you’d spent your whole life trying not to drown in. 

"I love you," he had said. Just like that. Like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural truth in the world. Not a single stutter. Not a flinch. And he hadn’t meant it the way a brother says it. He had meant it in the way that made you feel like the earth had gone still beneath your feet. Like every terrible, impossible thing inside you had just been named.

And you didn’t even say anything back. Not in words. You just stepped into his arms and pressed your face to his chest. You held him, felt the shape of the man he’d become, the muscle beneath his shirt, the warmth of him, the strength. You cried. Not out of shame. Not out of confusion. But because, for the first time in your life, love had made sense.

But now? What were you supposed to do with all of that? Where did that kind of love go, when the body it belonged to had been reduced to ash? How were you supposed to keep living with something so large inside you, when there was nowhere left to put it? He was gone. Cold. Buried. Scattered in a place you had never dared to visit. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure you’d survive it. Because some part of you still believed he might come back. That the door would open. That his voice would call your name from down the hall. That he’d find you again like he always had.

But he hadn’t. He didn’t, he wouldn’t.

And still, even now, even like this, you loved him. With every broken, ruined part of yourself. You still did.

“Shit—” Simone’s voice cracked sharply, and you barely caught the flash of Tara’s wide eyes as she turned mid-sentence, alarm replacing her teasing in an instant.

But it was too late. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.

Something inside you had snapped, quietly, soundlessly, like a silk thread pulled until it broke. You couldn’t feel the cold. Or the warmth. Not really. You were aware of arms wrapping around you, Simone from the front, Tara slipping in behind you, their hands rubbing your back in slow, tender motions. But it was all muted, like someone had wrapped your body in glass. Their voices were soft, desperate, calling your name, whispering comforts you couldn’t quite understand. You knew they were trying. You knew they meant it. But the warmth didn’t reach you.

Because he was gone.

Because no amount of hands on your skin could replace the one you’d truly been reaching for. No voice could unburn the image of the explosion. The sirens. The smoke. The way your heart had stopped not from fear—but from knowing. From feeling it, deep and guttural, that Caleb would not be coming back.

“Babe, please breathe... we’re here, it’s okay, I’m so sorry—” Simone’s whisper ghosted against your ear, light and kind, and it broke something else. Because she sounded so much like him. That same gentle cadence, that way of soothing you with her tone more than her words. And if he were alive, if he had stayed, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be falling apart in the middle of the street like this. You wouldn’t be piecing yourself back together every morning, only to crumble the moment you remembered he was no longer real.

You lowered yourself down slowly, knees trembling, and reached for the paper bag. The ribbons were loose, the box dented at the corner, but maybe, just maybe , the cake inside had survived. You swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and stood again, trying to hold your breath steady.

It’ll be fine.

That was the lie you clung to. That had to be enough.

“Don’t worry. I’m alright.” The words came out hoarse, thin, held together by sheer will. You didn’t look them in the eye when you said it. You couldn’t. Not when you were this close to unraveling again. Your friends had been everything to you these past months. Simone’s late-night check-ins, Tara’s chaotic jokes, the way they’d dragged you out of bed and taken you to cafés you used to visit with him, hoping to overwrite the memories.

They tried. God, they tried so hard.

And you loved them for it. You really did.

But even their light wasn’t enough. Not when the person who made you feel alive was buried six feet under and dust in your lungs.

“Are you sure?” Tara’s voice was small now. Wobbly. You turned your head just enough to see the tears welling up in her eyes, that look of fear, not for herself, but for you. “You’re not... going to leave us again, right?”

Her voice broke at the end, and suddenly, both her hands were on yours. Simone joined, gripping your fingers with a kind of desperate love that made your chest tighten. You looked down, at their hands wrapped around yours like chains made of warmth.

And the worst part? You didn’t have an answer.

“I’ll be fine. I won’t do anything rash, I promise.”

The words left your mouth like they cost you something. You squeezed their hands tight, tighter than you meant to, like you were trying to stop yourself from falling apart through sheer grip strength alone. You added a smile, a tiny one, barely there, just a soft pull at the corner of your lips. It didn’t reach your eyes. But maybe it would be enough.

It wasn’t.

They didn’t buy it. Not this time.

The last time they did, they almost lost you to the sea.

You could feel it in their exhale, in the way Tara’s shoulders dropped and Simone’s gaze flicked away like she couldn’t bear to look at you too long. You let out a weak chuckle, something pitiful and dry, like dust caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. You didn’t blame them. You wouldn’t believe you either. Not when you kept doing this, sinking, lying, resurfacing just enough to pretend you were breathing.

You didn’t deserve them. You never had. They were too good, too gentle, too human. You didn’t deserve this kind of warmth, this kind of love. Not when all you did was push it away. Not when every time someone reached for you, all you could do was sink deeper into the dark. His love. Their love. All of it, it wasn’t made for you. It couldn’t be. Because if it was, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have died. And you wouldn’t be here, standing in the middle of a street with a ruined cake and a heart too full of rot.

You were meant for whatever the world’s ugliest things had planned for you. You were born to drown.

“Babe,” Simone said sharply. “Stop this.”

Her hand came up to your shoulder, steadying, grounding. The pressure of it sent heat through your spine, and only then did you realize your chest was rising too fast. You were breathing erratically, your heart pounding like a fist against your ribs, like it wanted out. You blinked hard, eyes stinging, your gaze darting anywhere but at them, anywhere that didn’t look like pity.

You hated this. You hated needing.

But then Tara slipped her hand into yours, fingers lacing with yours with that same ease she always had. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. Her grip was enough.

“Let’s go home, alright?” she said quietly, the calm in her voice like a lifeline. “You’re spiraling. It’s not good to stay out here like this.” They both held onto you then. Not pulling, not dragging, just with you . One on each side, guiding you forward. Their hands didn’t let go. They didn’t leave.

Not like he did.

And yet, at this exact hour, on this same street, you could still hear him. That voice that lived in your marrow.

“Let’s go home, Meimei.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The walk home felt excruciatingly slow, like time had folded in on itself. Their steps fell beside yours, voices carrying stories that should’ve made you laugh. Tara rambled about the chaos at the hunter association, how she’d spilled coffee on the smug bartender they always saw, how Simone accidentally set off the training alert sirens while trying to prank Captain Jenna. It was stupid. It was funny. It was normal. And they told it all like the world hadn’t ended.

You listened in silence. Cradled between them, their arms looped with yours, their laughter brushing the edge of your awareness. They were holding you like you meant something. Like you were still real. But inside your chest, it felt like something was unraveling, slowly, softly. Your mind had split into two. One half walking alongside them under the flickering city lights, the other still standing at the edge of that charred wreckage. Still hearing the alarms. Still watching his body fall into nothing.

And when you finally reached your apartment building, they wouldn’t let go. Tara clung a little tighter. Simone’s grip lingered. There was worry in both of their faces—worry they didn’t know how to mask, no matter how light their words were. Tara tried anyway.

“Go celebrate your gege’s birthday, alright?” she chirped, her tone too chipper, her eyes too wet.

“I will.”

Your voice was quiet, heavy. You slipped your hands from theirs with a reluctant tug, your fingers trailing from their warmth like it hurt to leave. “I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.” You hesitated. Then added, “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t have made it here without you. The food. The decorations. The cake. I know it’s too much.”

They smiled. But not their usual kind. Their lips curved, but their eyes didn’t follow. It was the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying not to cry. And you hated that you made them wear it. You watched them walk away, their silhouettes swallowed by the night. The sky was still open, the stars watching, but the silence felt louder once their laughter disappeared.

The door clicked shut behind you and warmth flooded the space.

Your apartment glowed. The soft orange of the balloons bobbed gently near the ceiling, the blue streamers curled around the curtain rods, brushing the window light. A banner stretched across the far wall, your brother’s name painted in big bold letters. Little cutouts of his first ship, the FY-26, were strung together above the shelves. Plush apples, the ones he always bought for you, lined the couch. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted soy, all his favorite dishes laid out on the table you used to share.

They had done so much. For him. For you.

But something felt off.

It was too warm. Too inviting. Too alive. The kind of homecoming you prepare for someone who will walk through the door with that crooked smile, arms out, voice full of teasing affection.

But he wasn’t coming home.

You drifted into the kitchen and sank into the chair. It wasn’t a collapse. It was gravity giving up on you. You tilted your head upward. The chandelier he’d installed still shone above you, crooked in one corner, but bright. Always bright. Just like he was. Just like he used to be.

But no. You couldn’t fall into it again. Not tonight. Not after everything.

You pushed yourself to your feet, breath shaky but determined. You reached for the paper bag, pulled out the cake box with both hands. It was still wrapped in orange ribbons, the knot a little looser now. You checked the edges. No visible dents. A quiet sigh escaped your lips, half relief, half exhaustion.

Carefully, layer by layer, you peeled the box open.

And there it was.

A beautiful cake, pristine. The frosting a soft orange, clouds of pale pink swirled across the surface. Nestled in the center was a tiny plane made of sugar, shaped just like the one he used to sketch in his notebooks. It looked like a dream he never got to finish.

The tears slipped before you could stop them.

One after another. Hot. Silent.

You wiped them with the back of your hand, quick, desperate, scared they might ruin the cake. You didn’t want to make it sour. Not something this sacred. You sat again, carefully placing the cake in the center of the table, surrounded by all his favorite food. The spread looked like a memory laid out for worship. But it wasn’t a celebration. It was an offering.

And the ghost you loved still hadn’t come to eat.

Sensing the grief choking out the air, you straightened your back and tried to compose yourself. You didn’t want the mood to rot further. Caleb wouldn’t have wanted his birthday to be like this. He wouldn’t have wanted the room to feel like a graveyard. He would’ve wanted joy. Laughter. Maybe music playing softly in the background. He would’ve wanted you smiling, even if your eyes were wet. Maybe he was up there right now, you told yourself, flying near the moons, his wings open like an angel’s, trailing stardust and peace, brushing against people’s wishes and leaving warmth behind.

You let out a long breath and stretched your fingers toward the small striped candle beside the cake. The wax felt cool. Solid. Real. You looked at it for a long moment, hoping, praying, it would be enough to appease whatever was left of him in this room. You pressed it into the center of the cake, watched the frosting squish gently around it. Then, with a flick of the lighter, flame bloomed.

There it was. All of it. His favorite foods. His dream-shaped cake. And you. The only one left beside it all.

You parted your lips, tried to speak, to say something, anything, that could give meaning to this hollow place inside you. But nothing came. Just a soft, broken sigh—the kind that didn’t carry sound, only surrender. The kind that left your mouth like a breath given up. Your throat clenched. Your brow furrowed. You couldn’t even remember how to make your voice work. Your fingers curled into your thighs, nails biting through fabric into skin, and still it wasn’t enough to ground you. You inhaled, long and shaking, chest rising with effort. Once. Then again. You had to be steady. You had to hold still for this.

Then, softly, like something sacred, you began to sing.

“Happy birthday, Caleb...”

The first line cracked at the edges, your voice raw and trembling. The song sat strangely in your mouth, too familiar and too foreign all at once. You remembered all the times you’d sung it before, with laughter in your throat and frosting on your fingers, with his stupid grin teasing you across the table, always waiting for the wrong note so he could interrupt you with a cheer or a kiss to your forehead. You remembered his eyes, bright and expectant. You remembered his laugh. You remembered everything.

“Happy birthday, Caleb...”

The second line was quieter, thinner, like the room was swallowing your voice before it could echo. Your fingers loosened from your thighs and fell limply at your sides. The candle flickered in the center of the table, flame bending gently as if listening. The food sat untouched. The cake glowed with its single stripe of light. You were alone. And the words felt heavier than any grief you had ever spoken.

“Happy birthday, dear Caleb...”

You stopped. The last line refused to come out. Your lips trembled with it, but your lungs wouldn’t push. You could barely breathe. The tears gathered fast, burning at your waterline. You blinked once. Then twice. Then you opened your mouth, and forced the rest of the song out in a whisper.

“Happy birthday... Caleb.”

The syllables were so soft they almost didn’t exist. They were carried off by the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Swallowed by the flickering candlelight. Absorbed into the air like smoke. Your voice cracked on the final note, breaking in half mid-word. And then the tears came, violent and uninvited.

They spilled from you like something rotten bursting open. They were sudden, sharp sobs ripping through your chest. You didn’t try to stop them. You didn’t wipe your face. You didn’t move.

Then, all at once, you did. You turned. You stood. And you ran.

Your feet carried you to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you. The echo of it sounded too loud. Too final.

“Get your shit together—please,” you whispered, banging your head softly against the door. You couldn’t even feel the pain. It barely stung. It was nothing compared to the weight of losing him. Compared to the ache in your bones that wouldn’t leave.

You turned slowly and looked into the mirror.

And there she was. The reflection you didn’t recognize.

You widened your eyes, horrified. How had you become this? You weren’t the woman he had loved. Not anymore.

Your makeup had bled with your tears, streaks of black eyeliner dragging down your cheeks like you’d been crying ink. Your skin, once sun-kissed, glowing, now looked dull, sallow, lifeless. Pale in a way that made you look like something unfinished. Your lips were cracked, bitten raw. You could taste the blood if you licked them. You could feel how often you’d peeled them open just to feel something.

But the worst part, the part that broke you, was your hair.

Your hand reached for it, slow and unsure. You gathered chunks of it, fingers trembling as you tried to smooth it down, stroke it the way he used to. But no matter how much you patted or pulled, it stayed dull. Frizzy. Dead. It didn’t shine like it used to. It didn’t feel like yours. It felt like something borrowed, ruined, and left behind.

It had been your crown. Yours and his.

And now?

Now it was just a clunky mess. Your hair, once your pride, once his favorite thing to touch—had become something else entirely. It no longer shimmered or curled the way it used to beneath his fingers. It hung heavy and uneven, frizzy and limp despite the wash. And worse than its shape was the way it felt. Not to the touch, but deep in your chest. Because it had been touched. Touched by hands you couldn’t name, pulled by strangers in moments you barely remembered, your head pushed back or down, the strands tangled in fists that didn’t know you, didn’t care to. All you could feel now was the filth of it, clinging to your scalp like rot. The memories of their mouths, their weight, the way they handled you, not as someone to be loved, but something to be used. Something to be consumed. You told yourself it was an escape, a way to chase the heat of Caleb’s hands, the memory of his soft tug when he’d braid your hair before school. But it never worked. No one was him. No one ever came close. Each encounter left you colder. Each touch another wound layered on top of the first one that never healed. The bruises may have faded, but the shame stayed. Sharp. Bright. Bleeding beneath the surface.

You yanked your hair hard at the roots, your breath hitching. You felt so—so very tired of yourself. Not just the body, but the memory of it. Sometimes you wished your hair would just vanish, fall off in clumps, disappear like he had. You wanted to shave it all away. It was heavy. Like a weight dragging behind you, reminding you of everything you couldn’t undo. But then you remembered. You remembered how he used to sit behind you on the couch, gently combing his fingers through your strands while you read aloud to him. How he’d hum when he was proud of his braiding, like you were some art he had crafted. Each morning he made it different. A fishtail. A waterfall. A messy bun with blue pins. And every time, without fail, you’d turn to him and ask, “Gege, do I really look pretty like this?” and he’d look at you like you hung the stars. His smile was never teasing. Never false. It was the kind that soaked straight through your bones, warm and unwavering. It made you believe it.

But he wasn’t here anymore.

Your hand trembled as you touched your hair again. You tried to feel the pain. To own it. To rip it away like shedding skin. You grabbed a handful, curled your fingers into the strands, pulled. Nothing. No release. No satisfying snap of loss. Just a dull tug and a burning behind your eyes. You weren’t strong enough to do it. Not physically, not emotionally, especially when the memory of his hands still clung to every strand.

Then, your eyes dropped to your collarbone. And that’s when you saw them, faint, fading, but still there. Marks, red and uneven, scattered like broken thoughts across your skin. Some small, barely visible unless you tilted your neck just right. Others darker, like fingerprints pressed too hard. Like someone had tried to claim you, brand you with their presence, but not in the way he ever had. Not in the way that felt like belonging. No.

These marks felt like theft. Like evidence. Of what they did, of what you let them do.

You stepped closer to the mirror, breath catching. One hand rose instinctively, hovering above your chest, fingers trembling just above the bruises as if touching them would make them permanent. Would make them real. Your lips parted. No sound came out.

They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t symbols of passion, or desire, or even warmth. They were the remnants of cold encounters. The kind that left you hollow. The kind you walked away from and immediately wished you hadn’t survived. You didn’t remember their names. You didn’t want to. What haunted you was that you let them. You invited it. You asked for it. Just to feel something. To erase him. To punish yourself for surviving.

What would Caleb say, seeing you like this?

And in that mirror, in that awful, sterile light, the only word that echoed in your skull, over and over, was…

“Disgusting”

You whispered it to yourself without even meaning to. Like it had been waiting behind your tongue all night.

Disgusting.

Your throat tightened. Your jaw locked. You turned your face away from the glass, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. The tears came back, but slower this time. Not crashing. Not loud. Just leaking, just quiet. Continuous, like something inside had broken open and didn’t know how to stop bleeding. You couldn’t look anymore. Not at your skin, not at the face you didn’t recognize, not at the body that didn’t feel like yours.

You dropped to the ground, knees hitting the cold, hard tile with a crack that echoed too loud in the silence. The shock of it barely touched you. You stayed there, still, your body folded over itself like a wilted flower, arms limp, head hanging low. You didn’t cry this time. You just stayed, like the grief had carved you hollow and poured in something heavier than pain, something colder. You were no longer yourself, not really. Not the woman he loved. Not even the sister you once were. Just the after-image. Just the echo. Maybe you had died alongside him, just not all at once. Maybe your soul had been leaking out slowly ever since. And maybe, it was time to leave, too. Maybe that was the kindest thing left to do.

And then—a sound. Barely anything more than a creak, a whisper. The kind of sound that could’ve come from the walls settling, or the night exhaling. But this one felt wrong. It didn’t belong to this space, this stillness. It was too soft, too intimate to exist in a world this cruel.

Your breath caught instantly, sharp and tight in your chest. Like your lungs had heard it before your brain did. Like some part of you recognized it.

You snapped back into your body. The grief-haze cleared in a sudden rush, everything sharper, meaner. Your head whipped toward the hallway, senses screaming. Someone was inside. Someone had entered. Your pulse thundered like footsteps on glass, too loud to be real. Panic spread through your body like fire licking at your edges.

You moved. Somehow. Your limbs trembled, half-broken from hours of collapse, but your body still knew how to protect itself. You staggered toward the kitchen counter, fingers scrabbling for the edge, your knees weak and untrustworthy. The world tilted. The shadows bent. Your vision danced in dizzy pulses. But your hand found what it needed, cold metal, hidden beneath the cabinet lip. Your gun. Small, emergency-grade, familiar. You wrapped your fingers around it like it was the last solid thing left. You lifted it. You pointed it toward the living room.

Every step forward felt like walking into the jaws of something you couldn’t name. The shadows were long here, cast gold and amber by the low lights, stretching across the floor like fingers. Everything in the room felt tense, watching, holding its breath with you. And then, there, at the edge of the hallway, standing just beyond the reach of light, a silhouette.

You froze. Your hand jerked, the barrel of the gun dipping a little from the weight of your disbelief. Because it was… tall. Familiar. A shape you had memorized in every lifetime. The shape that haunted your dreams and your prayers and your screams into the pillow.

It couldn’t be. It could not be.

Your whole body started to shake.

“…Meimei?”

The voice. His voice.

So quiet. So full of breath, like he didn’t dare speak louder. Like if he said it too clearly, he might vanish again. You hadn’t heard that voice in months. And still it unspooled something deep inside you, some inner coil you’d held too tightly for too long. It was the voice you thought you’d made up sometimes, just to survive. The voice you swore you’d forgotten the tone of. And yet here it was. Soft. Familiar. Real.

You stumbled back a step, barely breathing, your gun trembling in your grip. This wasn’t possible. This had to be a trick. A hallucination. Your knees buckled, but you stayed standing by sheer will alone. You looked him dead-on, or tried to, but the shadows made him blur—made it easier to believe he was just another ghost.

You hit yourself. Literally. Fists pounding against your skull like pain could force the world to make sense. Like you could knock yourself back into reality, or knock the hallucination out of your sight. “No, no, no… this isn’t real,” you choked, each word trembling at the edge of hysteria. “I saw you die. I watched it happen.” Your voice cracked as the images flooded back—fire licking up steel, smoke swallowing sky, a figure swallowed whole. “You’re dead. You’re dead, you’re dead, I saw the flames, I saw them bury you, I saw—”

The panic rose fast, too fast to hold down. Your hands were slick against the gun, trembling so hard you couldn’t even feel your fingers anymore. You pointed it anyway, blind and desperate, your breath ragged. “Don’t come closer!” you screamed, the command splitting your voice wide open. “I swear I’m armed. I’ll shoot. Don’t—don’t come closer, please, I can’t…” Your words shattered, every syllable raw, like your body was trying to hold back the flood with nothing but broken bones.

But he stepped forward.

Slowly. Cautiously. Like he knew the air might shatter if he moved too fast. And as he came into the light, inch by inch, the shadows gave him back to you. First a glint of his eye. Then the slope of his shoulder. Then the fullness of his face, the exact curve of his jaw, the way his body always filled a room just by being in it. The air shifted around him, stilled, softened, like it knew something miraculous was taking place.

And then there he was.

Caleb.

Not a ghost. Not a dream stitched together by your broken heart. Not a whisper from the dead or a trick your grief had conjured. No, this was blood. This was bone. This was him. The man you had buried in your memory. The man whose voice you had mourned like a language lost to time. And now he stood in front of you, his breath visible, his chest rising, his eyes wide and filled with you.

Your gun slipped from your fingers. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.

Your knees buckled, gave way like the last tether inside you had finally snapped. You crumpled. No grace, no control. Just complete collapse. The floor met you hard, but you barely felt it. Your body folded into itself, your hands falling limp in your lap. Your lungs refused to expand, like the moment itself was too big to breathe inside. Your heart thrashed in your chest, a frantic, helpless rhythm that hurt more than it healed.

You looked up at him. Your vision swam. Your lips parted, soundless, then barely—just barely—you managed to speak.

“No,” you whispered, your voice so thin it almost didn’t exist. “No, this can’t be. You’re not—you can’t…”

And then he said it.

“Meimei,” he breathed.

Your name, like a prayer. Like an apology. Like a man falling to his knees without moving. It cracked you open like nothing else ever could.

“Please.”

You saw him fall to his knees. Like gravity had found him too. Like the weight of seeing you again had snapped something in his chest. His hand trembled, reaching, shaking, wanting so badly to hold you the way he always had, to gather you close like he used to when the world was too loud, too much. But when his palms touched your shoulders, tentative and warm, you flinched. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make him hesitate. You shifted back a little, not out of hate, but something worse—shame. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t let him see what you had become, what you had done with yourself in his absence. But his warmth was there. His scent. His presence. It wrapped around you like memory, and everything inside you cracked open like lightning through ice.

Where had he been? Was this a trick? Was this really Caleb?

“...Gege?” The name scraped out of your throat in a whisper so fragile it barely existed. Your voice, thin and breaking, dissolved into the still air. Your gaze finally rose to his, and it felt like a thousand emotions collided at once. Fear. Rage. Longing. Isolation. Hope. All of them lived in your eyes, and in his. His dark violet gaze, once so bright, now dimmed with exhaustion, streaked with pain. He looked wrecked. Haunted. Like he had clawed his way through death itself just to get here. And maybe he had.

“Yes, baby,” he said, voice almost trembling. “I’m here. I’m so sorry... but I’m here. I’m your Caleb.”

Then he pulled you in.

Gentle and deliberate, like you were made of glass and heartbreak. His arms wrapped around you with the care of someone who still couldn’t believe you were real. You inhaled sharply and there it was. His scent. Not just the soap or the fabric or the heat. It was him. That strange, perfect mix of warmth and skin and starlight that no one else in the universe could ever replicate. It hit you like a wave, drowning you in memories. The way he used to hold you after a nightmare. The way he brushed his nose against your temple when you cried. The way he always stayed.

But your mind wouldn’t stop spinning. You couldn’t believe this. You refused to. It was too much. You shoved him away, your chest heaving with frantic breath, every inhale like splinters dragging through your lungs. Thunder cracked in the distance. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke, but it trembled with fury and disbelief.

“Don’t... lie to me. Please.”

You struck him with your palm, weak, helpless, a flicker of rage amidst the storm of fear. “Don’t do this to me,” you whispered. “Don’t be someone else. What if you’re not even him? What if you’re a decoy, a dupe, a trick? What if they built you from ash and memory just to break me again?” Your words poured out like poison you’d been swallowing for months, maybe years. “What if you’re just a body with his face?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t protest. He just took your hands gently in his, cupping them like something sacred. His fingers moved with a precision you remembered down to the marrow. Steady, warm, and so sure. He was not forceful, nor demanding. Just there, reassuring and real. He held you like he was putting you back together.

“It’s me, pip-squeak,” he said, voice heavy, cracking with the ache he hadn’t let show until now. “It’s really me. I’m sorry it took so long... but I’m back.” And then he did something only your Caleb ever did, he lifted one of your hands to his cheek, guiding it gently, reverently, like it belonged there. Your fingers trembled against his skin, his warmth grounding you like gravity. Then he brought them to his lips, brushing a soft, trembling kiss against your knuckle. Like a vow. Like a resurrection.

That was the moment you shattered.

Your hand flew up and struck his chest, not out of strength, but because something inside you couldn’t hold still anymore. The blow was weak, clumsy, more grief than force. “Fuck you,” you breathed, like the words had been caged behind your ribs for too long. You hit him again, your knuckles barely making contact with muscle. “Stupid gege…” Another sob slipped out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. It was broken and wet and full of fury you didn’t know how to carry anymore. “How dare you come back after all this time? After I broke, after I burned, after I—” You couldn’t even finish. The words curled inside you like smoke.

Your fists struck again and again, powerless against his chest, as if the pain might leak out through your skin if you just kept moving. “You asshole. You bastard. You—” A sharp inhale. “You left me. You left me alone in that fucking world without you.”

And he didn’t flinch. Not once. He stood and took it. Your grief. Your anger. Your devastation. Every ugly, raw piece of it. He held you like you were sacred even while you struck him like a curse. His arms opened for you, and then folded in, pulling you close, burying you in the scent and warmth and solidity you thought you’d lost forever. His chest against your cheek. His hand on the back of your head. His breath shaking like yours.

He didn’t say you were being unfair. He didn’t ask you to stop. He just held you like he knew exactly how much you'd needed this. How long you’d been carrying the unbearable weight of his absence. How deep your love ran if it could still bleed like this.

His voice dropped, quiet and rough with guilt. “There’s no apology that could ever make this right,” he murmured, lips pressing into the crown of your head. The kind of kiss that said I missed you. I’m sorry. I never stopped loving you. “But I’m here now. I’m here, meimei. And I swear to you. I will never leave again.”

And that was it. That was the final thread snapping.

Your body collapsed into his like it remembered this. Like it had been holding you upright against your will for too long. Your knees folded, your spine caved, your arms dropped uselessly at your sides. The last of your resistance drained out of you in silence. You sank into him completely, your forehead pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. You could feel the beat of his heart beneath it, steady and real and infuriatingly alive.

And like he always did, like he always would, Caleb caught you. His arms cinched around you with that same unshakable surety he used to carry in his every step. As if you weighed nothing. As if carrying you had never been a burden, not even once.

And for the first time since the fire, since the casket, since the silence—you weren’t alone anymore.

Your hand moved before your mind did. Trembling, hesitant, like it wasn’t yours. You reached for him slowly, painfully slowly, as if you thought he’d vanish the moment your skin touched his. But he didn’t. He stayed. Still as breath, eyes locked on you, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. Your fingertips brushed his cheek. It was warm, solid, and real. And you broke into another soft cry, a gasp that caught in your throat as you cradled his face with both hands. Your thumb dragged over the curve of his jaw like it was holy. It was only then, as you truly looked at him, that you noticed what he was wearing. His uniform. The dark, heavy, and unmistakable collar of a Farspace Fleet colonel. The silver pins, dulled with time and soot. It hung on him like armor, like he had never taken it off, like he had marched through hell still clutching his command. Still trying to come home to you.

But he was real. Alive. Breathing. And somehow still him.

The sharp lines of his face were older now, harsher maybe. His features carved by time and something much crueler than war. But under all of it, he was still your Caleb. You could see it in the slope of his brow, the tension in his mouth, the way his shoulders dipped slightly like he always had space saved for you there. The only difference now was the light in his eyes, dulled, dimmed, mirroring your own. Like he’d been grieving right alongside you, even from wherever he’d disappeared to.

Your breath hitched. “Gege,” you whispered, your voice fraying at the edges, barely stitched together. You leaned closer, desperate to tether yourself to him, to make sense of his existence here. “Where were you?” Your forehead touched his, your tears dripping onto his skin. “Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you say something—anything—just so I knew you were still alive? I would’ve waited. I was waiting, but, why? please…”

Your words collapsed on themselves, strangled in your throat, too raw to survive.

He silenced you gently. Just a finger, soft and trembling, pressing to your lips. And then he leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, slow and reverent. The kind of kiss you’d dreamed about in the lonely hours. His lips were chapped, dry from whatever nightmare he'd clawed his way out of, but they still brought warmth to your frozen skin. Like his love had never faded. Like no time had passed at all.

He held you tighter, his arms winding around you like he meant to hide you from the world. Like if he just held on long enough, the years apart would fall away and leave you two whole again.

“It’s a long story,” he murmured, voice thick, barely steady. “Maybe… not tonight. Please, Meimei. Just let me hold you like this. Let me be your shelter again. Let me take care of you, like I used to.”

You winced. It wasn’t the answer you wanted. It wasn’t enough, not after all the nights you begged the silence for a sign, any sign that he was still out there. But when you opened your mouth to protest, nothing came out. Only another breath. A soft surrender.

Because he was here. And for now, maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe the ache could wait. Maybe you didn’t need all the answers, not yet. Not if it meant staying right here, in the arms of the man who once lit your world like a sun.

You exhaled against his chest, broken and small, the sound barely a whisper between the space of your ribs. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his uniform like a child clinging to a safety net. You didn’t want to let go—no, you couldn’t. Not when you’d waited months, buried prayers under your pillow like coins, begged every star, cried until your lungs were empty. Not when you had already grieved him a hundred different ways. And now here he was, warm and real and holding you like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Still, he stayed. Not just stayed, he held you, fiercely, lovingly, with a kind of reverence that belonged to sacred things. And for a moment, in his arms, you almost forgot the parts of you that had rotted. The parts that had broken. The parts you’d tried to bury beneath strangers and silence.

“Meimei...” he whispered, voice raw as the callouses on his fingers, both hands rising to cradle your face like you were something delicate and divine. His thumbs swept gently beneath your eyes, as if he could erase the damage. “You are as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

His words struck softly at first. A warmth. A tenderness. The kind that made old wounds throb in ways they shouldn’t. You looked up at him, caught in the sincerity blooming behind his eyes. There was a shimmer there, faint, but real, like starlight catching on deep water. The way he used to look at you. Like you were his gravity. Like you made staying in this world bearable.

But something in you recoiled.

Beautiful? Your lips parted, but no sound came. The ache welled up too quickly. Your gaze dropped, shoulders stiffening beneath his hands. Suddenly, his embrace felt too kind, too generous, too undeserved. Because how could he say that? After everything? After what you’d let yourself become?

Your hands drifted off his chest, as if even touching him now felt wrong. As if your fingertips didn’t deserve the warmth of his body. Shame rushed through you in a cold wave, pooling in your chest, turning your breath shallow. You pulled away from him without thinking, slow at first, then faster, until your body slumped back against the floor, palms pressing down hard to steady your spiraling.

He blinked. “Meimei...?” His voice cracked with concern, already moving toward you again.

You flinched.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud. Just a subtle, instinctive twitch. A recoil, like something inside your skin had remembered pain before your mind could stop it. The moment his hand reached for your hair, something in your chest twisted and shut. You pulled back without even meaning to, and he froze in place. You watched it flicker in his expression, confusion, heartbreak, a silent question dancing behind his wide eyes.

That same hand. That same hand that once braided stars into your hair. That used to twist tiny ribbons into your locks before school, soft and patient, whispering sweet praises just to see you giggle. The hand that would stroke your head when you had a fever, or twirl your strands between his fingers when you were curled up beside him, reading on lazy afternoons. Now it hovered. Uncertain. Shaking slightly in the dim light. Like it didn’t know if it still had permission.

And how could it?

How could you explain the weight crawling beneath your scalp? The way your hair, your crown, your pride, your softest part, had turned foreign to you. You used to care for it. You used to wear it like armor. Now it was dull and dry, no matter how much conditioner you scrubbed through it this morning. No shine. No softness. Frayed ends, brittle strands. You had stopped brushing it some days. You had stopped looking at it in the mirror.

Because it wasn’t just hair anymore. It was memory. And worse—it was evidence.

Of the hands that had grabbed it. Pulled it. Twisted it in moments you didn’t even fully remember. Of the nights you spent letting strangers touch you just so you didn’t have to think, just so you could pretend for one second that it was him. The way their breath had burned your neck, their mouths had bruised your skin and none of them had loved you. Not one. They just wanted your body. Just wanted your hair in their grip.

And now he was here. He was here. And the shame roared so loudly inside you that your ears rang. You clenched your fingers into the floor beneath you, hard, hard enough to feel something. Your throat closed tight. The tears came, silent and hot, slipping past your lashes and trailing down your face like they were trying to escape too.

“I—” you started, but your voice betrayed you. It cracked, broke, vanished.

You didn’t need to say anything. Not really. Because it was all over your face, your body, your breath. It seeped out of your pores like blood from a wound too deep to stitch.

Disgust.

Disgust for what you’d become. For what you’d let happen. For the pieces of you that still reeked of loneliness, of survival, of guilt.

And most of all, disgust for daring to sit in front of him like this, to let him look at you with love, when you were nothing but a ruin of the girl he remembered.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Because you weren’t her anymore. Not the girl he loved. Not the girl he held like a prayer in his hands. You were just the shell that stayed behind.

A ghost wearing her skin.

“I’m not who I used to be, gege.” The words slipped out as quiet as a dying star. You were barely aware they’d left your lips until the echo of them settled between you. Your hands moved without permission, clenching your chest, digging hard into the bones under your skin, trying to grasp something real, something alive inside you. You hit yourself there, once, twice. Not to hurt. Just to prove you still could.

But he didn’t flinch. He just stood there, absorbing you, with a softness that was worse than any violence. He looked at you like he felt everything you couldn’t say. And that made it worse. That made it unbearable. You twisted your face away like it would protect you, like shielding yourself from his gaze would keep the truth from leaking out.

“I don’t deserve you,” you rasped, voice gravel. “Not anymore. Not after what I did to myself… to what we had. To you.”

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots. You felt your heart thud hard once, then twice, warning you. You moved backward, legs nearly buckling, knees knocking together. You stumbled until the wall met your spine, unrelenting, and you stopped there, spine bowed like a punished thing. You wanted to disappear.

His scent hit you first—calm, familiar, the same mixture of leather, dust, and cold metal that used to make you feel safe. But now it made you want to scream. It cut through the warm aroma of food still lingering in the air, overpowered every other sensation in your body.

And then came his hands. Strong, sure, and reaching.

“Baby,” he said, and the word cracked something open in you like a blade drawn slow. “I don’t care what you did to yourself. I don’t care if you lost yourself when I was gone.”

You watched his face twist around the word gone, like saying it made him bleed.

“All I care about is that you’re here. That you’re still breathing. That I get to hold you.”

He reached again, and this time his hand found yours, enclosing it in his warmth. His thumb swept across your knuckles with such gentle purpose that your breath caught. His other hand rose, the back of it brushing your cheek with something too soft to handle. You couldn’t bear it. You didn’t want it. You wanted to earn that touch again, but you didn’t know how.

“Don’t do that,” you whispered. “Don’t touch me like that.”

“Why?” His voice broke. “Why not?”

“Because it hurts.”

You yanked your hand free, and he let it go, but only barely. He watched you like you were shattering, and he had no clue where to hold you that wouldn’t break you further.

“Why, Caleb?” You were shaking now, like every word drained your blood.

Your hands pressed to his chest, palms flat, and you pushed, not enough to move him, but enough to show him how close you were to breaking. You wanted him to feel it. To feel the betrayal wrapped in every heartbeat.

“Why did you leave me?” you asked, and the words were no longer just words, they were a wound torn open, trembling on your lips, spilling with the ache of months you couldn’t count anymore. Your voice frayed at the edges, thin and wild, like the thread of a kite lost to the wind. “Why would you let me rot? Why would you let me wither like that, thinking you were dead, thinking I’d lost you forever when I needed you the most?”

You shoved at him again, fists curled, knuckles catching against the firm lines of his chest. But the force was gone now, lost somewhere between the breaking point of your body and the collapse of your will. Your arms folded into themselves, your fingers curling tight around the brass buttons of his uniform like they were the only things keeping you from falling apart completely. They were warm from his body. Real. But even that didn’t help. You couldn’t hold yourself upright anymore, not under the weight of everything you’d carried.

Your knees trembled. Your shoulders caved in.

Your chin dropped as tears pulled down your cheeks—hot, full-bodied things that you didn’t even try to hide. Your lips parted to breathe, but no air came. Your chest was too full of grief to let anything else in.

“Where were you,” you whispered, and your face crumpled like paper. “When I begged for you? When I screamed your name until my throat bled?”

Your eyes squeezed shut, brows drawing together so hard it hurt. Your hands came to your own arms, clutching them like you were trying to keep your insides from spilling out.

“When I clawed at my own skin just to feel something, anything?”

Your voice cracked, high and sharp. It sounded like it came from a girl you no longer recognized, a version of yourself that had been drowning for months. The sound echoed in the space between you, bounced off the walls like it didn’t know where else to go.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing into his chest for just a second. One trembling second. You wanted to disappear there, hide your face in the fabric that still smelled like him, still held the memory of his strength. But the shame was louder. So you pulled away again, breath stuttering, hands flying to cover your face like you could erase it, undo it, un-say it.

“Where were you…” your voice collapsed in on itself, but you kept speaking anyway, voice shaking apart syllable by syllable. “When I let men I don’t even remember touch me… just to pretend I was still alive?”

Your hands dropped. You looked at him. No shields. No filters. Just raw, ruined honesty.

“When I tried to chase the ghost of your hands, your voice, your warmth? When I let myself break,” your voice cracked again, “because living without you made no sense?”

Your cheeks were wet. Your lips trembling. The expression on your face was devastation itself, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like they were mid-prayer, jaw clenched against the shuddering ache that rippled through you in waves.

You stared at him. Broken open. Like a body that had been trying to hold itself together for far too long.

And he just looked back at you, like you were still the girl he remembered. Like you were still worth falling on his knees for. Still his.

“Why now?” you breathed, voice so small, it nearly disappeared between you. “Why come back now, when I’m already ruined?”

Your voice didn’t echo this time.

It just sank. Like the truth always does.

The silence stretched like centuries. It bent the air between you, pressing down on your lungs until breathing felt like an indulgence. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. Because there were no words sharp enough to cut through what had been done. Only the crushing weight of what still lingered.

He held you tighter, arms wound around you like iron vines, like he was trying to mold your broken body into his chest—like he could undo the time lost just by clutching you close. His eyes were hollow. Distant. Still beautiful, still his, but dulled now, as if time had carved something out of him too. And despite it all, despite every part of your mind screaming otherwise, your body folded into him like it was natural. Like it was instinct. Like your grief-shaped silhouette had been carved to fit him all along.

But it hurt. God, it hurt.

The pain was not just the memory of losing him, it was this. The pain of reuniting. Of finding him here, warm and whole and holding you like he hadn’t shattered your life. Like he hadn’t disappeared and let you rot in the silence of his absence. You would rather be stabbed a thousand times, again and again, than feel this exact ache. Because you couldn’t name it. It wasn’t just sorrow. Or relief. Or fury. It was all of it. It was betrayal wrapped in love, longing tangled in rage.

Was it cruelty? That he let you believe he was gone, when he wasn’t?

Was it selfishness? That he came back now, without warning, slotting himself back into your story like the missing page of a book already burned?

Your body trembled in his hold, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. His warmth was a weapon and a comfort, and you were too tired to tell the difference.

“Meimei…” he whispered, voice like smoke curling through the wreckage. He leaned in, pressing his lips against your temple. The intimacy of it cracked something deep in your chest. You didn’t flinch, not this time. You just sat there, still and shaking, inside the cocoon of his arms.

His breath was ragged when he finally spoke.

“Nothing,” he said, voice hoarse, like it hurt to even speak. “No excuse I could ever give will make it right. I lied to you. I let you mourn me. I let you rot with grief, while I breathed somewhere else. While I lived.”

Each word dropped like a stone in your gut, splashing against the hollow spaces inside you. You could feel the dam breaking behind his voice, his composure trembling, splintering under the weight of it. Still, his arms wound tighter around you, desperate, almost bruising now, as though he could will the damage undone if only he held you close enough.

You choked on the scent of him. Leather. Salt. A little ozone, like the storm had followed him inside. You could barely breathe, your nose stuffed from crying, your lungs clawing at the air, but his grip kept you tethered. Grounded. Real. Cruel, but real. Like an old wound pressed just to make sure the feeling hadn’t gone numb.

He exhaled, slow. Broken. “And I have my reasons…”

The words slithered through the cracks in your chest. And that was it.

That was it.

Rage ignited beneath your ribs. A white-hot tremor that raced up your spine and shook loose everything you’d buried. You pushed against him, fingers digging into the collar of his coat, pulling, clawing, anything to peel him off of you, to make space to breathe again. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. And the worst part, the part that made you want to scream, was that somewhere, deep down, you didn’t want him to let go.

“I know you can’t accept it,” he murmured, a quiet thing, resigned. “But please… know this.” He reached for your face again, and your whole body went still. His gloved hand tilted your chin up with unbearable gentleness, like he was touching something sacred. Your gaze collided with his.

And you were undone.

His eyes were oceans. Bruised with sorrow, rimmed with guilt, glowing with the unmistakable gleam of you. He looked at you like you were still his. Like even now, even wrecked and ruined and far from the girl he remembered, you were still worth crossing the universe for.

“I did it for you,” he said, softer than a breath. “For your safety. The moment they took control of me… I was no longer a free man. I was theirs.”

You blinked. And the tears came again, uninvited. Your mouth opened, but there were no words to carry the pain. Only silence. Only disbelief. You were shaking again, from exhaustion, from the storm inside you, from him.

“But I swore…” he continued, his voice nearly splitting at the seams. “The moment I could escape, truly escape, I would find you again. I would come back and make it right. I promised myself that.”

His forehead met yours, the weight of him leaning into you like a prayer returned.

“I promise you, now. Meimei. Please…”

You could feel his breath ghosting across your lips. His gloves cupped your cheeks again, brushing at the endless tears, trying to soothe wounds he couldn’t see. And you hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated how easily your body melted against his hands, how your skin remembered him even when your mind begged it to forget. You didn’t know what you were anymore. But you knew this, even your ghost ached for him.

Your trembling fingers rose, clutching at his hands like lifelines. You stared at him through the blur of tears and quiet devastation.

“Gloves,” you whispered, the word barely there. “Gege… gloves off. Please. Let me feel you.”

Your voice cracked, thinned by desperation, by need. Because you needed to know. With your own hands, your own skin. That he was here. Not just a memory, not just a dream. Not the ghost you chased through strangers’ arms and empty nights. But skin, blood, bone, and truly Caleb.

He froze, stilled like your words had struck something raw inside him. Then, with a slow nod, he reached for his gloves. The movement was soft, as if even undressing in front of you now carried the weight of ceremony. He peeled the leather back finger by finger, slow drags across his skin. The sound was quiet, the kind that almost didn’t exist, but you heard it. You felt it. The slide of grief. The echo of absence. And then he offered them to you, his bare hands, palms up, trembling just enough to betray the ache behind his eyes.

You reached without thinking. Then stopped. Just a breath away. Your fingers trembled in the space between. Hovering. Wanting. But unable to land. And then retreat. Your hand curled back to your chest like you’d touched fire.

You shook your head, violently. Tears welling fast again, heavier now, heavier than your body could carry. Your spine curled forward. “No,” you whispered, as if saying it might undo everything. “No, no—I can’t. I thought I wanted. I did, but…”

Your voice cracked apart. Your knees buckled beneath you, and you folded, sinking back against the floor, your shoulder blades pressed to the cold wall like it could anchor you in place. “If I touch you, I’ll believe it’s real. I’ll believe you’re here. And I don’t think I can survive that.”

Your hands pressed against your mouth, trying to dam the sobs. But they came anyway. Ragged. Involuntary. Your whole body began to shake. “I’m not ready,” you croaked. “I’m not who I was, gege. I’m not the girl you loved. I don’t even know what’s left of her. I’m just…”

You didn’t finish. You couldn’t.

And he didn’t speak, not at first. Just stayed where he was. His hands, still bare, still outstretched, waiting.

But something in his shoulders broke then. You saw it. A slump, like he was caving in on himself. And his mouth parted like he might say something, but the words drowned before they could surface. Instead, his thumb twitched, like it wanted to reach for you. Like his body ached to close the distance, but didn’t dare.

The silence between you throbbed. So full of love. So full of ruin.

“You don’t have to be ‘her,’ Meimei,” he said at last.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it settled into you like gravity, pulling everything in. There was no demand in it, no edge. Just a soft declaration, spoken with the kind of steadiness that only comes from a love long-lived and long-lost. His arms folded around you again, not like a claim, but a promise. Not a grasp, but a homecoming.

He held you like he’d memorized the exact shape of you. Like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter whatever pieces remained. His warmth bled through the layers of your clothes, his heartbeat thudding slow and real against your ribs, steadying your breath even as yours stuttered and caught.

“I love you,” he said, slower this time, as if he was laying each word carefully between your ribs. “Whatever you’ve become, whatever you've been through… I will love you through all of it. You don’t need to earn it. You don’t need to go back to anything.”

He pulled back only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face, gods , the softness of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No judgment. Just longing, quiet and endless, the kind that hummed behind his eyes and lived in the lines of his face. He studied you like someone rediscovering their favorite book, weathered, worn, but still cherished beyond words. His fingertips, bare and shaking, brushed the curve of your cheek with unbearable gentleness, a hesitant reverence, like he was learning the new contours of your grief-lined face and loving it anyway.

“If you can’t see yourself,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “then let me. Let me see for you. Let me hold the parts of you that feel too sharp to touch. Let me take the pain you can’t carry anymore.”

His hands cupped your jaw, the weight of them grounding, holy. His thumb traced the hollow beneath your eye, smudging a tear with such care it hurt. And still— still —he looked at you like you were something beloved, like he never stopped praying to the shape of your name.

“I want to be the one who stays,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I want to be the place you rest when the world is too loud. Let me carry you when you forget how to stand. Let me earn you again, if I have to. Let me love you again, the way you deserve to be loved.”

And then he simply stayed there, holding you in that silence. Not rushing. Not coaxing. Just breathing. Just waiting for you to believe it.

Your breath slowed, just barely. The fight drained from your muscles in waves, little tremors easing out, like tension remembered and released. You were still curled in on yourself, still coiled like something waiting to snap. But his voice didn’t demand anything of you. It didn’t push. It didn’t prod. It only offered. Again and again. A quiet, steady presence in a world that had taken everything from you.

You didn’t answer him right away.  You couldn’t . But your fingers relaxed their grip on your thighs. Your shoulders stopped shaking. You leaned into the space between you like a tired wave lapping the shore, testing if the sand would still hold.

He didn’t move. He waited.

And maybe that was what softened you. Not words. Not warmth. But patience. The kind you thought no one had left for you. The kind Caleb had always given when you broke before.

You lifted your eyes, just enough to see him sitting there, knees nearly brushing yours, hands open in his lap, palms up like he was offering a prayer. Like he wasn’t asking you to fix anything. Just to stay. Your lip trembled. You hated how easy it was to let your weight tip forward, to let your forehead fall against his shoulder. But you did it anyway. Slowly. Shamefully. Like a sinner crawling back to the altar.

“I’m tired, gege,” you whispered.

And it was the truth. More honest than anything you’d said in months.

“I’m tired of waiting for you, gege. Please,” your voice cracked, fragile, soft as a breath drawn through glass, “will you hold me again? Not the me before. The broken me now?”

And there it was, your collapse, spoken and real. The naked truth trembling out of your throat like it cost you something sacred. You tore yourself apart on the altar of that confession, reaching for him like he was both your penance and your salvation. You crawled into his arms not gracefully, but with the desperation of a soul unraveling.

And Caleb— Caleb folded around you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so.

His arms looped tight, a gentle force, anchoring you. His cheek pressed against the top of your head, and he breathed you in, like you were the only air left in the galaxy. He didn’t speak at first. He just held you. Like he’d finally been given permission to touch something he thought he’d lost forever.

“Please rewrite me, gege,” you whispered into his chest, your fingers fisting the front of his uniform like it would dissolve if you let go. “Please fill me with so much love I get sick of you. Please trap me in it. Jail me in it. You know what’s best for me. And I trust you with my whole life.”

The silence that followed was devastating. He pulled back just enough to look at you, both hands rising to frame your face with reverence, like you were some ancient, delicate text he’d forgotten how to read. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, not to wipe away the tears, just to feel them. Just to witness them.

His eyes widened, then softened. And his voice, when it came, was thick with the same ache that had broken you moments ago.

“Yes, my love. I will.” He kissed your forehead. “Thank you…” Another kiss, this time to your temple. “…for trusting me.”

A kiss just below your eye.

“And for having me back.”

Then he just held you again. Tighter this time. Not like something fragile.

Like something his .

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room quieted around you, as if the whole world had taken one long breath and decided not to let it go. No ticking clocks. No wind brushing past windows. Just the soft hum of the lights above, and the inhale and exhale of two hearts trying to remember how to beat in tandem again. There were no words. Just the quiet aftermath of love surviving a war it barely won. Love warming the edges of your wounds, after tearing through you like a thousand knives.

You stayed pressed to him, chest to chest, your cheek resting against the tender hollow where his shoulder met his collarbone. You could hear everything, his breathing, slow and deep, and his heartbeat, strong beneath his skin. Real. Grounding. His hand moved along your back in slow, gentle motions—not to push, not to soothe, just to remind you, I’m here. It was a rhythm, a soft tempo, like something your body had long forgotten but recognized instantly. Like home.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped in each other like that. Time wasn’t something you could count anymore, not when he was touching you like this. His fingers threaded through the ends of your hair, soft, steady, and familiar. Like he was memorizing you again. Like he was anchoring himself back into the body of the girl he once loved.

Eventually, he shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to glance down at you, and in that single motion, your heart leapt. You instinctively pulled him closer, arms tightening like your soul didn’t trust this peace to last.

“Nooooo, don’t let go, gege” you whispered against his chest, your voice barely more than a breath, thinned with sleepiness and a desperate kind of need.

Then, he laughed. Softly. Low. It rumbled in his chest beneath your ear, and you felt it before you even heard it. That sound. That sound. It bloomed through your ribs like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. You hadn’t heard that laugh in so long it felt like a myth. Like something your heart made up just to survive.

And oh, how much you missed it.

That laugh—gentle, unpolished, sometimes breathy, sometimes full-bodied. The one that used to echo down the hallway when you told him dumb jokes just to hear it. The one that softened your worst days, that used to fill the small spaces between you two when words ran dry. It wasn’t just sound. It was safety. It was warmth. It was him. It used to make you feel like the world couldn’t be all bad if someone like Caleb still laughed like that. Like love itself had a voice, and it came from his throat.

And now, hearing it again?

You bit down a sob, the ache almost too much. Because it reminded you of everything, of the time he spun you in the kitchen while dinner burned, of the way he pressed kisses to your forehead while laughing at your sleepy pouts, of how he’d fall onto the couch beside you and just laugh and laugh until you couldn’t help but join in.

It brought everything back.

And it undid you, softly.

His laughter faded, not into silence, but into something softer, something glowing at the edges. It left the air warmer than before. And when it did, you felt the world still again. Your breath slowed, tangled in his. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it settled, less like a wound, more like a scar being kissed. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he murmured into your hair, voice as gentle as the hum of a lullaby.

“Can I show you something?”

Your breath hitched at the change in tone. There was a quiet excitement tucked beneath the warmth, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering. You leaned back slightly, reluctantly, your arms still curled around his ribs like you weren’t quite ready to let go. He smiled, just a little, his hand brushing a few strands of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

“It’s nothing big,” he added, soft and unsure. “Just something I kept with me. For you.”

Your brows knit in the slightest, and you nodded, lips parting to speak but no words forming. Instead, you watched as he reached behind the couch, pulling forward a weather-worn bag you hadn’t even noticed before. It looked traveled, scuffed and old, but carefully kept. He unzipped it with quiet hands.

Your arms dropped to your lap, watching with the kind of stillness that came with holding your breath. He pulled out a bundle. Neatly folded. Wrapped in soft tissue. He cradled it like it meant something, like it had weight. He turned to face you fully, offering it with both hands.

“I had this made. Thought of you the whole time.” His gaze flicked between you and the bundle. “Helped design it, chose everything for you. I… I wanted to give it to you sooner. But—”

He didn’t finish that thought. He didn’t need to. You reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and took the package from him. The fabric was light. Silky under your palms. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. You peeled the tissue back slowly.

And there it was.

A dress. Baby blue. Delicate sparkles caught in the light like stars suspended in frozen water. The satin ribbons at the shoulders were black, gentle contrast, elegant. The bodice shimmered faintly with soft embroidery, stitched with care, soft silver threads tracing subtle patterns you couldn’t name. It was the kind of dress you used to love. The kind he always said made you look like a storybook dream. Innocent, ethereal. Like something worth holding.

Your lips parted. You couldn’t breathe for a second.

“It’s…” you began, but no word followed.

Caleb smiled again, smaller this time. “There’s more.”

He reached back into the bag and pulled out another bundle, this one larger. He unwrapped it quickly and held it up for you to see. 

A matching jacket. His . Sleek, storm-blue silk, star pins on the lapel, light silver embroidery around the cuffs. A softened version of his colonel uniform, fitted and tailored. The stars shimmered, the faintest threads of the same baby blue sewn into the lining.

Your eyes widened.

“I wanted us to match,” he said quietly. “Like we used to.”

He didn’t say it like a joke. He said it like a promise. Something in your chest collapsed, slow and aching. You pressed the dress to your chest like it was fragile, like holding it too tightly would break it. Would break you. You looked up at him with trembling lips, unshed tears catching in your lashes. And he was already watching you, eyes gentle and shining. Like this mattered more to him than anything else in the universe.

“Gege… it’s so beautiful. I have no words, I—” Your voice faltered, cracking somewhere between your ribs and throat. The rest of the sentence withered before it even left your mouth. You clutched the fabric tighter to your chest, fingertips pressing into the delicate weave of baby blue as your breath trembled, shaky and uneven. Your lashes fluttered, wet. It wasn’t the first time he’d gifted you something like this. No, he’d always had a way of making you feel seen. Special. Cherished. But this was different. This was after death. After the end. After grief had mangled the part of your heart that once believed he’d ever come back. And now, standing here, holding a piece of him in your arms again, it shattered you all over.

“Shh, meimei,” he cooed, voice low, warm like honey melting against winter skin. “My cute, lovely little sister.” His knees bent in front of you, his towering frame lowering just to meet your gaze. He always did that, always came to your level when your heart hid in the dark. His hands, large and steady, reached up to your cheeks, brushing away the tears that had fallen anew. His thumbs smoothed beneath your eyes, not with urgency, but reverence. “It’s all for you,” he murmured. “If you like it… would you do me a little favor? Try it on for me. Let me see you in it. Just once. Give me a twirl later, yeah?”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed around the gratitude, the ache. You wanted to tell him a thousand things, how much this meant, how undeserving you felt, how broken you still were, but the words refused to form. Instead, your body moved before your voice could. You set the dress aside with care, like it was made of starlight, and reached for him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging, small and tender, your weight pressing forward as you rose to your toes. It was a silent ask. A gesture you’d done a hundred times when words felt too big: lift me.

He chuckled, his chest vibrating softly under your cheek, and the sound rippled through you like rain on drought-starved soil. You felt the strength of his arms move, one wrapping behind your back, the other dipping low to support your thighs. And then, with that easy, familiar strength, he lifted you into the air like you were weightless.

“A-ah,” you gasped softly, startled by the sudden motion. He grinned against your hair, his voice dipping low and teasing, yet wrapped in unshakable devotion. “You did so many things without me, meimei,” he whispered, holding you close, “but from now on… rely on your big brother again, alright? I won’t ever— ever —leave you behind again.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, you believed him.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his jacket. For a fleeting, golden second, you let yourself dream. Maybe it could be like before. Maybe tomorrow, you would wake up tangled in his warmth again, sunlight spilling onto his cheekbones, your palm resting against the steady rise of his chest. Maybe he would hold you to his body in the morning and brush lazy kisses across your knuckles before cooking your favorite meal. Maybe you could want to live again.

He laughed, that same laugh you’d missed like oxygen, and it brought you back to the moment. He reached for the dress you had set down with care, cradling it in one arm as he carried you across the room. The fabric fluttered between his fingers like it belonged to some sacred ritual.

“Dress prettily for me, my love,” he said as he lowered you in front of the bathroom door, his voice sweet and playful. “And maybe , if you behave, I’ll do your hair too. Just like before.”

He bent forward to kiss your temple, lips soft and unhurried, like pressing that kiss into you was his way of sealing you back into the world. You closed your eyes. The warmth lingered longer than it should have.

“I’ll be outside,” he added, stepping away slowly. “Call me if you need anything.”

But just as he turned to leave, you reached out, your fingers instinctively curling around the hem of his sleeve. The tug was small. Barely a whisper of movement. But he felt it instantly. He turned, eyes widening in gentle surprise.

“Oh?” he said, a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. “So you do want me to help dress you. Want me to baby you again, hmm?”

God, he was insufferable.

You glared weakly, your hand falling away with exaggerated flair. But instead of scolding him, instead of launching into some halfhearted insult, all you could do was smile. The kind of smile that trembled at the edges. The kind that only came when you were so full of emotion it leaked out the corners of your mouth. A soft flush bloomed over your cheeks, pink rising beneath your skin like dawn. You looked away, voice low, clumsy with affection and embarrassment.

“Fuck you, ge.”

He laughed again, short and warm and full of mischief. “Suit yourself, my love.”

And then he left, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Leaving you with the dress. And the mirror. And the fragile beginnings of hope.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, and then at the dress you held like a secret. There was something holy about it, too gentle, too pure, too delicately made for the kind of girl you were now. The fabric shimmered faintly in the warm bathroom light, kissed with a soft iridescence that caught on every thread. Tiny crystals embroidered at the waist caught the glow like stars. The hem danced with gossamer layers, weightless and pristine. You touched it hesitantly, fingers brushing along the bodice like it might bruise under your skin. It was beautiful. Unapologetically so.

Too beautiful for you.

A lump rose in your throat as the thought settled like dust on your shoulders. You weren’t worthy of it. Not anymore. Not after everything. The way you’d let yourself fall apart. The way you hadn’t cared for your body, your hair, your heart. This dress was made with gentleness, with intention, it had been chosen by him. Sewn with care, touched by dreams. And here you were, ruined. Disheveled. A ghost of the girl who used to wear light like second skin. You had no right to something so soft.

But still… he gave it to you.

Not just gave. Worshipped. His voice still echoed in your chest, his praise, his devotion. The way he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, not despite your pain, but because of it. Like you were something to be cherished, not pitied. Loved, still. You held the dress close to your chest and exhaled slowly, clutching the fabric like it might ground you. You didn’t want to wrinkle it. Didn’t want to taint it. For him. For the way his eyes had softened when he asked you to wear it. You didn’t want to let him down.

You turned to the mirror again and began to undress.  One piece at a time, your clothes slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your ankles with barely a sound. You tried not to look at the mirror. You knew what was there. The marks, faint but lingering, mapped along your skin like old bruises on a porcelain doll. Memories of hands that weren’t his. Scars of nights you wished you could erase. You squeezed your eyes shut, breath catching in your throat, and stepped into the dress.

The fabric whispered against your skin as you lifted it, pulled it over your hips, adjusted the bodice. You reached back, fingers fumbling to zip it closed, the pull tight across your ribs, like the dress was learning how to fit someone so changed. You paused once it was fastened, hands resting against the sink. Your lashes fluttered open, heavy with reluctance.

And you saw it.

The contrast was stark. The glittering dress wrapped you in light, but your skin was still marked, red, tender, bruised in places memory hadn’t let go of. The neckline dipped low enough to show the places you wanted hidden. Your shoulders, your collarbones. It all looked too wrong. The dress was lovely. Ethereal. And you… were not.

You dropped your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched. You weren’t supposed to cry again. Not now. You had to calm yourself down. You had to be strong for him. He’d given you this gift. He wanted you to feel beautiful. Wanted you to be his again, even like this. And it was his birthday. You could at least do this for him. Smile. Try.

Then came the knock.

“Baby?” Caleb’s voice, low and tinged with worry, filtered through the door. “You okay over there?”

You startled, head snapping toward the sound. Your heart jumped painfully in your chest. Shit, had you been too long? Had he thought something happened? You scrambled for composure, for breath, but before you could answer, the door creaked open just slightly. A sliver of warm light flooded in from the living room. His silhouette filled the doorway. And then his eyes found yours.

Time froze.

His breath hitched. You watched it leave him, slow and silent, as his gaze swept over you like it was the first time he’d ever seen you. The air between you tightened, thick with unspoken things. His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something deeper. Something raw. His hands came forward, hesitant at first, then bolder. He stepped close, one arm slipping around your shoulders, and the other lifted to cradle the nape of your neck.

And then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to the curve of your shoulder. His breath fanned against your skin.

“You look…” he whispered, as if afraid to break the moment, “amazing, meimei.”

You shivered in his hold, trembling like a candle caught in its own warmth. His words weren’t spoken with hunger, or even desire. They were spoken with awe. With heartbreak. Like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like seeing you, dressed in something he’d chosen for you, still willing to wear softness, was too much.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And neither did you.

Because in that quiet, trembling space between your bodies, there was something sacred being stitched back together.

“No, I don’t, gege. Stop lying.”

The words came out low and tight between your teeth, like they’d been festering for days, months, years. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, trembling not with fury, but with something far more fragile. Shame. You couldn’t bear to look at him again, not after spitting out what you knew was your truth. But before you could turn your head away fully, his hand was already there, gentle but firm, his fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face back toward him like he couldn’t allow even this small act of retreat.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and storming, his brows drawn together with something bordering on fury. But it wasn’t you he was angry at. It never was.

“Whoever said you were ugly,” he said, his voice cold as metal, “I’ll kill him for you, meimei.”

The threat wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. Spoken not with dramatics, but with absolute certainty. His tone sent a shiver rushing down your spine, not from fear, but from the ache of being defended so fiercely, so completely, by the man who had once held your heart like a fragile bird. Your gaze dropped again, unable to withstand the sincerity that poured off of him in waves. Why does he love you? You had asked yourself this every night. You weren’t the kind of girl who belonged to someone like him. You weren’t soft or brilliant or elegant. You were just this . The leftover mess of someone who once knew joy.

But he wouldn’t let you slip into that thought.

“You always look beautiful to me, meimei,” he whispered, and this time, his voice was velvet. “No matter what you look like. Even now, in this moment, you look like something ethereal, like you fell from a dream I haven’t woken up from yet.”

He leaned in then, slow and sure, until his lips hovered just above the curve of your ear. His breath fanned across your skin and sent goosebumps down the length of your arms.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been holding myself back,” he murmured, low and teasing and utterly sincere. “How many nights I imagined this moment, imagined you like this. I want to ravish you right here, right now, but I won’t. Not until you want it too.”

Your breath hitched. The heat bloomed in your chest, down to your thighs, curling low in your belly like something dangerous and tender all at once. His voice always had that effect on you, when he meant it. When he really, truly meant it. And he did. You could feel it in the weight of his words, in the reverence in his tone. There was no mockery here. No manipulation. Only love, aching and endless.

And then his arms opened again, and you fell into them like you were made to. He stroked your hair with aching patience, running his fingers slowly through the tangle of neglected strands. The gesture was so instinctual, so familiar, it almost hurt more than it soothed. You remembered this. His hands in your hair. The way he used to hum tunelessly while braiding it in the mornings. The way he used to call it his favorite part of you, his crown jewel. But now, his fingers snagged on knots, tiny, silent catches that stung more than they should have.

You winced.

He paused. “Your ends,” he said softly, voice folding in on itself like paper, “they’re so dry. Haven’t you been taking care of them, meimei?” He didn’t sound judgmental, just sad. Like he was asking not about your hair, but your heart.

You tried to respond, but no words came. Only silence. Only shame.

“Have you run out of the products I gave you?” he continued, his fingers still threading with delicate insistence. “I thought I stocked you at least a few bottles…”

The question broke you in a small, quiet way. Because the truth was worse than that. You hadn’t run out. You had simply stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped believing you deserved the care.

“I…” you started, voice cracking at the edge.

But then a different idea came to you. A new beginning, perhaps.

“Gege,” you whispered. It was so soft, nearly swallowed by the hum of the bathroom light. But he heard you. He always did. His head tilted, his brow lifting gently as he waited for you to go on.

“Would you…” you swallowed. “Would you cut it shorter for me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. His body stilled. You could feel the way his breath stopped for a moment, how his hands instinctively tightened just a little on yours. His fingers slowly curled around yours, his hands enveloping yours in a quiet, prayerful clasp. He bowed his head, as if cradling the gravity of what you just asked.

“Why, meimei?” he asked, voice hushed, delicate. “Why now? You used to treasure your hair so much. Is it because it’s too much to take care of on your own? Because I can help, I will help—”

“No, gege.” You cut him off gently, but firmly. Your hand lifted to grasp a lock of your hair, holding it between your fingers. “I want to start again. I want to cut away the parts of me that don’t belong anymore. These strands… they’ve been in the hands of men who didn’t deserve them. Not the way you did.”

You looked up at him, voice trembling with shame and truth.

“I want you to be the one to rewrite me. I want you to touch only the new parts. I want to give you what’s clean. What’s mine again. I want to make new memories with you. From scratch. Please, gege…”

He didn’t answer right away. 

He only looked at you, eyes wide and quietly breaking, like something precious in him had cracked open at the seams. The silence stretched between you, thick with emotion too dense to name. You could feel the shift in him, the way his shoulders sank like the weight of your words finally hit. Not like a strike, but like something slow, sinking into his bones, into the space where he’d been holding all that guilt. His lips parted. A breath slipped out. But no sound followed. Just silence, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.

When he moved, it was careful. Like you might vanish. Like if he touched you wrong, the moment would collapse. His hands rose slowly, and then they were on your cheeks, cradling your face with such gentleness it made your throat close. His palms were warm and grounding. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, the edge of your mouth, trembling just slightly with how much he was holding in. Then he leaned forward, forehead pressing to yours, the closeness too much and not enough all at once. You could feel the heat of his skin, the slight tremble in his breath. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne and the sterile bite of space metal from his uniform, but underneath it all, it was still him. Still Caleb.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” he murmured, voice low, the sound of it curling around your ribs. “Not to prove anything. Not to undo what happened. You’re already enough.”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly, grounding you to this reality, to the truth of his touch. “But if this is what you want,” he continued, the words thickening in his throat, “if you want me to help you begin again… then I will treat it like it matters more than anything. Because it does. Because you do.”

Then, he kissed your forehead, slow, full of care. His lips lingered against your skin like a vow he couldn’t quite say aloud. It was tender, aching, an apology pressed into your bones. Your eyes fluttered closed just from the weight of it, how easily he disarmed you with that one small thing.

When he pulled away, he stayed close. His eyes searched yours, like he was memorizing you all over again, like he was asking if this was still okay. And when you gave the smallest nod, the answer caught in your breath, he shifted.

His hand reached for the drawer beneath the bathroom sink. The one he had used years ago, when he still brushed and trimmed your hair with methodical precision, humming while he worked. He found the scissors without looking. As if they’d been waiting. As if this moment had been waiting.

But still, he didn’t move toward you until you nodded again.

He would never take that choice from you. Never again.

You looked down.

Your fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the counter, white-knuckled and tight, as though your body was begging you to hold onto anything. The air had gone quiet again. But not empty. It was thick, heavy, not like a silence of absence, but one of reverence. Like the space itself was holding its breath. Watching.

This wasn’t just a haircut.

It was a burial. A beginning.

You were afraid. Terrified, really. Your hair had always been more than just strands, it was memory. The last remnants of a girl who believed she could still be soft, before grief hardened her into someone else. Before his death carved something hollow in you. You clung to the counter like it could stop the flood that threatened to rise from your chest. Your legs stiffened. Your heartbeat was too loud. Your vision swam.

And then, a slow, warm finger lifted your chin, urging your face to rise from its shame. You met his eyes, reluctantly, and he was already looking. Not just at you. Into you. His expression was steady, a still lake of concern. His brows pinched slightly, not with judgment, but worry. A softness wrapped tight with restraint. As if he knew how much this would cost you.

You didn’t speak, but you gave the smallest nod, your throat closing around it. And that was all he needed.

You turned away, exposing your back to him, the vulnerability of it making your skin feel cold. The weight of your hair settled over your shoulders like a shroud. It was long, uneven in places, heavy with neglect. And still, it had been yours. It had been his, once, too. His to brush, to braid, to stroke when you fell asleep on his lap. You used to lean into that care. And now you would let him hold it again—one last time, before letting it go.

He exhaled behind you. The sound ghosted across the back of your neck. Then you felt him move.

His fingers, first, slipped through the strands to untangle them gently. Not once did he tug or pull. He worked patiently, smoothing it out with a brush he must’ve dug out of storage. You felt the pass of it down your back, again and again, until your muscles began to unwind, your grip on the counter softening. He hummed softly, absentmindedly, some old tune he used to hum while doing your hair before school. And for a second, it was like the years in between had never happened.

Then you heard the soft snip.

The first cut.

Your shoulders flinched, but you didn’t stop him. Your breath caught, a shallow inhale stuck in your throat as strands drifted down like feathers and scattered across the tiled floor. You watched them fall from the corner of your eye, shimmering ends that once touched your waist, now severed, freed. There was no turning back. And still, you didn’t want to.

The sound continued, rhythmic and soft. Scissors gliding through hair, Caleb’s fingers tilting your head this way and that with quiet precision. He moved like he was sculpting something, not trimming it. Like each cut was deliberate, intimate. His hand steadied your jaw, his other guiding the scissors through your hair as he moved around you slowly. A dance, a ritual. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But every motion told a story.

You closed your eyes and let the sound fill you, the gentle snipping, his careful breath, the brush of his knuckles against your neck. He cut around the nape slowly, shaping you piece by piece, until the heaviness slipped away. You felt weight lift, literally and otherwise.

When he was done, his hands slowed. You could feel him hesitate, then one more soft stroke down your back with his fingers, tracing the final line of your new cut. The length brushed just above your shoulders, clean and light, with longer ends framing your face. A bob, but not cold. It was feminine, purposeful, and more alive than anything you felt these past few months.

You opened your eyes, staring at your reflection, at this girl who looked like you, but not quite. She was a little older. A little emptier, but maybe also a little freer.

“Gege…” you whispered, breath breaking.

He stepped behind you again, meeting your gaze in the mirror. One hand gently rested on your shoulder, the other trailing lightly through the fresh ends of your hair, like he was sealing the ritual.

"You look like the sunrise, baby," he murmured. “New. Soft. Brighter than you think.”

You turned around slowly, careful like the moment might slip through your fingers if you moved too fast. Your hands hovered at your sides for a second, uncertain, then rose to brush against the ends of your hair. The sensation felt foreign. Lighter. It no longer dragged down your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t name. The strands were soft now, trimmed clean, almost unfamiliar, but there was something gentle in that unfamiliarity. Something full of possibility.

Your gaze found his, searching. It wasn’t doubt that stirred in you, not really. You knew Caleb would love you through anything. He always had. But still, you needed to hear it. Needed the assurance that this transformation had not made you unrecognizable to him. Your voice came quiet, small, as your fingers curled around the ends of your hair again, your other arm tucking behind your back like it might hide your nervousness.

“Do you like it, gege?”

He didn’t answer at first, not because he didn’t know, but because he was looking at you like you were light made flesh. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see. His eyes softened. Not with pity. Never pity. But with something whole and aching, like his heart had recognized you before his lips could form the words.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you with steady calm. One hand lifted to your face, brushing through your hair, smoothing a lock behind your ear. He leaned in, not rushing, not claiming, just nearing the space where your breath mixed with his. Your lashes fluttered shut, anticipating the warmth of his mouth on yours. But instead, he tilted forward and pressed the lightest kiss to the tip of your nose, affectionate, simple, but still enough to wreck something deep in you.

“Of course I do,” he said, voice warm, low, and certain. “Would that even be a question?”

He pulled you to him then, his arms wrapping around you with no hesitation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers curling into the trimmed edges like he was memorizing the new shape of you, the new beginning you’d offered him. “You look beautiful, meimei. You always do.”

Your body responded before your mind did, arms slipping around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest. The moment his warmth settled over you, the tears returned, quiet this time, but endless. You didn’t resist. Not this time. Not when everything in his touch told you that it was safe to fall.

His embrace didn’t just hold you. It anchored you, kept you still when the storm inside threatened to rise again. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear felt like a melody you’d forgotten, one you’d always known how to return to. And just for now, it was enough.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, something inside you whispered:

You’re home.

He was here. Real, and loving you back with the kind of quiet permanence that promised: no more leaving. No more pretending. No more pieces lost in the dark. He would stay. And he would write over every broken memory with hands that only ever knew how to care for you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

What came after that felt like something more vivid than your wildest lucid dreams, those aching, hyperreal visions you used to chase in sleep, where his arms were still around you and your world hadn't fallen apart. This was clearer, deeper. More than your late-night prayers. More than the soft, unspoken wishes you tucked beneath your pillow during the months he was gone. The glimmer of your baby blue dress caught the light with every step, twinkling like stardust each time it brushed against your thighs. And beside you—he matched. His shirt, tailored and sharp, held that same soft hue. A pair made whole again.

He carried you, hand in hand, your fingers interlaced like no time had passed, toward the dining table, where warmth radiated in more ways than one. Laughter lingered in the air, leftover from stories exchanged between spoonfuls. You barely touched your utensils. You didn’t have to. Caleb was already there, scooping the food with one hand and gently offering it to you with the other, like feeding you was an old rhythm he never forgot.

“I’ll be full and content if I spoon-feed you myself, meimei,” he murmured, teasing but tender. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that as your older brother, after all.”

And it was true. He insisted. That same stubborn, protective warmth hadn’t dulled a bit. You caved to it instantly, your legs drawing in beneath your chair, your arms shyly pressing into your lap. For the first time in a long time, you felt like someone small. Like someone cared enough to keep you safe.

You didn’t even know if the food tasted good. You’d made it for him, yes, but your tongue barely registered the flavor. All you saw was his face, smiling like you hadn’t lost each other at all. There was a change in him, though something you couldn’t name. His cheerfulness was quieter now, tempered by experience, by loss. But he still looked at you like you were the world he wanted to return to.

Stories were passed between bites, laughter carried over the table like warm wind. And when the plates were scraped clean, your stomach filled not with food, but with something richer, something golden, almost holy.

Then came the cake.

Soft candlelight cast long, gentle shadows over the frosting, and for a moment, the world paused again. Afraid the silence would stretch too long and eat you whole, you shifted your weight and softly cut through it.

“Would you mind blowing the candles for me, gege?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, muffled against the sleeve where your arms curled around his. You didn’t want to let go. Not of his warmth. Not of this moment. As if loosening your grip would wake you up from the dream. Your hands squeezed tighter, childish, maybe, but he didn’t laugh. He only smiled. That smile. So full of something you didn’t know if you deserved yet, but were slowly, giddily beginning to believe.

But then he leaned closer, just a bit. Enough to make your breath still and your heart pound somewhere near your throat.

“Well,” he said, voice low with something fond, something old, “I was thinking of something else, meimei.”

He dipped lower to your face, his back bending at an angle so familiar it startled you. Like how he used to lean over the stove to kiss your forehead while you stirred soup. Like how he stooped down to look into your eyes when he brought you coffee in the early mornings of Skyhaven, teasing you about how you were short because you skipped milk.

“This birthday wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you,” he murmured, eyes glinting with a warmth that flickered like the candlelight between you. “You orchestrated everything. The cake. The food. The little decorations on the table. You.”

You were about to protest, but he touched your cheek before you could say anything. His palm was warm, fingertips brushing so gently it almost undid you. He held your face like it was something precious again, like the same soft thing he had cleansed and cradled just hours ago. His thumb moved slowly across your skin, and you could feel your blush rise to meet him.

“But it’s your birthday, gege,” you whispered, the corners of your lips tugging down as the ache bubbled quietly in your throat. “And your homecoming…”

His expression shifted. Softer, more solemn. His gaze fell into yours like a stone into a still lake, deep, unwavering, something ancient behind it.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s ours, meimei.”

The words landed like a benediction.

You blinked up at him, breath faltering as your heartbeat stumbled. Your chest rose with shallow effort, your fingers still clinging to his sleeve. But the moment swallowed you whole. His voice, his warmth, the scent of him in the air, it all wrapped around you like prayer.

“You came back too,” he said, voice breaking on the edges. “From a place I couldn’t reach. From that hollow place I left you in. I know… I know what it did to you. I see it in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself. I let you disappear. And you still clawed your way back to me.”

His hand never left your cheek. It steadied you. Grounded you. The pad of his thumb brushed slowly beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t know had spilled. Then his forehead lowered to yours, resting there with care, the way he always did when you needed to be quieted. When words weren’t enough.

“So let’s do it together,” he whispered.

And you nodded, small, fragile, but sincere.

He reached forward with you, both your hands steadying the cake between you. The flames of the candles danced, casting gold across his skin. You looked at him, not just at his face, but into him, and saw the man you had mourned, the boy you once adored, and the home you thought was lost forever. You closed your eyes. Breathed in the shared air between you. Thought of your wish, not for peace, not for forgiveness, but for time. For more of this. For this to never leave you again.

Together, in one breath, you blew.

The flames vanished, smoke curling like silk into the still air. The silence after was so full, it hurt. The soft glow from the lights flickered in your tears. Caleb didn’t speak. He only turned to look at you, and smiled with that unbearable tenderness, like seeing you like this was the only thing that ever mattered. And just like that, a small, wavering, but real smile blossomed. He reached for your hand again, and threaded your fingers between his. A perfect fit, like no time had passed at all.

You lifted the fork carefully, scooping a bit of the soft cake onto the silver prongs. Your hands still trembled faintly, the aftermath of everything clinging to your skin like residue. But you steadied them anyway, just enough to guide the bite to his lips. Caleb leaned in with the quiet grace of someone worshipping, his mouth parting just slightly. You fed him like he was something delicate, like the bite itself was an offering in a temple of two.

He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the taste meant nothing compared to the way you looked at him now. There was a stillness in his gaze, not heavy, but full. Full of something soft and content, something old and familiar made new again. The flicker of candlelight played across the gold in his irises, and for a moment, he looked like a man not just in love, but at peace. Peaceful in a world that had nearly taken that from him.

You leaned back just slightly, heart aching and full, and tried to catch your breath. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this, the simple intimacy of sharing food, the way the space between you both filled with something tender and slow. You had forgotten how it felt to be seen like this, to be fed without question, to be known without having to explain.

"You still make the best cake," he murmured once he swallowed, voice syrup-thick and humming with fondness. “You always overmix the batter just a little… but that’s what makes it yours. That’s what makes it perfect.”

You wrinkled your nose, blushing and ready to swat at him with a protest. “Stop teasing me, gege, I didn’t—”

But before the words could fully form, his finger dipped into the thick curl of frosting left on the plate and, without hesitation, smeared it across the bridge of your nose.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The touch was cool and unexpected, the soft sweetness clinging to your skin. You blinked, stunned. Wide-eyed. Silenced by frosting.

Caleb’s expression bloomed into something brighter than candlelight. He grinned, the real kind, wide and unchecked, the corners of his mouth curling up with joy he couldn’t hide even if he wanted to. His laugh followed, deep and golden, the kind that rumbled in his chest before spilling into the space between you. It was the sound you remembered from your best memories. The one that used to echo down corridors and across shared bedsheets and through sleepy mornings. The one that said everything would be okay.

He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever touched. Like your startled, frosted face was a masterpiece.

“You were getting too serious,” he said through a chuckle, reaching up with his thumb to gently swipe away a bit of the frosting, “so I had to fix it.”

You gaped at him. Open-mouthed, offended, and betrayed in the gentlest way possible.

“Oh? You think you can get away with that?” Your voice trembled at the edges, not from pain this time, but from barely-contained laughter.

You struck back, quick and decisive, dipping your own finger into the icing and dabbing it right onto his cheekbone. The white stood out against his skin like a mark of war. The look on his face was priceless, gasping, a little wide-eyed, followed by that lopsided, boyish smile that you used to kiss without thinking.

“There,” you said softly, mischief warming your voice. “Now we match.”

He laughed again, softer this time, curling around the sound like it was yours to keep. His forehead tipped forward until it brushed yours, the two of you frosting-marked and glowing in the amber light. His hand found your thigh under the table again, warm and grounding, while your hand rested gently on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of a heart that still beat only for you.

And in that moment, as the laughter faded into a quiet hum between you both, you let yourself believe it.

This was healing.

This was home.

His thumb brushed the frosting from your lip, but lingered there, slow and thoughtful. His eyes searched yours, not asking, not demanding. Just… seeing. Seeing you. And you let yourself be seen.

The space between you wasn’t big. It never had been. Not really. It only took one breath, one shared inhale, for your bodies to begin leaning in again. The kind of gravity that didn’t pull, but welcomed.

He spoke, low and close.

“Can I kiss you, meimei?”

You fluttered your eyelashes open, pulling back just enough to see him clearly, your breath still catching at the edges. The heat of his body still lingered on your skin, clinging like silk. You blinked up at him, the glow of the warm lights softening the sharp lines of his jaw, casting a delicate shadow over the fire in his gaze. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was hunger and something deeper. 

Your brows lifted faintly, lips parting with uncertainty as you searched him. “Aren’t we moving a little too fast, gege?” you asked, your voice quiet, vulnerable in the low-lit hush between you. And yet, even as you said it, your palms slid along the swell of his arms, fingertips tracing the shape of his biceps. There was no pressure behind it, only something trembling and curious, something that wanted to stay close.

He didn’t speak right away. He only caught your hands with his own, gently caging them against his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat, steady, strong, impossibly grounding. His eyes locked with yours, and in them was a gravity you couldn’t turn from.

“I’ve starved long enough,” he said, his voice dipping, low and sure. “Starved of your scent, your warmth, your skin against mine. I’m a man returned from the dead, meimei, and all I want—” he leaned in, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing the shell of it with maddening care, “—is you.”

You turned your head, face warming, a pink flush blooming across your cheeks. The intimacy of his gaze was too much, like he could see beneath your skin, into the places you thought were ruined beyond repair. But he reached anyway. He always reached.

Then, without warning, he tugged you in by the waist. The sudden closeness stole your breath, your palms pressed flat against his chest, and one of his hands found your jaw, tilting your face upward, guiding you without force, only precision. You could feel his thumb grazing the edge of your cheek, the touch tender but anchoring.

“If you don’t want this,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above yours, “push me away.”

The silence between you thickened. His fingers slowly threaded through your hair, letting the strands curl between them, dragging his touch along your scalp like he was drawing out your breath. “But if you don’t,” he whispered, lips so close they brushed your words away, “I’m going to kiss you. And I’ll worship every part of you until you forget anything ever hurt.”

You didn’t move.

Because staying with him felt like breathing, like you were alive again. And you wanted it deep within your soul.

Your heartbeat pounded like a drum against his chest, the air between you turning warm, electric, and heady. You met his gaze one last time, drowning in the gravity of it, then tilted your chin up and kissed him. His mouth met yours with a need that was quiet but deep, like he'd been waiting lifetimes for that single moment of permission. Like you were the first sip of water after years lost in the desert.

The moment your lips touched, you remembered everything, how natural it was for your bodies to speak this language, how easy it was to fall back into this rhythm, where love bloomed in sweat and skin. You leaned closer, your chest pressed against his, arms winding around his neck before your hands cupped his cheeks, deepening the kiss with all the silent hunger you had buried inside you.

There was no more hesitation. Not in your movements, not in the way your mouth opened against his. Your tongues clashed, tasted, took. And Caleb, your Caleb, kissed you back like a man who had returned from war and found his peace again. His hands mapped your spine, trailing with care and need, fingers pressing, learning, relearning you.

The passion built like a fire stoked in silence for too long. He kissed you over and over, with reverence and heat. Sometimes he pulled back to bite at your lip, gentle at first, then with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. And when your breath hitched, he chuckled low, breath fanning your flushed cheeks.

Right after the clock ticked louder into the room, you broke away to breathe, panting, your forehead resting against the crook of his neck. Your voice came out in a whisper. “Gege, I—”

“Sofa,” he said, cutting in gently. Not a command. A plea, laced with need.

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the question in his touch, the longing and the restraint. And maybe he saw the flicker of fear still rooted in your chest, because his expression softened immediately. He rose to his full height, towering over you, hands landing gently on your shoulders to steady you.

“Meimei, listen to me.”

His voice anchored you. Each word carved into you like a vow.

“Let me be the one to worship you again. Let me fill the cracks left behind. Let me make you whole, not with promises, but with the way I touch you, the way I love you. Let me rewrite every memory that ever made you feel ruined."

He kissed your forehead, soft, deliberate, and it steadied you. “Let me remark your skin, in tenderness. Let me reclaim every inch of you, not out of possession, but devotion. Let me love you until there’s nothing left but light.”

You blinked up at him, the weight of your insecurities still clinging to your chest like fog. But the way he looked at you—the way his voice shook when he asked to make you whole—broke something open inside. You were scared. Still unsure if you deserved this much love. But maybe, just maybe, you could be a little greedy.

“Please, ge,” you whispered. The words barely left your throat, but they were enough.

He stilled. His eyes turned darker, pupils wide and gleaming like a tide pulling you in. The smile that curled at the edge of his lips was both soft and dangerous. Without another word, he swept you into his arms, holding you like something sacred, something rediscovered. He carried you to the sofa with the same grace he used to hold your trembling heart.

He laid you down like a prayer.

Then leaned over you, one palm at your waist, the other smoothing your hair gently behind your ear. His gaze searched yours, not for permission, but to make sure you were still there with him, body and soul.

“May I do the service of undressing you, meimei?” he asked, his voice like velvet and fire.

His voice carried with it the weight of a thousand aching nights, every syllable carved from longing and devotion. You couldn’t answer with words. You simply nodded, slowly, your breath caught somewhere between fear and desire, trust and anticipation. Your body trembled beneath his gaze, your chest rising and falling in time with the beat of your name in his mouth.

He bent over you, his movements unhurried, his hands warm and sure as they reached for the hem of your dress. Fingers brushed over your thighs, sliding up with reverence as he gathered the fabric slowly, inch by inch, like he was unwrapping something precious, not to ravish but to honor. His lips never left your skin for long. He kissed the exposed parts of your body as the dress peeled away—your knees, your hip bones, the soft curve beneath your ribs—his mouth writing silent poetry over places that had only known cold for too long.

The dress slipped past your shoulders, caught briefly at your arms before he slid it off completely, folding it gently, placing it aside like it mattered, because you mattered.

When you were bare beneath him, his eyes didn’t devour you, they worshipped. He took his time just looking, tracing the curve of your collarbone with his fingertips, then down the slope of your waist, memorizing you all over again. Not with greed. Not with lust alone. But with love that broke you open in the best way.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, like it hurt to say. “Do you know that? No matter what you believe, you are.”

He bent down, kissed the place above your heart. Then lower, over the center of your ribs. Each kiss was soft. Purposeful. It felt like he was breathing life into your body again, piece by shattered piece.

Your hands trembled as they reached for him, slipping beneath his shirt. You pushed the fabric up with slow, shaky fingers, wanting to see him too. To feel him again. He let you undress him, every movement laced with patience, his skin hot beneath your palms. When his chest was finally exposed, you pressed your face into it, lips brushing over the familiar warmth, the solidness of him.

“I missed this,” you whispered, and he hummed against your crown.

“I missed you.”

And then he lowered himself over you, not to dominate, but to align. To connect. The weight of his body on yours was grounding, safe, an answer to every prayer you whispered in your loneliest nights. He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, his hand threading through your hair, the other cradling your hip.

It was no longer just about the act. It was something deeper, an unmaking, a rejoining, a sacred surrender of everything broken between you. His touch redrew you. His mouth reclaimed the pieces of you you thought were lost forever.

And beneath him, you let yourself be rebuilt.

He undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, fingers unhurried, until the fabric slid from his shoulders and fell to the floor with a whisper. There was no care in the way he discarded it, so unlike the tenderness he showed your clothes just minutes earlier, folding each piece like it meant the world to him. You couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, your lips curling into something fragile, something full of love. He tilted his head at you, gaze sliding down your body, studying the bloom of amusement in your eyes.

“What’s funny, meimei?” he asked, lowering himself until his mouth was close enough to taste your breath. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His voice was warm honey, thick with affection and something darker. He nosed along the curve of your throat, breathing in the scent of your skin like it grounded him. Like it tethered him back to life.

You laughed again, softer this time. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers brushing the nape of his hair as you kissed him, just a brush of lips. A promise. A thank you. He leaned into it, cradling your body in his arms like something sacred, before he pulled away and studied you again.

“You really are divine,” he whispered, and then his gaze traveled downward. His hands parted your thighs slowly, reverent in their purpose. The space between you bloomed open like a ritual offering, and he knelt before you, a priest at the altar of your body.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. And another. His lips lingered each time, the warmth of his breath soaking into your skin like spring rain. You trembled beneath his mouth, overwhelmed not by what he was doing, but by how it made you feel, loved, cherished, known.

You turned your face to the side, one hand covering your lips to quiet the moan threatening to spill out. But he saw it. Of course he did.

“Don’t hide from me, meimei,” he said, so tender it ached. He took your hand gently, pulled it away from your mouth, and interlaced your fingers with his. “I want to hear everything. Every sound. Every moan. Every whisper of my name. Give it to me.”

His voice was a kiss of its own.

And then he began.

He gazed at your folds like they were the most delicate flower he’d ever seen. His breath ghosted over your skin, hot and trembling, and for a long, suspended second, he didn’t move, just looked, just breathed. As if he were memorizing you. As if he needed this image to carry with him for the rest of his life. Then he spoke again, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Even now, after all this time… you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His thumb circled your clit, slow and aching. You arched against him, gasping, fingers gripping his hand like it was the only thing keeping you afloat.

“So pink,” he murmured, reverent and low. “So flushed. So perfect. You’re everything I love, meimei. Everything.”

Your hips trembled, your thighs quivered beneath his hold, and he hadn’t even tasted you yet.

Until he did.

His tongue swept a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. You choked on a moan, your back lifting from the sofa in an uncontrolled arch. He moaned with you, like your pleasure fueled his own. He kissed you there, over and over, slow and deep. Then faster. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, worship in every movement.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he murmured between strokes, voice rough, ruined, as if the taste of you was already unraveling him. “No promises I’ll listen though. You taste too good, meimei.”

His lips curled against your skin in a smile you couldn’t see, but felt. And then he dragged his tongue up the length of your folds again, slow, languid, with an longing pressure that made your toes curl. He wasn’t in a rush. He was savoring you. Tasting you like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, every flavor, every quiver.

You cried out, breath hitching, your hands twisting into his hair with helpless urgency. You couldn’t help it. The sensation was too much, too precise. His tongue flicked softly at your clit, then pressed flat against it, circling slowly, then faster, then slow again, driving you to madness with each change in rhythm. He moved with such intention, every lap of his tongue a declaration of love, of hunger, of absolute possession.

He buried his face deeper, groaning lowly against you when your thighs tried to close around his head. His broad and warm hands slid beneath your knees, pushing them wider, locking you open for him.

“Don’t run from me,” he breathed against your slick heat. “Not when you taste this fucking good.”

And then he dove in.

His tongue dipped into your entrance, shallow and teasing at first, then deeper, licking into you like he was coaxing your soul from your body. You sobbed, back arching violently as his mouth worked you open, slowly, deliberately, pushing you toward the edge with every precise swirl. He licked in patterns, tracing shapes against your most sensitive nerves. Slow circles. Long strokes. Sudden flicks. Sometimes he’d suckle your clit until you couldn’t breathe, then retreat to kiss the inside of your thigh, only to return and do it all over again.

You moaned his name. Over and over. Broken. Breathless. Needy.

Your body was melting beneath him. Shaking. Your stomach clenched with every roll of his tongue, every press of his mouth. He could feel you nearing the edge. The way your thighs trembled. The way your hands tugged harder at his hair. The way you gasped when he sucked at the swollen bundle of nerves again, harder now, greedier, his tongue now fast and messy and maddening.

And still, he didn’t stop.

When he felt you teetering on that precipice, he gripped your thighs hard, holding them apart, grounding you. His voice was ragged when he spoke again.

“Give it to me,” he whispered, lips brushing your clit. “Let go for me. Let your gege have your love.”

That was all it took.

You shattered completely, wholly. Your legs kicked, your hips bucked, your moans spilled out of you in a tidal wave. He didn’t let go, didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, holding you through it, his tongue still gently working you through the tremors. Every drop of you, every sound, every shiver, he took it all in like it was sacred. And when the climax tore through you, so fierce it made your eyes roll back, he moaned too. Like your pleasure was his own undoing. And all you could do was cry out for him, his name, his title, your gege, over and over, the sound raw and reverent in your throat.

Your chest heaved as the last tremor passed through you, soft and violent all at once, leaving you weightless and aching. Your head lolled back, limbs loose, skin fevered. You weren’t even sure what time meant anymore. You were still suspended in the afterglow, lulled into a dreamlike stillness, when you felt the faintest brush of his mouth against your thigh again. He was licking you clean, gentle and methodical, tongue tracing the curves he had just wrecked with worship. The adoration of it made you shudder. He treated you like something sacred. Like something only he was allowed to touch, to taste, to unravel.

You didn’t realize you had tears in your eyes until he kissed the inside of your knee and murmured, “Shh, just sit tight, baby.”

You blinked slowly, your hand twitching with the urge to reach for him again, to keep him close where you could feel his breath on your skin. But he was already pushing up, easing himself back from between your thighs with one last lingering kiss against the softness of your inner thigh. You could still feel his mouth there, like a brand. Still warm, still wet.

“I’ll make you feel good,” he said quietly, like a promise he had already started to fulfill. “All you have to do is give in to me.”

He stood then, briefly leaving your sight, but not your senses. You watched him move, the way his back stretched when he reached down for his bag, the smooth, fluid confidence in his body. He returned with several thin red packets in hand, the glossy wrappers catching the light, bright apple red.

Your brows lifted, mouth parting with a small, silent gasp. His smile was slow, knowing, dark at the edges but full of affection. “You didn’t really think one would be enough tonight, did you?”

Your eyes dropped to his hands, to the tilt of his hips, the faint strain where his waistband hugged the shape of his arousal. Your mouth went dry at the sight of it. The heat already building again between your thighs pulsed stronger. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

Then, with the kind of care that turned your breath shallow, he undid the button of his pants. Not hurried, not coy, just deliberate, confident in a way that made the entire world pause to watch. The zipper slid down. He stepped out of them, slow and smooth, revealing the soft muscle along his abdomen, the faint trail that disappeared into the waistband of his boxers. Your eyes caught on the wet spot clinging there. And your heart skipped.

He didn’t rush.

He hooked his thumbs into the hem and pushed the fabric down. And when his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and aching for you, your breath left you entirely. It was beautiful. All of him was. Your gaze flickered up, and you caught him watching you, eyes heavy, mouth parted. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Like he was already inside you.

Still, he took his time.

He tore open the packet with his teeth, rolled the condom on with practiced ease. The sight of it made your thighs clench, made you remember how full he used to make you feel, how he stretched you open like no one else. It made you crave. Not just the act, but him. Caleb. Your older brother. Your lover.

He moved closer again, the distance between you shrinking with every step, until his knees brushed the edge of the sofa. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, eyes wide, body still trembling with leftover bliss.

And he didn’t speak right away.

He just looked at you. Took you in. The soft way your chest rose and fell. The curve of your thighs still parted slightly. The blush that hadn’t left your cheeks since the first kiss. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your flushed skin like he was rediscovering something precious.

“Lie back,” he said at last, voice low and velvet-rich, "let me in, meimei."

He didn’t mean just physically. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. He meant everything. 

Let me back into your heart. Let me take care of what I broke. Let me love you again, properly, wholly, completely. And without a word, you did.

You let yourself fall back. You let your body open to him. You let him in.

He gripped your knees, easing you open with the kind of slow patience that made every second feel heavier, hotter. His thumbs grazed your thighs as though they were parchment he needed to read, understand, remember. He wanted all of you, wanted you pliant and trembling beneath him, just like this. His body moved forward with care, with weight. And then he pushed inside.

Inch by inch, he filled you, and each stretch sent little tremors lacing up your spine. You gasped. Your breath caught in your throat. The sensation wasn’t just physical, it was everywhere, in your chest, your hands, your trembling legs. Every nerve in your body felt like it was waking up, one by one, to him. You could feel his shape, his warmth, his veins—pulsing and thick and demanding space where there hadn’t been any in so long.

Your fingers clutched at the cushions, nails biting into the fabric. It felt too much, too big, too intense, but he didn’t rush. His hips moved just a little, just enough to ease you into the rhythm of him. You blinked up at him, vision hazy with the prickle of tears, not from pain, but the sheer enormity of being held like this again. Of being filled with something more than just flesh. With him.

He leaned forward, brushing your cheek with his thumb as if he could erase everything that ever made you hesitate. His lips touched yours, soft and searching, until the kiss deepened into something more molten, something that curled in your gut and made you moan softly into his mouth. And when he finally pulled away, it was only to trail lower, pressing his lips to your throat, your collarbone, your chest, everywhere you’d once been touched by others. He kissed the marks that hadn’t quite faded. Not to pretend they weren’t there, but to rewrite them in his own language. With teeth and lips and quiet devotion.

His lips found the tip of your nipple and he lingered, sucking it until you gasped again. Then he bit down, not hard, nor cruel, but enough to brand you with something new, something wholly his. Your back arched, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The place he claimed stung just slightly, but the sting made it real. It made you his.

“You whimpered, arching under him, breath catching. ‘Gege… it’s so big,’ you whispered, your voice threadbare and shy. Your nails curled into his back, half in protest, half in need. ‘Did you… grow while you were gone?’”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused, his chest rumbling against yours. “Maybe I did,” he teased, brushing his fingers through your hair like you were his favorite thing in the world. “Maybe I missed you so much, I grew just to hold more of you.”

You pouted, squeezing his arms, your body trembling under the pressure. “You didn’t warn me…”

“I told you to relax, didn’t I?” he said, kissing the corner of your lips. “Just a little more, Meimei. Almost there.”

You writhed a little more, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, your body adjusting slowly. Even with your slick coating him, you still felt so stretched, so dilated, like your insides were being rewritten by every inch he gave you. And when he stopped, when he was fully seated within you, he looked down and stroked your hair with that same quiet adoration that had always undone you.

He drew his hips back slowly, and with a quiet inhale, he pushed in. A single, deep push, burying himself all the way inside you in one slow stroke. Your mouth opened in a soundless cry, your spine arching. You felt impossibly full, like you couldn’t hold him and yourself at the same time. Every edge of you stretched to accommodate him, until the lines between pain and pleasure blurred into something entirely new.

He groaned, low and sharp, the sound dragging from his throat like he’d waited years for this moment. “Oops… I miiight have lied a bit. Pardon your gege.” he exhaled, kissing your temple as he laughed. “All in, Meimei. Now you’re mine.”

You whimpered beneath him, heart racing, hands slipping from his back to claw at his arms instead. His scent wrapped around you, clean soap and something darker, something aching. You could barely breathe, barely think. But his touch never wavered. One hand stroked your hair while the other gripped your thigh, steadying you, keeping you open for every shiver of movement.

And then, he stilled. Buried deep, not yet moving, just feeling. His forehead pressed to yours, your breaths mixing, your limbs tangled.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice ragged. “You’re perfect like this. Filled with me. Like you were always meant to be.”

Then, he moved.

Slowly at first, measured, intentional. Each thrust was careful, letting your body adjust to the motion, to the feel of being filled again, of being claimed again, by someone as thick and deep as him. He never let you drift away from him. One arm wrapped firm around your waist, caging you close, like your body was the only sanctuary he knew. The other cradled your face with unbearable tenderness, thumb brushing your cheek, guiding you into a kiss that melted your thoughts. His lips were warm, slightly trembling from restraint, as if he were trying to hold back the part of him that ached to devour you whole.

Your moans spilled out between those kisses, soft and high and desperate. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed between the walls, lewd and wet and intimate. Your back arched with every deeper push, your thighs parting wider, your body betraying just how much it needed this. Needed him. You could feel the heat pooling, slick building where your bodies joined, his thrusts beginning to fall into a rhythm that bordered on worship.

“Oh, you feel so good, baby,” he groaned against your ear, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “I missed you so much.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, giving it a gentle bite, like he was tasting the part of you that still remembered how he loved.

And then he trailed lower.

His hand moved from your cheek to your chest, fingers cupping one breast, his palm spreading warmth over your skin. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another gasp from you, then bent his head low to press a kiss to the soft swell. You trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the combination of his thrusts and his mouth, your body pulled taut on the edge of something bright.

“You’re so, so beautiful, my love,” he murmured, lips moving down your sternum between phrases. “From your hair, to your neck, to your chest… and your cunt. Every inch of you. And I’m so glad it’s mine again.”

His mouth found your nipple and he took it between his lips, suckling gently at first, then deeper, wetter. His tongue flicked over the sensitive tip in time with his hips, and the mix of sensations made you cry out, clutching at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around him as you bucked up into his rhythm. You couldn’t hold back anymore. He wasn’t just making love to your body, he was touching the ache buried deep inside your chest, the part that had waited so long to be held like this again.

You were close.

And so was he.

Your body trembled beneath his, hips stuttering with every thrust that brought you closer to the edge. His rhythm was steady but growing deeper, more insistent, his need sharpening just beneath the tenderness. The way he moved inside you felt like he was trying to memorize every part of your walls, like he never wanted to forget what you felt like again.

Your breath hitched, a tremor traveling up your spine. You buried your face against his neck, lips brushing his pulse, your moans becoming more breathless, more broken.

“Gege,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “I… I’m close…”

He slowed his thrusts, just enough to look at you, to make sure you meant it. You nodded, eyes heavy, mouth parted, fingers curling at the back of his neck. And when he saw the truth in your face, how close you were to falling apart, he kissed you. It was not rushed, not messy.

It was like surrender. A kiss like devotion.

Your lips pressed together, deep and warm, his tongue finding yours in time with the roll of his hips. And that was what did it, his kiss and his body and the words he whispered right against your mouth.

“Come with me, meimei. Don’t hold back. Let go with me.”

Your whole body tensed as pleasure washed over you, hot and overwhelming. You clenched around him, gasping into his mouth as you shattered, every nerve lighting up with sensation. And the moment your walls fluttered around him, he broke too. His hips jerked, breath catching, and he moaned low against your lips, as if even his release was meant to be shared.

He remained buried inside as he kissed you through it, holding you steady while your bodies trembled with the aftermath. The kind of climax that left your mind white and your limbs trembling, your names tangled together in gasps and sighs. And when it was done, when the shaking slowed and your heartbeats calmed just slightly, he pulled away just far enough to look at you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, still swollen from the kiss.

You were still trembling in his arms, both of you breathing in the same rhythm, your skin warm and sticky where it met his. He didn’t move a muscle, keeping you in his embrace. Buried inside you, wrapped around you like a blanket you never wanted to peel off. He kissed your temple again, and again, like he was trying to lull you to sleep, but his body told a different story.

You felt it. The way he was still hard, twitching inside you. The way his breath hitched just a little whenever you shifted. And when you nuzzled into his neck, pressing lazy, grateful kisses there, you felt him groan, quietly, like he didn’t want to scare you.

But your hips rolled without thinking. Testing. Inviting.

“Gege,” you whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t finish, did you?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just want. Just restraint, worn too thin.

“I did,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down your spine. “But then you made that sound. That soft little whimper. And now I’m starving again.” 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Instead, you reached up and cupped his jaw, tugging his mouth down to yours. And while the kiss started slow, sweet, it didn’t stay that way.

It deepened, hungrier this time.

And before you could blink, he had lifted you into his lap. Still seated, still buried inside. He held you there like it was where you belonged.

“Stay still,” he growled into your neck. “Let me… let me mark you again. Every place they ever touched, every inch they ever claimed—I’ll make it mine.”

Then he bit you. Not cruelly, not carelessly, but with the precise hunger of someone who had dreamed of this for too long. Right at the edge of your shoulder, his mouth closed over a place where another man once dared to mark you, and his teeth sank down with gentle vengeance. He didn’t stop. He kissed the sting away, then traveled lower, letting his lips and tongue soothe before he bit again, lower, slower, dragging the pain into pleasure until it dissolved into a noise escaping your throat.

You moaned, your back arching instinctively, body rising to meet every possessive press of his mouth. You clung to him, your fingers slipping through the sweat-damp strands of his hair, anchoring him closer and closer until there was nothing between you but breath and heat.

And still… a part of you couldn’t believe this was real.

From his impossible return to the quiet, joyful dinner, the warmth of his laughter beside yours, the tenderness of blowing out candles together, and now this, the sacred silence of your bodies pressed as one, it all felt too complete. Too gentle. Like you were trespassing in a dream you had stitched together in your loneliest nights, and the thread would break any moment, waking you to cold sheets and hollow air.

You searched his face, needing something to tether you, and found it not in a word, but in his eyes. He was looking at you. Truly looking, after devouring your skin like a man starved, with such unwavering earnestness that it struck you breathless.

“Are you okay? Was I too rough?” His voice cracked as he asked, his hand already reaching up to your face in apology, in fear, in love.

You shook your head, and tears slid quietly down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the ache of being held again. From believing, for just long enough, that you could stay like this.

“I’m more than okay,” you whispered, catching his hand and curling it against your cheek. You nuzzled into his palm, seeking its warmth, grounding yourself in a gesture you’d done a thousand times before, when comforting him, when begging him to stay, when waking him from fevered dreams. It felt like breathing. “It just feels… strange. Like if I blink, you’ll be gone. Like none of this is real.”

His expression shifted at your confession. Anguish flickered through him first, then guilt, then something deeper. Resolve. He wrapped his arms around you, gathering you flush to his chest, locking his embrace at your waist like he was holding the world together.

He rested his head on your shoulder, letting the words fall from his lips not like promises, but oaths. “I can’t undo the past,” he murmured, his breath brushing the slope of your collarbone, “but I will spend every moment I have making it up to you. I won’t leave again, meimei. Not now. Not ever. Gravity itself has pulled me back to you. And I won’t fight it.”

Then he kissed the nape of your neck. A soft vow sealed with lips and breath. Followed by another bite, stronger this time. Possessive. Fresh marks etched over old ones. Yours, claimed again, not as a memory, but as a rebirth. And just like that, you let go. Melted into him. Let your body sink into his like it belonged nowhere else. Like your soul remembered this alignment better than your mind ever could.

No, he couldn’t erase everything. Neither could you. But in this moment, tangled together, skin branded with shared want, you didn’t need perfect. Just him.

“I believe you,” you whispered at last, voice muffled in his shoulder. “But if you ever try to leave again, I’ll find you. I’ll lock you in the attic like you did to me in Gran’s house.”

That earned a chuckle from him, low and warm, against your throat. “Be my guest. I’d welcome it. I’d happily rot in your attic, if it means staying close to you.”

Then, with a shift of his weight, he tilted your jaw upward and sank into your neck once more. He kissed your pulse, then bit gently beside it, trailing his lips lower as if tracing a map only he could read.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, almost reverently, his mouth hovering against the base of your throat. “So of course, since my sweet meimei misbehaved, I’ll have to punish you.”

A pause.

“But only gently.”

Warmth slowly bloomed across your cheeks, spreading like the afterglow of a soft fire, while something deeper stirred low in your belly, something sweet, aching, sharp in its clarity. You’d just come twice, trembling from the fullness of his tongue, then again from the way his body filled yours completely. You could still feel him inside you, the ghost of that stretch, the memory of his mouth, every nerve ending lit and frayed. It was overwhelming, familiar and utterly new. A need you had thought buried returning in full force, alive and insatiable.

But you knew him. You knew him too well.

Your gege was gentle, yes. But buried beneath the softness, there lived something darker. Something possessive. And it was stirring now, no longer content to sleep. His gaze on you had shifted, no longer tender alone, but fierce. And the truth whispered itself across your skin like a secret:

You wanted more. So much more.

He didn’t even raise his voice when he said it.

“Sit on my lap.”

A command. Low and smooth like a polished blade, honed from years of discipline and weight. And still it cut right through you. A chill rushed down your spine, leaving a quiver in its wake. You knew that voice. Knew what it meant. It reminded you of those old days, the younger Caleb, already resolute and golden, but this version? He was something more. A colonel now. Sharpened by distance, carved by grief, returned to you with a darker edge. He was ruthless, breathless, and most importantly, yours.

And yet, even then, he paused.

His hand grazed your knee, tracing a light path over your skin. His touch steadied, reverent in a new way.

“Is that alright?” he asked, voice low, sincere. “Can I have you again, like this? Let me lead you, baby. But only if you want it.”

That thread of concern wrapped around your heart, tied you back to the boy you loved before the war took parts of him. You looked into his eyes, that gleam of heat and ache, the fire barely held back by restraint.

And you nodded. You whispered, “Yes, gege,” barely a breath, but full of longing.

He didn’t hesitate after that. You scrambled up on your knees, your limbs weak from pleasure, trembling slightly as you obeyed. His hands reached for you at once, steady and guiding. He didn’t rush, he positioned you just right, lifting your hips with care, helping you straddle him with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. Your hands found his shoulders instinctively, fingers digging into his warm skin, trying to anchor yourself to the sensation of him again.

You moved to sink down onto him.

But then—

“Nuh uh,” he murmured against your skin, the words low and dangerous, laced with amusement.

And before you could even process the words, the sharp crack of his palm landed across your ass, heat blossoming instantly under the strike.

You gasped, head falling forward against his shoulder, every muscle jolting. Your thighs quivered where they touched his hips. A shudder passed through your whole body, not from pain, but from the electric pleasure laced in it. It had been so long since you felt this, the quick sting of his discipline, the way it melted instantly into care. You had forgotten how much you loved this. And now, it was back. He was back.

He cupped you afterward, soothing the sting, his fingers tender even in their possession. His other hand kept you steady, splayed across your back, like he was holding the storm in place.

“Bad meimei,” he whispered again, slower this time, lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t get to choose, not without your gege’s permission.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. Your body trembled again.

You nearly came right there just from that. The words, the smack, the weight of being seen and held and owned. But you held it back, barely. Shame mixed with heat, need with surrender, and you collapsed forward, resting against his chest like it was your only sanctuary. He stroked down your spine, slow and rhythmic, grounding you like he always had.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just about arousal anymore. It was safety. Protection. It was the quiet knowledge that here, in his lap, in his arms, you were cradled by something greater than touch.

“Slowly, my love. Sink down slowly… unless,” his voice curled around you like smoke, “you’d rather be a needy little slut and take it all in one go. Hm? What do you want, meimei?”

He gave you two paths, both cruel in their own way, both thrilling. But somehow, you found yourself leaning toward the one that made your chest thrum and your core pulse. There was something broken and tender inside you that twisted at the idea of being spoken to like that. Not because it degraded you. But because he was the one saying it. Because his voice wrapped every sting in silk, every dark whisper in devotion. Because even the bruising became something sacred in his hands.

You nodded, breath catching, eyes lifting to meet his. The darkness in his gaze burned through you, hot, unflinching, maddeningly clear. And you moved. Sank down in one breathless motion, taking him to the hilt. The stretch split your breath in half. A ragged gasp tore from your mouth. You felt impossibly small, not just in size, but in presence, your thoughts hollowed out by sensation. He filled you as if his body had carved out a space that no one else could occupy, like your shape had been molded for him alone, always waiting for this reunion.

He groaned, the sound low and sharp with hunger, hands firm on your hips, grounding you as your body trembled.

“What a sight,” he murmured, eyes narrowing with that growing fire. “Did you want to rile me up? You did, didn’t you, meimei?”

Before you could answer, he lifted you with startling ease. Your breath hitched, thighs spasming from the ache, from the emptiness that lasted only a second before he thrust up into you again, deep and relentless. His rhythm was punishing and reverent all at once, hips snapping upward as you struggled to keep your balance against his shoulders. Each time he pulled you back down, your walls fluttered in response, desperate to keep him inside, to never let him go again.

You cried out, legs barely able to hold your weight. He hit every place that made you lose control, that left you begging. You clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, fingers clawing down his back with no shame, no filter. You sobbed out his name again and again like a prayer ripped from your throat.

“Gege—too big, I can’t—!”

But he just laughed, soft and unhurried, like he was watching a favorite scene play out exactly as he’d imagined. You were his. His to hold, to love, to break apart and stitch back together with care. And he had no intention of letting up.

“Silly girl,” he whispered, nosing into your neck, voice laced with heat. “This is only the beginning. You’re mine again, meimei. Mine to touch, mine to love, mine to take.”

One hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair before he gave it a firm tug, pulling your head back and exposing your throat. You gasped, lips parted in a soft whimper, and he wasted no time. His mouth found the places where others had once left their marks, where pain and shame still lingered. He kissed over them, then bit deep, over and over, drawing new marks, his marks, until they bloomed red and purple on your skin, a field of him, a field of home.

You clung tighter, legs shaking, body wrung out and overstimulated, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He was merciless now. Thrust after thrust, each one rougher than the last, his breath ragged against your shoulder, your hips slapping down into his with wet, obscene sounds.

“I’m close—gege, please let me—” you cried, the desperation raw.

But his hand landed hard against your ass again, a sharp reminder.

“No,” he growled, slowing his pace to a crawl. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

Your mouth dropped open in a soundless plea. The sudden lack of motion, the torturous drag of him half-inside, had you sobbing into his skin. He was no longer moving with rhythm, only with purpose, grinding, circling, building a new kind of tension.

But you could feel it in him too. There was something simmering under the surface, not just lust. Something unsettled. His expression had shifted. There was a flash of uncertainty there. Not in you, but in himself.

Your heart twisted. Was he doubting this? Doubting you? You opened your mouth to ask, but then he beat you to it.

“Meimei.”

Your name in that voice, firm, full of command and care, pulled you back to the present.

“It’s not you,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, my love.”

He stroked your hair, twirling a lock around his fingers like he used to when you were both younger. But this time, there was no smile behind the gesture. Only distance. A quiet searching. His fingers trembled ever so slightly.

And then, without warning, he slipped out of you. You gasped, startled. His strong arms caught you before you could fall, cradling you like something precious. He lifted you gently, set you down beside him on the sofa, his movements careful, too careful. And the air turned colder somehow.

You blinked up at him, confusion tightening in your chest. Why? Why did he stop, just when everything felt so… right?

He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. It was as if he’d heard the question bloom silently in your chest, like your thoughts had echoed against the shape of his bones. His gaze found yours, earnest, unreadable, a flame flickering behind his eyes that felt too sacred to name.

His hand drifted downward, slow and unfurling, until it found the base of his own shaft. He slid the condom off with fingers that trembled slightly, not from hesitation, but from the need that had been sharpened to a blade. The motion was clumsy in its urgency, quiet in its reverence, as though the act itself bore weight. You watched him, caught in that still moment, your eyes tracing the length of him, the sculpt of his hips, the curve of his torso that now gleamed with sweat. The heat between your thighs had begun to pool, slick and heady, a mixture of what he'd given you and what you craved. But it was the confusion in your chest, the uncertainty mixing with need, that made you hold your breath.

Then his eyes lifted. And you saw it, that quiet storm behind his gaze. Steadfast and clear.

“I just want to feel you,” he whispered, voice low and raw as he leaned in. “Warm, bare, nothing between us. Your skin to mine… just this once. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

He kissed your neck then, lips brushing your pulse like he was drinking from something sacred. The way he aligned himself again with your entrance, slowly and deliberately, made your thighs tighten around him in reflex. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve spoken the doubts. But the way he held you, the way his voice didn’t tremble, it melted through your reservations like candle wax, burning them down to the wick.

“Gege… is it really okay?” Your voice came out soft, shy, almost apologetic, your index finger tracing slow circles on his back like a ritual for comfort. Like a question you couldn’t speak out loud. His breath hummed against your shoulder in response, not words but something deeper. A promise.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, voice settling in your bones like dusk. “If anything happens… I’ll take responsibility. I want to.”

He reached for your hand, calloused fingers brushing against your ring finger, curling around it with a care that stunned you. And then he brought it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours, and kissed the skin there. Not with fire, but with something softer. Like a vow, like a ceremony. You felt it, the press of his lips against that place where a band should sit. You understood what he meant. Without words, he was asking you to marry him in body. In soul. At this moment, now.

Your eyes filled. Your heart opened.

“Okay, gege… I trust you. I’ll serve you. Just like always. Take me, however you want me.”

That was all it took.

Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to unraveled with that sentence. The beast, the hunger, the darkness threaded through his desire, he let it out. Not to hurt you, but to claim you. To show you in flesh what his words couldn’t always say. In the next breath, your body moved, without your own will. Gravity shifted around you, not with violence, but with precision. With care. His evol. You were pulled downward, slowly, inexorably, until your hips met his in full. Flesh to flesh.

No more barriers. No more space between.

The sensation tore a sound from your lips, a moan laced with disbelief. The absence of protection made everything unbearable, real. You could feel every ridge of him, the pulse in his length, the fever in his skin. He was inside you, raw and warm and impossibly deep. It was like being rethreaded from the inside out, like your body was remembering something it had once forgotten.

You arched back, head falling toward the stars, lips parted, spine taut as he began to thrust. Gravity didn’t stop, he kept control, his power moving you with perfect rhythm, your own muscles no longer needing to do the work. Your arms scrambled to find purchase on the bed, fingers curling in the sheets, as your body rocked in time with his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick and fraying at the edges. “Please bear with me, meimei. I need this. I need you.”

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you still while the other explored you with worshipful intent. His hand slid up to your chest, fingers curling, playing, tugging. Every brush of his palm sent sparks through your nerves, layered over the thrusts that had already begun to undo you.

You gasped his name again, eyes glassy, body trembling like a harp string pulled too tight.

This time, you didn’t care if it was too much. You wanted it. You wanted him. All of him.

He rocked into you with a rhythm only he knew, something carved not just from muscle and memory, but from longing, from the ache of too many nights spent without your warmth beneath him. With every thrust, you felt it, not just the stretch, not just the fullness, but the devotion, the intent behind it. Like he was relearning you from the inside out, committing the shape of your body to memory, rewriting every scar and ghost with the language of his hips.

And oh, how your body responded, how it remembered. Your walls clenched around him like a vice, like you didn’t want to let him go. Like you wanted to pull him even deeper, to fuse into him completely. You could feel every vein, every twitch of his cock as he drove into you, the wet, obscene sounds of your joining echoing off the walls like praise. Your hands fumbled to hold him, his back, his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor you as the pleasure built, slow and heavy like a storm ready to break.

He looked down at you, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes, damp with sweat. “You feel so good,” he breathed, his voice wrecked with awe. “So fucking good, baby. I could lose myself in you."

You whimpered his name, the only word that still made sense. Gege. Your voice was wrecked, trembling, already falling apart.

He leaned in and kissed you then, not rushed, not bruising, but deep and consuming. His tongue brushed yours in slow circles, as if tasting the sound of his name on your lips. And through the kiss, through the heat, you whispered:

“Gege… I’m close again.”

The moment the words left you, something shifted in him. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. One arm locked tighter around your waist while the other slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with perfect pressure, like he knew your body better than you did. You jolted, crying out, your thighs trembling around his hips.

He swallowed your moans in another kiss, holding you close as if you were breaking, as if this moment was too fragile to let go of.

And then, he came undone. With a choked gasp against your lips, his cock pulsed deep inside you, and you felt the heat of him spill, raw and overwhelming. The force of it tipped you over the edge with him, your release crashing through your body like waves, your muscles spasming, your voice lost to everything but his name.

You clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, body shuddering with aftershocks. And he held you through it tight and steady, murmuring your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. The two of you stayed like that. Joined, breathless, bodies tangled, and hearts laid bare.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Even as your body trembled against him, slick and limp, breath barely holding together like gossamer thread, he shifted. The smallest movement had you gasping, the overstimulation striking like lightning against nerves already stripped raw. This had to be your third time, maybe fourth, you couldn’t even count anymore. And yet the way his hands roamed your waist, how his mouth brushed your shoulder, told you plainly: he was still hungry.

When he pulled out, a rush of cool air kissed your inner thighs, the loss of him making you whimper. But before you could even register the emptiness, your body lifted. Not by his hands, but by something stronger. His evol. You floated, suspended by his will alone, your back against his chest as he carried you forward, deeper into the apartment, until the light above changed.

The soft glow of the bathroom bloomed to life around you.

“Gege, what are you—?”

He shushed you with nothing but a finger, the pad of it pressing to your lips. But even then, you couldn’t help yourself, your tongue darted out to taste him, to quiet your fear with the only thing that soothed it. His fingers. His scent. Him.

“You said I could do anything,” he said softly, voice low and calm, tinged with dark affection, “so I will. Just one more, meimei. Just one more for me.”

He turned you gently in the air, gravity bending to his desire. You hovered, bare and ruined, before the mirror, your body a canvas of flushed skin, swollen lips, smeared tears, and bruises blooming like flowers where his mouth had lingered. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and down your thighs, his pleasure still leaked from earlier, shining under the light. Your nipples were taut, skin glowing, sensitive from his earlier worship.

And still he looked at you like you were something holy.

“Let me have you again. Let me take you apart one last time tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Let me show you what it means to belong to someone.”

You couldn’t answer. Not in words. But your eyes found him in the mirror, dark and wild and gleaming with love, and it was enough.

He used his evol again.

There was no need for hands now. You felt your hips being pulled, gravity anchoring you where he needed you to be, right against him. The head of his cock lined up with your entrance once more, and without warning, he pushed you down onto him.

The sensation was raw. Burning. You choked on the sound that tried to escape you. Every inch of him carved through your sore, fluttering walls, no barrier left, nothing between you this time. Flesh to flesh. It felt like you were being melted and reforged in his arms.

He hissed as he bottomed out, his hands now touching everywhere all at once. One gripped your waist, grounding you as he pressed his other palm against your lower belly, right over where his cock filled you, feeling the stretch from the outside. You whimpered at the pressure. You could feel him everywhere. And he wasn’t still. He moved. Slowly at first, but then with purpose, drawing whines and broken sounds from your throat as his other hand came up to cradle your throat, his thumb gently stroking under your jaw.

His rhythm grew deeper, more urgent, but never losing control.

He tugged your chin, kissed you fiercely, his tongue tasting the salt on your lips. Between thrusts, he whispered against your skin.

“Look. Look at yourself.”

You tried. Your eyes were heavy, barely staying open. But he tilted your face forward again, forcing your gaze into the mirror’s reflection. And there she was. A girl unmade by love. Her lips parted, her skin painted with need, her body held up only by the man behind her. His arms around you like chains. His hips claiming you like you were the only altar he prayed to.

“Open your eyes, meimei,” he breathed. “I want you to see what you look like when you’re mine.”

And so you did.

You opened your eyes. Saw it. Saw everything. Yourself—stretched around him, dripping from him, face streaked with tears and kisses, and his name written in every inch of your expression. You looked like a girl completely undone.

But so loved, so wanted, so deeply his.

He kept you there, suspended in his hold, your knees barely brushing the cold marble as gravity shaped your movements to his will. The rhythm built slowly, grinding into you with delicious weight, each thrust pressing deeper than the last, stealing what was left of your voice and your thoughts. His grip on your waist was firm, pulling you back just enough to meet the precise drag of his hips, while his hand at your neck slid upward again, gently stroking your jaw as if to soothe what his body did not. Your head lolled back onto his shoulder, breath stuttering, lips parted in desperate, wordless pleasure.

“You feel that?” he rasped into your ear, voice cracking with restraint. “You feel how soaked you are for me? How tight you get when I talk to you like this?” He licked the shell of your ear, teeth grazing soft skin before he bit, not harsh, but firm enough to leave his shape there, just another place to call you his. “My sweet little thing. You act so innocent, but you’re always dripping for me, aren’t you?”

You sobbed out something unintelligible, body trembling as his cock thrust deeper, the stretch somehow sharper without the barrier between you. Skin to skin, slick to heat. Every drag of him inside you felt unbearably raw, as if you were being unstitched from the inside out and sewn back together under his name.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, one palm sliding from your belly to your chest, cupping a breast, thumb brushing your swollen nipple with agonizing tenderness. “You love it. You love it when I use you like this. When I make you mine over and over again.”

His words tangled with your moans, filling the room like incense. And he didn’t stop. His movements became sharper, hips snapping up into you with practiced cruelty. You couldn’t even brace yourself anymore, he held all of you. Every movement, every tremble, was his to control.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this. Look at you,” he whispered, pressing your body closer to the mirror. “Look how you take me. Look how perfect you are when you're stuffed full of your gege’s cock.”

Your nails scrambled for purchase against the edge of the vanity, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the glass, your reflection shuddering in time with each thrust. The sounds between your bodies grew louder—wet, obscene, broken only by the soft keening whimpers escaping your lips.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he said, kissing the nape of your neck with reverence now, his tone softer. “You’re my treasure. My favorite girl. My only one.” His pace didn’t slow, if anything, he angled deeper, chasing the spot that made your legs seize with each thrust. “I’ll never let anyone else have you again. No one else gets to fuck you like this. No one else gets to love you like this.”

The duality of him, his tenderness tangled with cruelty, his praise laced with claim, wrapped around you like a second skin.

And then came the unraveling.

Your voice cracked open, your thighs trembling against his hips, your eyes fluttering shut even as he growled for you to keep them open. You couldn't hold it anymore. Your orgasm built and built, pressure swelling to something unbearable, and when he curved his hips just right, grinding into you with brutal precision, you shattered.

“Gege, I'm—please. I'm coming—!”

“Let go. Come on me. Let your gege feel it,” he groaned, and as your body spasmed around him, he drove into you with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

He came with a cry, his hands tightening on your hips, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Hot and raw, he spilled inside you, his breath hitching with every twitch of his cock. Your name, your title, meimei, fell from his lips like a vow, as if pouring his soul into your body wasn’t enough.

And you, trembling and breathless, cried for him again. Not just from the pleasure. But from the fullness. From the knowing. Because in this moment, you weren’t just his lover.

You were his prayer.

And you were not stopping until he was satisfied. Until every drop of his desire carved itself into your skin. Until his name was the only sound left on your tongue. Until he’d wrung you dry and made you bloom again in the shape of his love.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The moment you slipped back into the waking world, it was gentle. There was no sharp edge, no ache beyond the soft hum in your bones. The sun had spilled through the windowpane like a blessing, golden and quiet, dust motes suspended in its light as if time had slowed just for you. And within that hush, there was a warmth wrapped around your body, tight but never too much. It smelled of heat, faint sweat, and something distinctly him. Caleb.

You blinked, eyelashes fluttering against the pillow, only to be met with his gaze. He was already awake, observing you sleep with that familiar quiet fondness in his eyes, the kind that made your chest swell too full, too fast. Like a held breath before the cry.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough from sleep but still velvet-soft. “How was your sleep?” One hand reached up to ruffle your hair, fingers threading through with that same affection he always used to show you, back when you were still little, when his hand covered your whole head, when he’d pat you after a nightmare and tell you everything was okay.

“You slept pretty soundly,” he added, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I already cleaned you up, so don’t worry about a thing.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was tight, filled with something wordless. Tears clung to your lashes, not of sadness, but disbelief. Out of gratitude that he was still here. Not a dream, not a mirage of longing stitched from your own desperation. But real. His skin, his breath, his voice. Caleb.

“Gege,” you breathed, voice breaking a little, “hold me tighter, please. Don’t let go.”

And he did. His arms wrapped around you, pressing you flush to his chest. You clung to him like the last thread in the world, your legs curling in despite the soreness that sang through your muscles. But your feet, they wouldn’t move. Not just sore, they were numb. You shifted, trying again, only to stumble in place. Your body gave a tiny jolt, and before you could panic, you heard it. His laughter.

“Ah, let your gege help you here, meimei,” he chuckled, voice bright, full of the warmth you hadn’t heard in so long. Not since those years when everything was simpler. “Up you go.”

He scooped you up without hesitation, your body sliding effortlessly into his arms like you were meant to be carried. He didn’t even blink at your weight. Just held you like you were something precious that belonged nowhere else. As he laid you back down gently, he spoke again, fingers tracing idle patterns through your hair.

“How did you like yesterday, meimei?” There was a soft tilt in his voice, teasing but full of care. “I think your hair’s very pretty. I like this style.”

A blush crept over your cheeks, warm and shy, so you buried your face in his chest. You nuzzled against him, hiding your fluster there, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. His hand kept stroking you, slowly, as if he were still grounding you with every sweep.

You stayed there for a while, tangled up in his warmth, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart echo beneath your ear. Neither of you moved. Not really. Just the soft rise and fall of your bodies breathing together, his palm rubbing slow circles on your spine like a lullaby you never outgrew.

“…do you regret it?” you asked after a moment, your voice barely louder than the rustling sheets. You didn’t dare look up. You couldn’t. The question lingered like a crack in porcelain.

“Meimei,” he sighed, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you could never ask me something I’d regret less.”

You exhaled shakily, your fingers clenching into the blanket. But he didn’t let you retreat. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze up until your eyes met his.

“I don’t regret you. I never did. I regret time. I regret hurting you. But you?” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, lips brushing your nose. “You’re my favorite thing in the world. Still are.”

The words made your throat tighten. You bit your lip, blinking fast. “You’re so good to me, gege… even when I was broken.”

He smiled, nose nudging yours again. “You weren’t broken. You were hurt. And I wasn’t there to keep you safe. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed down a sob, one hand lifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Promise?”

He kissed the center of your palm, then the back of it, his fingers slotting perfectly between yours. “With every breath I’ve got left.”

You didn’t say anything more after that. Just curled closer, resting there in the morning hush, letting the weight of the night settle in your bones. The ache in your thighs, the love painted across your skin, the soft warmth between your legs, proof that everything had changed, and yet somehow, everything had returned to where it belonged. Eventually, he shifted, pressing one last kiss to your temple.

“Alright, sleepyhead,” he murmured, slipping out from beneath the covers with a groan, stretching his long limbs. “Let’s get you something warm to eat. You burned through enough calories last night to feed a small starship.”

You giggled, cheeks blooming pink as you turned over to watch him reach for his pants, tugging them on lazily. “You’re such a dork, gege.”

“And proud of it,” he winked, tossing you one of his oversized shirts. “Here. Wear this. You look better in my clothes anyway.”

You wriggled into it with a quiet laugh, the hem falling almost to your knees. It smelled like him. Of course it did. Warm, musky, a little like cinnamon and ozone, whatever gravity left behind when it kissed the skin of someone you loved.

He made his way out to the kitchen, whistling softly, humming one of those tunes he used to sing under his breath while cooking in the academy dorms. You followed behind, wobbly-legged but determined—until, halfway down the hall, your knees buckled slightly and you tripped into the wall.

“Oof—”

You caught yourself with a tiny yelp. He turned instantly, brows lifting, eyes wide.

“Meimei—”

You looked up, mortified for half a second, until he burst into laughter. Loud and bright and real.

“You alright?” he chuckled, walking back to scoop you into his arms like it was second nature. “Guess I really did break you a little, huh?”

You pouted, smacking his arm lightly. “Don’t tease me!”

He was already carrying you bridal style into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll make you breakfast as an apology. With extra fruit.”

And just like that, the world felt whole again. Like the stars had realigned. Like home wasn’t a place or a planet, but a heartbeat beside yours, a laugh in the morning, the smell of pancakes and old memories mixing in the air.

Everything was back in place.

You were finally home.

[blxssom-221]

Game Over Series - Caleb

Summary: Y/n's patience wears thin with Caleb's gaming obsession. He was so deeply engrossed in his ranked match, he barely notice her presence. That’s not going to work for her. If he wasn’t going to willingly give her attention… well, she wasn’t going to just sit there quietly and accept this.

Warnings‼️: NSFW, Smut, Rough Sex, Power play, Dominant Caleb, 🔞

Word count: 2.4k 🍎🍏

Y/n was done playing nice.

Caleb hadn't so much as glanced away from his monitor in hours, his knuckles white around the mouse, his voice a low murmur to his teammates. Each click of his keyboard, each muffled shout from his headset, each time he responded to them felt like another snub.

‘I am a ghost?’ Had she spent hours getting ready just to be background noise to some virtual, pointless quest? Some stupid tournament? Some dumb ranked game? It’s as if she wasn't sitting right there, legs crossed on the sofa, simmering with burning frustration. Her patience, a brittle thread that was about to snap.

‘Alright, two could play at that.’

She sauntered up behind him like a predator stalking its prey, letting her nails drag a path over his tense shoulders before yanking his headset down around his neck with a sharp tug. The muffled choas of gunfire and distant explosions now filled the entire room.

"Y/n—" His voice was laced with mild annoyance, but she cut him off, leaning in so her warm lips brushed the delicate shell of his ear. The scent of his usual energy drink and a faint, masculine musk filled her nostrils, both familiar and intoxicating.

"You've been ignoring me for three hours." She purred, her voice a low thrum that promised trouble.

Her hand moved, slowly down his chest, she felt the rapid beat of his heart underneath his gray hoodie before traveling lower until her fingers dipped teasingly below the waistband of his sweatpants, dancing along the elastic, tracing the sensitive skin there. She felt the subtle shift in his weight as a tremor ran through his body and wicked satisfaction filled her.

Caleb's breath hitched but his grip on the mouse didn't falter. Every brush of her fingers against him, every feather-light touch sent a jolt of fire through his veins as his concentration on the battlefield started to waver. On screen, his character still moved with lethal precision, landing shot after shot, eliminating opponents with ease.

‘Seriously?’ Y/n narrowed her eyes. She wanted him undone.

With a slow, dangerous smirk, Y/n reached over and clicked the keyboard's Escape key, pausing the game with a soft click. His teammates confused, distant shouts blared through the discarded headset on the floor.

"Oops." Her voice was a sweet, innocent lie brimming with mischief.

Caleb sighed in frustration, shoulder’s dropping in defeat. “Fine.”

In one swift motion, Caleb spun the chair, grabbed her waist in a vice like grip before hauling her into his lap. Her thighs straddled his as her back hit his chest. The headset clattered to the floor, the muffled chatter of his team drowned out by the frantic pounding of Y/n's pulse in her ears.

"You want my attention? Alright." His voice was dark, laced with a velvet threat. It vibrated through her, making her face warm as a blush crossed her features. "Then you're gonna help me win."

Before she could even retort, his hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back sharply, exposing the delicate line of her throat as his other hand shoved her skirt up, bunching the fabric around her waist. A gasp tore from her throat as he pulled her panties aside, the cool air quickly replaced by his fingers, sliding through her slick folds with light strokes that made her clench around nothing.

"Mmm~ Caleb!" A choked moan escaped her lips as her hips jerked instinctively, a desperate attempt to create space, but he held her still, his grip unyielding.

"Mouse. Now." He forced her trembling hand onto it, his own large hand covering hers, guiding her movements as he adjusted the setting to one handed combat then unpaused the game.

She could barely think, let alone focus, not when his fingers circled her clit. His touch was slow and precise, earning soft moans from her as he executed another headshot on screen. Liquid heat pooled rapidly between her legs, spreading like wildfire.

"You— Ah~ you're cheating." She panted, her fingers trembling, barely able to grip the mouse. The screen blurred into pixels as Caleb picked up the pace, flicking his fingers against her little nub just the way she liked. Y/n whined in his arms, fidgeting as she tried to fight off the heat engulfing her.

His laugh was low, a dangerous rumble in his chest. "No, baby. You started this." Then he slammed two fingers inside her, curling just right, his thumb pressing against her clit in time with every click of the mouse.

She squealed, immediately closing her legs and arching her back. The suddenness of his intrusion caught her off guard but a delicious ache began blossoming in her core was just as unforgiving as the man causing it.

“Open up f’me.” He ordered and she did so without hesitation, spreading her legs wide enough for him to plunge deeper within her.

“C-Caleb!” She whined, finding it impossible not to buck her hips to meet his unrelenting touch.

He smirked and set a fast pace that had her on edge in no time at all as he worked his fingers into her skillfully. The pleasure was overwhelming, a sharp, exquisite agony that stole her breath.

On screen, his character moved with inhuman precision, racking up kills with a terrifying efficiency as his fingers expertly ruined her. Y/n bit her and whimpered, she was so close and he could tell by the way she kept squeezing his fingers. He knew her body like the back of his hand.

"You gonna cum?" he growled, his sharp teeth sinking gently into the tender skin of her shoulder, a soft bite that sent shivers down her spine, a delicious pain. "Or do I have to carry you here too?"

She was almost there, right on the edge. Her thighs trembled violently, she could only gasp and whimper, the sounds muffled against his neck as she hid her face there. Every nerve in her body vibrated, screaming for release.

Then, with a final thrust of his fingers deep inside her and a satisfying headshot flashing on screen, she shattered. Her body convulsing around his fingers, every muscle strung tight then trembling into release. A breathy cry tore from her throat as her nails dug desperate crescents into his arm.

Caleb’s fingers didn’t stop, only moving faster as she rode out her climax, his own breath ragged and hot against her skin. The victory screen flashed, a blinding burst of color, his teammates' triumphant cheers filling the room through the headset on the floor, but his attention was finally, finally, fully on her.

"Next time." he murmured, his voice rough with desire, dragging his wet fingers provocatively over her swollen lips, a lingering taste of her own pleasure. "Just ask for my attention. Nicely."

Y/n pouted and huffed, still catching her breath before a small, playful sound that melted into his chest. “You big meanie.”

Caleb smiled. He wanted to tease her more, his eyes dark with lingering lust, and just then, an audacious idea sparked in his mind, a wicked gleam entering his eyes. He tightened his grip on her hips, his thumbs tracing the curve of her bones.

"New game, Pips." His voice was rough, a low growl, as he stood abruptly, spinning Y/n around to face him, her plush chest flush against his toned one. He shoved his pants down just enough to free his hard cock, already glistening and dripping with need. "New rules."

Her eyes widened, blown pupils taking in the sight as she felt him, hard and hot against her inner thigh, a potent promise of more.

Y/n barely had time to process his words before he lifted her onto the cool, smooth surface of the desk, his hands guiding her hips down onto him in one brutal thrust, bottoming out and filling her to the brim. A sharp cry tore from her throat as tears pricked the corner of her eyes. Her nails dug into his shoulders, clawing at the fabric of his sweater as he withdrew only to slam into her again with the same ferocity, burning himself to the hilt, stretching her deliciously tight pussy. He groaned in pleasure when she began clenching around him, adjusting to his girth length.

"You're gonna be in control this time." He nipped at her collarbone, a sharp, playful bite.

His grip on her was almost bruising as he forced her hips to move, a silent, powerful command. "Keep me hard, baby. Keep me interested." His lips curled into a predatory smirk as the next match loaded on screen, the familiar sounds of the game filling the air once more.

"If I cum before we win..." He punctuated his words with a sharp snap of her hips, drawing a whimper from her lips, the sensation of him so deep, so impossibly full, pressing against that hidden spot. "I'll uninstall this game forever."

Y/n shuddered, already feeling the delirious from the way way he filled her as he was fucking her, the way his tip brushed that perfect, sensitive spot deep inside her, sending jolts of pleasure through her core as a familiar ache starting to build.

“Promise?” Her breath hitched.

He chuckled before placing a kiss on the corner of her mouth. He lifted her again and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he sat back down in the chair, making sure his cock stayed fully seated within her. “I promise, baby.”

She bit her lip, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and shifted her hips, a slow, deliberate grind that sent a jolt through him, watching his jaw clench, a muscle ticing in his cheek. She found an angle, a sweet spot, and began to ride, her movements no longer just about her own pleasure, but about his escalating torment. He grunted but returned his focus to the game that just began.

Oh, she'd make him lose.

With a smirk that mirrored his own, Y/n started moving, slow at first, a teasing grind, then faster, her nails digging into his broad shoulders as she rode him with single minded determination. His grip on her tightened, his breaths coming in ragged, desperate bursts, but his eyes stayed stubbornly locked on the screen, a fierce concentration that both annoyed and excited her.

It was infuriating.

She rolled her hips, taking him deeper, her own breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the muffle of his teammates below them blurred into background noise. Caleb's hand returned to the keyboard, his grip steady despite the way his thighs tensed and flexed beneath her, his body burning with suppressed desire.

"Focus, baby." He teased, his voice strained, raw with effort as Y/n clenched around him, pulling him deeper still. "Or —fuck— do you want to lose?"

Y/n responded by grinding down harder, her movements growing more desperate and frantic as the match intensified, the on-screen action mirroring their own escalating passion. Caleb's breath hitched, a low continuous groan rumbling in his chest, barely audible over the game's soundtrack. His fingers, usually so precise, fumbled slightly over the keys as Y/n’s relentless rhythm threatened to shatter his focus entirely. He was on the edge of breaking.

Y/n's soft, breathless moans and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin was hard to ignore.

“Caleb~” Sweat dripped down Caleb's temple, his formidable resolve crumbling visibly with every tantalizing movement. She knew how much he loved it when she moaned his name “So full— so good. Mmm!”

"Fuck—Y/n..." His voice was weak plea as a broken sound ripped from his throat.

Y/n grinned, a triumphant curve of her lips, increasing her pace, her own pleasure building again. A sweet, agonizing ache rooted in her belly as she watched his formidable resolve crumble before her.

The match was impossibly close.

So was she.

"Faster." He whispered. It was a command and she happily obliged.

She obeyed, bouncing in his lap, her breath coming in ragged pants, a symphony of exertion and rising climax, as the sounds of the game mixed with the slick, echoing slap of skin.

Caleb's grip tightened his grip on the mouse, his hips meeting hers thrust for thrust, a primal rhythm, his control fraying with every choked moan she ripped from his lips. Y/n clenched around him, her lips brushing his ear, her voice a triumphant purr, husky with desire. "You’re gonna lose, Caleb."

The final kill flashed on screen, a bright, victorious notification, just as Caleb's grip on the desk turned white-knuckled. He pushed back in the chair, stood and gripped Y/n’s hips tightly before slamming into her with so much force that she cried out. He growled, taking control and fucking her like a rabid animal, as if he would die if he didn’t.

“W-wait! Slo-slow down.” She managed, she could barely speak with how ruthlessly he was thrusting into her. He claimed her lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth and devouring every sound that left her body. Caleb couldn’t stop, didn’t dare to. He need to cum, needed to fuck her full and he was going to follow through.

Y/n broke the kiss, glaring up at her lover through teary eyes as he used her like a fleshlight. “Too much… too much.” He had her spiraling into her next orgasm and she couldn’t stop it.

Caleb ignored her, chasing his own high. He knew she could take it, knew she could handle his cock. If she wanted him to stop, she’d use their safe word but she didn’t. Instead, she pulled herself closer to him and bit down hard on his shoulder, earning her a loud groan from him as Caleb’s hips stuttered.

Y/n release hit so abruptly and so hard that she was completely unprepared. Mouth still attached to him as she whimpered around his skin, her sweet sounds going straight to his dick as her pussy tried milking him for everything he’s worth.

“Fuuuccck..!” His hips jerking up a few more times, pumping as he spilled into Y/n with a guttural groan that vibrated through her entire body.

Y/n limp body barely clung to him, both of them panting as he fell back into the chair. She collapsed onto his chest, listening to his heart as they slowly recovered. Caleb locked his arms loosely around her waist as he watched the victory screen casting a cool, blue glow over their tangled, slick bodies.

Caleb's laugh was breathless, a sound of pure triumph as he brushed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Guess I’m keeping the game."

Y/n pouted. She’d forgotten all about the game, didn’t even realize when she had lost. Pressing herself closer, her body still humming with the aftershocks of climax. "Best two out of three?"

[blxssom-221]

Hi Eve! Congrats on 500!!! Requesting 3 or 19 for Sylus out of your prompt list pleasseeeee :3 (whichever hasn't been taken yet or compels you more!!)

the portrait standoff.

[ sylus x reader ]

you bring home a massive portrait of mephisto dressed like a victorian lord. he says absolutely not. you argue. he argues harder. but when you’re breathless, grinning, toe-to-toe—he shuts you up the only way he knows how.

ABOUT | 2k words. fluff. comedic bickering. ridiculous decor war. unhinged you. deadpan Sylus. victorian crow portrait as the final boss.

TAGS | slice of life. domestic comedy. heated bickering. ridiculous art. soft resolution. shared space shenanigans.

NOTE : this is part of the celebrate 500 followers event! want to pick a prompt? [press here]. thank you for being part of this space, and for reading and enjoying these stories.

a special thank you to Em—you are an incredible support. your reviews and thoughtful tags always make me feel like you catch every single word. every time i see a note from you, i can’t help but smile. thank you for making this space brighter. 🖤

YOU CRADLE IT...like it’s something sacred. Or fragile. Or both. The frame alone stands nearly as tall as you, all ornate gold swirls and faux age spots—exactly the kind of thing that would send an antiques appraiser into cardiac arrest. Your arms burn from hauling it up the stairs, but it’s fine. Worth it. You adjust your grip on the heavy wood, nudge your hip against the apartment door, and—through sheer willpower and a heroic amount of desperation—manage to shove it open.

The silence inside is the deliberate kind, the kind that usually means Sylus is somewhere nearby, reading reports or silently passing judgment on the world. The apartment smells like him: coffee, soap, something clean and sharp. For one triumphant heartbeat, you let yourself imagine him appearing in the doorway, his eyes lighting up as he takes in your prize, immediately recognizing your impeccable taste. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll say, Brilliant choice. Let’s hang it right now.

You step inside, and there he is—leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, glass of water in hand. His eyes lift. His brow furrows. The glass stalls halfway to his lips.

Silence expands, taut and unyielding. His gaze drops to the painting. Mephisto, rendered in full baroque absurdity, stares back—powdered wig, crimson suit, monocle glinting with imperious challenge.

Sylus’s voice, when it comes, is low and almost painfully measured. “What is that.”

Not what’s this—but what is that. As if you’ve brought home a live crocodile. Or a bomb.

You smile, bright and unwavering. “It’s art.”

His jaw tightens, so subtle it would be easy to miss. But you don’t.

Because this isn’t just about a painting. It’s about the wall. The space. Your space. And you’ve just fired the first shot.

You set the painting down with care, propping it against the couch so Mephisto’s beady eyes can cast judgment over the entire apartment. Straightening, you brush your hands together like you’ve just accomplished something heroic.

“It’s going right here,” you announce, sweeping your arm toward the blank wall above the sofa with a flourish. “The perfect spot. He’ll inspire conversation.”

Sylus’s gaze slides from your beaming face to the portrait, then back again. His expression is neutral in the way a thundercloud looks neutral before it splits open. “Conversation?” His tone is so flat it’s practically a miracle of composure. “You mean emergency evacuations.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Excuse me?”

“People will run screaming.” He sets his glass on the counter with a deliberate clink. “They’ll think we’re… unwell. Or possessed.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you plant your hands on your hips. “It’s called personality. You can’t get that from mass-produced canvas prints of sad grey flowers.”

His brow lifts, a quiet challenge. “And you think this”—he gestures at Mephisto’s regal, faintly sinister face—“is the cure? The antidote to bland décor?”

You glance at the painting. Mephisto’s tiny monocle gleams beneath the overhead light like it’s daring you to falter. “Absolutely.”

He exhales, long and quiet, a sound that says he’s searching every corner of his mind for patience. “You know there are other ways to make this place feel like home,” he says, voice almost soft. Almost.

Something in you stutters at that word—home—but you shove it down, refusing to break now. “Yes,” you counter, “but none of them involve a crow with a better wardrobe than either of us.”

His lips twitch, the tiniest betrayal of amusement. “He looks like he’s plotting to bankrupt a small European nation.”

“He looks dignified,” you argue, already picturing him above the couch as the centerpiece of every future conversation. “And for the record, he’ll keep us on our toes.”

He steps closer, boots silent on the floor. The distance shrinks, heat crackling in the charged air. “On our toes,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours. “That’s what you’re going with.”

You nod, chin high. “On. Our. Toes.”

A beat of silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. His gaze flickers to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. “This is absurd,” he murmurs, voice softened just enough for you to hear it.

Your heart hammers, but you refuse to retreat. “You’d rather hang nothing? A blank void of beige? Is that what you want our place to say about us?”

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to see right through you. “Our place,” he echoes, voice low but no longer cold.

Your cheeks burn at the slip. “Yes,” you whisper, but your resolve holds firm. “Our place.”

You start mentally drafting wedding invitations for yourself and the painting, just in case he throws you out. It would be a tasteful ceremony. Small guest list. Possibly catered by that bakery down the street.

He drags a hand down his face like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. “You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“And yet you’re still here,” you shoot back, unable to stop the breathless grin from curling across your lips.

His eyes don’t leave yours. The grin softens there, lingering at the corners of your mouth, but suddenly it feels too bright, too loud in the hush that follows. He’s looking at you like he sees past the joke. Past the grin. Past Mephisto, in his ridiculous powdered wig and that monocle you’re beginning to have second thoughts about yourself.

Sylus doesn’t speak. He just watches you, gaze steady and unflinching, and you feel the weight of it—the unsaid things crowding the space between you, heavier than the ornate frame at your feet. The apartment still feels new. The paint clings faintly in the corners. The furniture is functional, mostly his. The walls are blank. Except now there’s this painting. This one piece of you.

You’re the first to look away, eyes dropping to the floor because it’s easier than meeting his when your heart is pounding like this. Your voice emerges quieter, almost hesitant. “It’s just… it’s ours now, you know? This place. I wanted something that made it feel like that.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, too bare, too raw, leaving you exposed.

Sylus shifts, as if on the verge of speaking, then doesn’t. His arms fold across his chest—not defensively, but like he’s bracing himself, as if letting go might cause something inside him to splinter. His gaze drops to the painting, and for the first time, there’s no humor there. Only something softer. A flicker of understanding. Maybe even regret.

“I know.” His voice is low, quiet as confession. “I know what this is about.”

You risk a glance up. He looks tired somehow—not in body, but like this is harder for him than you’d ever meant it to be.

“I’m not trying to take over,” you say, words tumbling out in a rush, awkward and earnest. “I just—I wanted something here that felt like both of us.”

His jaw tightens, working silently. His fingers tap once against his arm, then fall still. The silence between you doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels tentative. Careful. Like you’re both afraid that moving too fast might shatter something delicate and irreplaceable.

A beat passes. Then another. And just like that, the quiet shatters.

You straighten, spine snapping taut with new determination. “I’m hanging it.” The words burst out sharper than you intend. You step forward, finger stabbing the air at the spot above the couch. “There.”

Sylus’s eyes flash, dark and unyielding. He closes the space until his chest almost brushes yours, his own finger jabbing at the same blank wall—just an inch lower. “Here.”

“No.” Your pulse spikes. You lean in, toes nearly bumping his boots. “Higher.”

“Lower,” he growls, voice dropping rough.

You match his volume, cheeks flushing hot. “Higher.”

“Lower.”

His breath ghosts across your cheek, hot and ragged, pulling the world tighter around you. His hand falls from his chest, brushing your wrist, the contact electric—zinging through your veins, leaving your skin humming.

Your heart pounds so hard it’s dizzying. “I swear, Sylus, if you don’t let me—”

He cuts in, voice low, clipped, dangerous. “You’ll what, kitten?”

Your hand rises between you, finger still pointing defiantly. His hand lifts at the same time, colliding with yours. Fingers tangle, awkward but desperate, neither of you willing to yield. You twist, he shifts, stepping forward again, boots nudging yours aside. Your breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Somewhere in the apartment, Mephisto’s painted eyes glower in silent, absurd judgment.

The air thickens, heavy with heat and the weight of unspoken words. Dialogue spills out fast, overlapping, raw edges smoothed by the sharp, breathless current between you.

“I’m not letting it go there—”

“I’m not letting it go there—”

“You’re impossible—”

“You’re stubborn—”

His hand flexes around yours, grip tightening like letting go would be more dangerous than holding on. Your shoulders tense. His gaze drops to your mouth; yours flick to his lips. For one suspended moment, everything falls silent except for your breaths—quick, shallow, shared.

You can feel it—something cracking open between you. Balance tipping. A heartbeat teetering on the brink of something reckless, something that could change everything.

It happens all at once, like a rubber band snapping. Your laugh bubbles up first—high, breathless, a little ridiculous—spilling into the quiet like a dropped glass shattering across tile. His breath catches, and then he’s laughing too, low and ragged, each chuckle vibrating through his chest.

The tension unspools in a single, dizzying rush, leaving you almost swaying. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, warm and careful, the touch a quiet question. You don’t know who leans in first—and it doesn’t matter. His mouth catches yours mid-laugh, cutting your next word short. The kiss is messy, clumsy, perfect—lips parting on a soft, startled gasp.

His hands glide up your arms, fingers curling against your shoulders. Heat blooms wherever he touches, radiating out until your knees feel loose and your bones light. His stubble scrapes your cheek, leaving a prickling trail that makes you shiver. There’s the faint taste of coffee on his tongue, rich and familiar, and the air thickens around you like time has gone syrupy, stretching slow and sweet.

You pull back just enough to drag in a breath. His eyes are hooded, lashes low, mouth pink and swollen. A laugh, small and disbelieving, ghosts across his lips. He tips his forehead against yours, the space between you pulsing with something tender and a little wild.

“I hate that painting,” he whispers, voice rough at the edges.

“I know,” you breathe, chest rising against his. “But you love me.”

He exhales a sound that’s almost a groan, mouth finding yours again—softer this time, unhurried, like he’s sealing a promise he hasn’t found words for yet.

When you finally break apart, he stays close, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes flick to the absurd portrait leaning against the couch. Mephisto’s painted face looks even smugger in the low light, monocle glinting like he knows he’s won.

A slow grin curves your lips. “You realize Mephisto is going to strut around like royalty when he sees himself immortalized in velvet and lace, right?”

Sylus’s eyes narrow a fraction, but his mouth tugs with reluctant amusement. “He’ll be insufferable,” he mutters. “You’re giving a mechanical bird an ego complex.”

You laugh, softer now, as his hand settles at the small of your back, grounding you. His chest rumbles with quiet agreement. The ridiculous painting stands silent witness—its ornate frame catching the glow of the kitchen light, Mephisto’s haughty gaze presiding over your tangled forms.

Sylus leans in again, his mouth finding yours with a steadier purpose this time, the kind that makes your knees buckle and your back bump gently against the couch. His hands cradle your face, thumbs sweeping along your jaw as he deepens the kiss, slow and sure, like there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be.

You breathe his name, soft and questioning—“Sylus?”

He hushes you with another kiss, lips warm and certain. “We’ve got time,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with quiet affection. “Plenty of time before we have to hang that monstrosity.”

And just like that, the apartment feels different. Yours. His. Ours. A place where even the most ridiculous things can belong.

thank you for reading, and happy 500 followers!

[blxssom-221]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst wc: 3.2k

In a fantasy-like dreamscape, with petals painted in hues of ivory and rouge, you amble down the concrete trail that loops around the park.

You ignore the feeling of being out of place – after all, you’re still in your work blouse, skirt, and heels that are very impractical for a long walk. But in your numbing haze and cloudy mind, you’re welcome to any ache and sore that could keep you grounded to this forsaken planet. The music from your earbuds rings with melancholic songs from some movie soundtrack, though coincidental and fitting for the situation at hand. Eyes glassed over, steps slow and laborious, and shoulders slumped, you walk defeated.

A gust of wind releases the petals from their branches and blooms, a flurry scattering into the open air before flitting, twisting, turning, and gradually falling to the ground beneath your feet. They make you remember a happier time, one that seems to be a waste after all these years. When you look towards the sky, you recall a similar view when you were snug in a wedding dress while making your way down an aisle, your lips curved in a smile as onlookers threw white rose petals into the air. But when you tilt your head down to look in front of you, there is no man in a tailored, pressed suit waiting for you.

He settled by marrying you, a faint whisper reminds you in the back of your mind. You did this to yourself.

Perhaps you did.

There was always the chance that she would come back – you had always dreaded the day, but Zayne was adamant that there was nothing to worry about. He had moved on, and he loved you. There was nothing you needed to fix about yourself, he insisted. He loved you for who you were, and you were grateful – grateful that he still thought of you late at night when stuck in emergency surgeries, that he would buy you pastries anytime he visited the bakery, that he would welcome you into his office during lunch breaks when you had time to step away from your desk.

You were happy to be on his arm at awards and annual galas. You would bask in the moments when you would come out in a new dress and he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you. “You look beautiful,” he would say with reverence and adoration, and it was those moments that led you astray from your worries and insecurities. He chose you, and you could tell he didn’t regret choosing you.

That didn’t change until after a few months she returned.

The reason she had been gone for so long was because she had been transferred indefinitely to a remote city that had a massive shortage of Hunters and way too many Wanderers to deal with. From the get go, she had been advised to officially move out of her apartment and was even given a stipend to help with relocation costs. It was for a good cause, and she had always wanted to travel and see the world. Zayne, in all his infinite charity and kindness, made sure to discuss every detail possible with her new physician that would be looking after her and her heart condition. He even went as far as having her sign a release of information to him specifically so that he could access her records remotely.

You understood. Really, you did. She had even made it out to the wedding and stayed afterward to help with cleanup efforts.

But after her return, the more you fell asleep in and woke up to an empty bed, the less sleep you were getting.

How do I bring this up without sounding like a clingy partner? You had wracked your brain for weeks. Zayne was stressed enough as it was, and you really didn’t want to add to it. You had vowed to be the solid ground beneath his feet – to support and keep him stabilized – and not the storm that could topple him over.

But it was so hard.

Fewer texts, fewer check-in’s, fewer notes left behind reminding you of the little things. Fewer reminders that he was ever a tenant in this house – much less, your husband.

Zayne ran on a routine and schedule, but so much spontaneity happens in his daily life that he probably wouldn’t mind a surprise visit for lunch from you. You had picked up his favorite lunch set from the cafe down the street, as well as one for you, and walked towards the hospital. Familiar nurses and doctors greeted you as you did them, quick hello’s and slight nods of the heads. Yvonne recognized you without missing a beat and flashed you a small, but tired smile.

“Long day already?” you softly asked when you stopped at her station.

“Unfortunately, but nothing uncommon,” she joked before taking a look at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Good timing actually, he’s in his office and is free for the next 30 minutes. Dr. Grayson is in there, but it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Thank you,” you said in a grateful tone and smiled before rounding the corner to your husband’s office.

You slowed and softened your steps to minimize the noise from your heels, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. From down the hall, you could see that his door was cracked open just the slightest, both his and Dr. Grayson’s voices muffled but much clearer once you were in front of it. Just as you were about to push it open, you heard her name and froze.

“--she comes by a lot.”

You heard Zayne reply, “It’s been good catching up with her and being able to check on her condition. Her doctor from her time away should’ve done a better job, but at least nothing major happened.”

“I haven’t seen your wife in a while. More often than not, I’d see her here on your lunch breaks, but it feels like forever.”

Keyboard clicks fill the brief silence. “She’s been busy.”

Have you now?

“You know,” Dr. Grayson starts before pausing. “Wasn’t Emcee your first love or something like that?”

The keyboard clicks stop. “Why do you ask?”

You could hear the shrug in Dr. Grayson’s voice. “I just wonder if anything has changed now that she’s back permanently.”

“...I don’t follow.”

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

A beat passes. Two. Four.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-if’s.”

Your heart sank.

In the very next second, the panic began to course through you, your heartbeat dangerously high. You had a moment of clarity – a miracle, honestly – to step out of your heels and let them hang from your fingers as you walked back to where Yvonne was at a brisk pace. Hospital floor, dust, and infections be damned. Otherwise, the clacking of your heels would’ve alerted them, and that was the last thing you needed. All you thought of in that moment was the need to get out, away from this hospital, away from your husband.

Yvonne had no time to question your sudden return – she hadn’t expected to see you again for at least another 30 minutes – before you set the bag in front of you.

“They seem to be having a really important conversation,” you started, clenching your fists to stop the tremble in your body and trying to maintain a calm voice. “C-can I just leave this here for you to give to him later?”

“Yes, of course,” Yvonne said, picking the bag up to put behind her. Her tone was agreeable, but you could practically feel her confusion between the syllables. “But are you sure you don’t want to wait? Dr. Grayson should be out in a few minutes, if that’s the case.”

“Oh, uhh, I actually just got a text from my boss,” you lied and held up your phone, though it was still a dark screen. “He needs a document at the last minute, so I have to head back anyways. Thank you though!”

With a quick wave goodbye, you left Yvonne no chance to respond and disappeared towards the elevator. Every second that passed was too long, and you almost tripped while trying to slip your heels back on. Your steps were shaky, your frame shuttering with each step, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. You should be stronger than this. You should be strong enough to hold yourself together and make it home before you absolutely break and burst at the seams.

Your hands wrung together as the elevator descended towards the ground floor at a snail’s pace. Luckily you were the only one in the compartment, so as soon as the doors had opened, you bolted out of there like someone was chasing you. And in a way, something was chasing you – one of your worst nightmares: the realization that Zayne felt he had no choice but to settle for you.

You crossed the lobby as fast as you could, blinders on and narrowed to nothing but the main doors. They couldn’t slide open fast enough for you, but it granted you a second to call your boss.

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“I know this is really sudden, and you know I never do this, but I really, really need to take the afternoon off,” you begged, words rolling off your tongue a mile a minute.

“Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” you said with all the bluntness in the universe before you could say anything better. “But it’ll be fine, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Very well. Call me if you need help with anything.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“See you tomorrow, and you, too.”

Your thumb jabbed the ‘end call’ button as you stared at the street. Where should you go? What should you do? Do you go home?

And that’s how you ended up here, at the park, the skin on the back of your heels chafed horribly, and your brain at a complete loss of what to do now. You haven’t even cried yet because you were still in a state of shock, disassociation.

Aimless, unaware, and lost, you continue your endless journey and are unable to find it in yourself to even sit on one of the many park benches stationed around the path. Because if you sat, you would cry. And if you cry, you would think. And if you think, you would spiral. You would spiral down the black hole of questioning every single thing Zayne has ever done with you, if Zayne ever truly loved you.

Something in the universe says you’re not ready for that yet.

Your phone vibrates from your purse. You take it out with limp hands, slowly and unsure in every way possible, your heart pounding against your chest, as you read the notification on your lock screen.

Husband 💙: Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry we couldn’t eat together.

Husband 💙: Yvonne said you had some type of work emergency. Is everything okay?

Your feet scream in agony as you increase your pace in the direction of the main road. They were probably bleeding at this point, but that was an issue for another time. You flag down a taxi as soon as one appears, and you ask the driver to take you to that 24 hour bookstore-slash-library with the comfy chairs and a cafe attached to it. After all, if you couldn’t stand to be in this world, at least you could escape to another for a little bit of time.

-

Several hours passed, in which you were able to acquire a couple of bandaids and alcohol wiping pads, nibble on a biscotti, and dive into a book that you had been putting off for months. Unwillingly, you hear your phone vibrate in your purse. Based on the pattern alone, you know it’s Zayne calling. During your years of dating, you had assigned custom vibrations and ringtones for him and him only. That way, no matter what, you would know it was him calling without having to look at the screen. If this were a normal situation and a normal day, you would’ve picked up without missing a beat. Unfortunately, today has been anything but normal.

You press one of the volume buttons to stop it from vibrating, though his contact information is still splashed across the screen. Your infinite wisdom advises you to let the call run, make him think that you were simply too busy to pick up. Again, an ultra rare occurrence, but not impossible. Your phone screen switches back to your lock screen with a notification of a missed call, and you watch it with wary eyes to see if there would be any follow-up.

There is one in the form of a text.

Husband 💙: I called to see if you wanted to have dinner together. But as soon as it went to voicemail, we had an emergency surgery come up.

Bzz-bzz. Make that two.

Husband 💙: Won’t be home til late. Don’t wait up.

Are you evil to think that the universe has kindly granted you more time to not talk to your husband? It would be appalling to be thankful that someone was hurt enough to warrant an emergency surgery that required your husband’s skills, therefore buying you more time to get your shit together. Diabolical and heartless, someone would probably describe you.

But you could only be in a blouse and skirt for so long, and as much as you want to spend the night here, it’s time for you to go home.

At 11PM, there is still no other text or call from Zayne. The house is empty and quiet, much to your relief. His shoes are nowhere to be seen on the shoe rack, so you must be safe. You should have enough time to change, brush your teeth, go to bed, and either actually fall asleep or pretend to be asleep when he eventually makes it home. His messages have been left unread, his call not returned. Once you’re ready for bed and tucked under the covers, the exhaustion of everything pulls you into a deep sleep in record time.

-

You’re practically dead to the world when Zayne comes home, slinking in like a thief in the night. He knows you’re usually asleep at this time, and he doesn’t want to wake you. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but in the few minutes that he can see you, you seem more tired, more haggard. It seems like you’ve lost a little weight, too, but he just doesn’t have the time to ask more about it. All the things that were changing seemed like it’d be best to have a sitdown conversation on a day off, but he’s been so bogged down by work and the return of Emcee that a day off seemed impossible.

As he slips his shoes off, he glances at your heels positioned astray from the shoe rack. The work emergency must have been bad for you to leave them that way. It takes nothing to bring them together and put them away himself, but then his eyes catch onto something that makes him freeze.

Why in the world is there that much blood on the back of your heels?

Were you hurt?

What happened that made you walk around so much to the point that you would let yourself bleed without any attempt to cover them up, or at least put a bandaid over them?

Why would you neglect yourself like that?

Had you already been bleeding when you dropped off his lunch? And if you had, why hadn’t anyone noticed, much less done anything about it?

The bedroom door creaks the slightest bit when he pushes it open, the force behind his fingertips so soft, so afraid to wake you. His eyes cannot help but travel to the foot of the bed where one of your feet sticks out. A small sense of relief fills his chest when he spots the bandaid stuck to the back of your left heel. The closer he gets to you, the more he sees that the bandaid wasn’t applied carefully enough based on the gap between the cotton pad and your wound. Gently, he lifts the blanket up to get a look at your other foot. A matching bandaid is present on your right heel. But at second glance, any relief he had felt disappears into thin air.

He sees the faint indentations of where the leather of your high heels had dug into your skin, a subtle arch decorating the space at the base of your toes. The beginnings of blisters have formed on the side of a few of them as well. It’s no secret to anyone how worn out they seem, that they’ve seen a harder day than usual today. He doesn’t know the cause, and he doesn’t understand why you didn’t even tell him. Zayne fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the empty lock screen, showing that you had never responded to his earlier messages. That, in and of itself, was already highly unusual.

He shifts the blanket back over your feet, making sure to cover them both before retreating into their bathroom. Brushing his teeth, rinsing his hair under the sink faucet, and washing his face all feel so mechanical as his mind refuses to turn off, the growing worry spreading like spilled cabernet on a white tablecloth. As he slides into bed, he suddenly feels like a stranger in his own home – like he’s not supposed to be here, to consider this bed as his safe space.

He’ll ask you in the morning, Zayne decides as he falls into a fitful sleep. No surgeries had been scheduled for the morning, which meant he could finally wake up with you for the first time in months. You two would get ready together – you’d tie his tie, he’d help dry the ends of your wet hair fresh out of the shower, you’d pack his lunch, he’d make sure that you leave with a fresh coffee in hand – a routine he has learned to love. The thought of that helps him settle into the sheets, and they feel soft and familiar again. Yes, everything would be fine.

But Zayyne gets a call an hour before your alarm goes off, and is, once again, robbed of one of his most cherished routines. He can’t help but look at your heels again as he slips into his dress shoes. They must be a sign of something to come, something that he may need to be afraid of. He’s not ready for what that may be, but inside, he knows that there’s a countdown.

Zayne doesn’t want to think about the stakes, or the fact that his first prediction – fresh horror and torture – is you leaving him. He cannot let it happen.

[blxssom-221]

₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ caleb finding ur gspot <3

💭 : p in v , changing positions, mating press, prone bone, doggy, dumbification, slight degradation with praise

you didn’t know what he was doing. every time you thought he’d stop, he’d settle, he would change positions. acting like he was trying to find something inside of you that you didn’t even know was there. but your body did.

every time caleb thrusted, you clenched around him in pleasure—but it felt like he was missing something. every time he changed positions—from your legs on his shoulders, bending you in a way you didn’t even think was possible, to putting all his weight on top of you as you drool into the pillow—he blubbered something about knowing that it was somewhere inside, that he was so close to finding it.

every thrust was restless, a thrust deep—short, fast, a bit too the right, far to the left—you felt it through the fuzzy haze that muffled your hearing and overstimulating you. you felt your brain turn into mush, seeping past your lips as drool with every buck.

“c-caleb,” you slurred, face pressed against your pillow as he lifted your hips and pressed your ass against his pelvis. “‘leb, what’re you do—hah!” he quickly hushed you, thrusting harshly again, seeking for something—and you thought he hit it before missing it by a fraction. “know it’s here somewhere. fuck, fuck—gonna find it—gonna make you squirt, baby,” he panted.

he moved your hips to the side—thrusted. moved them slightly down—thrust. up again—thrust. until he pressed down on your back, making you arch against the matress and moved his knee—

he hit it and it felt like your brain popped.

you let out a sharp scream (one that your neighbors will probably call 911 thinking you were murdered) and you squirted. loud, wet, and dirty as your jaw dropped. he let out a choked gasp and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. he let out a long groan, head tilting back. “fuckkkk… there ya’ go. all dumb and fucked out for me, huh?”

he drew back, just to slam back, tip pressing against your gspot again that made your legs fly around and hips buck. “as you should, right? you like being so dumb for gege. your drooling your brains out, sweets,” he chuckled, grinding against the spot as you sobbed into the pillow.

[blxssom-221]

⊹₊⟡⋆ gravity hurts (you made it so sweet) 🤍 caleb 以昼.𖥔 ݁ ˖

⋆˙⟡pairing: caleb x nonmc! reader

⋆˙⟡word count: 17.3k (i wrote a book lol)

⋆˙⟡summary: the three of you have been the best of friends ever since you remembered, and although your love for Caleb wasn’t exactly the friendly kind, you were more than happy to have him close. But who would’ve thought that one night by yourselves would end this way? The warmth of acceptance and the sting of the heartbreak that came after, and among all of it—a lost boy desperate to make it right.

⋆˙⟡tags: 18+, mdni!!! NOT a love triangle!! mc is treated as a caleb’s sis in this one, the reader and mc and caleb are friends!! best of friends!! unrequited love!! but not really, angst, angst with happy ending, misunderstandings, or more like lies, love confessions obsessed caleb, kinda pathetic caleb, insecure caleb, he cries, we cry, everyone literally cries, first times, but the scene is quite short, they love each other so much, my babies, please read it.

⋆˙⟡writer’s note: my first ever commission for my wonderful stella 🥺 i hope you like it baby and i hope all of u will like it too, despite the length. i wanted to stretch it in time so that the reconciliation at the end wouldn’t be forced. i hope you’ll read it and like it, i loved writing for caleb 🤍

!!likes, reblogs and comments, pls comment, would be appreciated ♡ let me know what u think!

* 20+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ baby what happened, where are you?

✉︎ you don’t pick up and even read my messages, i don’t know what’s happening, are you okay?

✉︎ caleb’s going totally ap(pl)eshit pun intended god i hope if you’re reading this you laughed at least. PLEASE write back or i’ll join him.

✉︎ he’s actually going insane, does he know something? he refuses to tell me anything, what happened between you guys? i was absent for literally one meeting, did you throw hands or something? he seems really unstable, like, much more than usual and he already had issues before, that’s for SURE.

✉︎ i’m so sorry for joking. i’m just really worried. it’s been a week. please respond to me, i don’t know what to do. i need to know you’re safe.

✉︎ what did he do? now i know that he’s at fault here, he’s acting insane.

✉︎ he’s not sleeping. i don’t think he’s eating either? he looks like a walking corpse and he’s still looking for you everywhere. i’m not sure who’s managing the fleet now but for sure not him.

✉︎ he’s not saying a single word. i know now that he must’ve done something, he’s not just worried, he’s fucking terrified and to be honest i am too. it’s been almost two weeks now, please answer me.

✉︎ i swear i won’t tell him anything. just please respond.

It was supposed to be a day like any other.

You, her, him—sitting together, eating your favorite food, maybe watching one of the movies MC somehow always managed to convince you to watch. Such nights always ended in the same way: with you sleeping next to her, right on Caleb’s bed. The gruesome scenes replayed behind your closed eyelids, your body nearly sprawled on top of your friend, your hand gripping hers—too tightly to just be affectionate. Caleb’s laugh echoed through his apartment, jokes and jabs aimed right at you, spoken in soft tones from his usual spot on the couch, where he always slept during your sleepovers.

And while you were pouting and trying to defend yourself from his absolutely false accusations of being a scaredy-cat, it was always his little sister who defended you like a lioness. Her clever comebacks always softened his teasing nature towards you. But it was all just a silly little game—the truth was you didn’t mind being teased, you knew Caleb long enough to realize that it was just the way in which he showed affection. It just so happened that MC showed hers by protecting you and attacking Caleb right back, every time his teasing seemed to be endless.

“Easy, pip, I’m just tryin’ to get her mind off of that spoooky imitation of a movie.” He answered between quiet laughs, and a quiet scoff left your mouth, quickly followed by a small smile. “Besides, if she really was scared, she would sleep here with me. She would be much, much safer, right?” His question followed by your name, and you immediately sprung upwards to sit on your legs.

“As if! You would probably maul me in your sleep before any monster would even get a chance to reach me.” You answered quickly, your body turning toward the salon where he slept, your eyes meeting MC’s, shining with mirth in the darkness. You heard an exaggerated gasp from him, and you imagined how he probably looked right now: gripping his shirt right on top of his chest in a gesture feigning hurt.

“You wound me. I would protect you with all I have, my Evol, my Fleet, my annoying little sister—”

“Jerk!”

“—From any harm the flying sharks would want to cause you.” You laughed quietly, and you felt the tension in your shoulders slowly dissolving. MC’s faux-offended expression, along with his soft voice were doing a great job at melting the irrational fear you felt in your chest after the movie.

A second passed; then two, maybe three, while your eyes were looking through the huge glass walls, following the clouds that were drifting languidly outside. A sigh left your lips, and your hand squeezed that of MC, who was laying beside your sitting body, her eyes already closed. And when their laughs died down entirely, their breaths slowly evening out, preparing for a good night’s sleep, that’s when you decided to add one more thing.

“Laugh at me all you want, but it’s your fault for living so high up in the clouds, where all the flying sharks in the world have us literally handed to them on a silver platter. But fine, I don’t care anymore, eat up you little motherfu—”

“Oh my god—”

His bubbly laugh echoed loudly, bouncing off of the walls, filling the rooms, breaking the tranquil atmosphere that had fallen not so long ago. His sister’s body shook with laughter right next to yours, wide smile now present on your lips. Your silly joke landed exactly how you wanted it to land—concealing the fear still nestled inside you, simmering delicately just beneath the surface of your smile. Which was, despite their assumptions, not only caused by the abominations presented in the movie.

The enormous clouds, surrounding you from everywhere—that was what truly bothered you. The vastness and uncertainty of the sky which stretched out before you, visible through the glass walls, its eerie silence making the little hairs on your nape stand straight.

Sleepovers at Caleb’s place, which had happened occasionally ever since he moved to Skyhaven to study—and continued even after he became a Farspace Colonel—were something you had already got used to and looked forward to. But the location of his apartment, the surroundings and their quietness, the strangely uneasy privacy and stillness, especially at night—that was what made you so scared every time you were here.

You never told them about your little fear; you didn’t want to cause problems, especially when they were both so happy whenever the three of you found enough time for a sleepover, and Caleb’s place was perfect for accommodating all of you. Besides, you had your best friend, a literal Hunter, close to you, and Caleb’s presence right behind you, just a wall away. Your mind knew that you were safe, it was just your body that was having second thoughts in a form of occasional shivers and quickened heartbeat.

That’s why it always striked you whenever he seemed to notice your concealed discomfort, which this time happened an hour after you said your good night’s. Mc’s breath was already calm and steady, yours far from it, unwanted thoughts and the feeling of uncertainty making you lose your precious hours of sleep.

You heard him first: his calm steps, quiet breath. You saw him second: his head peeking through the door frame, eyes wide open, not clouded with sleep, landing straight on yours. His body approached the bed frame, and he crouched slowly by your side, a small smile adorning his lips. And you felt him at last: his huge, warm hand searched for yours under the covers, and proceeded to hold it gently, his thumb caressing the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You were familiar with such touches, both him and his sister were touchy-feely ever since you remember. So you reciprocated his smile, tiredness clutching to your lashes, yet mind still refusing to rest.

“Are you okay? I heard you tossin’ and turnin’.” He whispered, whether to avoid waking his sister up or to not disturb your precious moment, you weren’t sure. You met his beautiful, sparkling eyes, which always made your stomach twist with longing, and you already started to feel better. His gaze was so gentle, so earnest that your heart decided to switch the reason of its rapid beating from fear to a complete adoration.

You were laying on your side, a pillow warm underneath your cheek, and your hand squeezed his in an answer to his worry. You noticed that his hands were dry and rugged, but so pleasantly warm. And so were your cheeks, their color fortunately hidden from his watchful eyes behind the curtain of the darkness.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just a little uneasy, that’s all.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but his eyes were giving you skeptical signals as if he knew exactly what you were hiding.

The truth that the sky and space scared you, when he was the one who was constantly covered by the clouds, was always embarrassing to admit out loud. And thankfully, he never pressed you to do it.

Instead, he hummed, his chin resting on the edge of the bed, his eyes landing on your clasped hands, thumb sliding through your fingers back and forth. You knew he had no idea, but that slight touch was enough to make you shiver, your heart filled with unspoken, overwhelming emotions towards the one who was supposed to just be your best friend.

“But you know you can always come to me, right? The couch is really cozy and maybe you would feel safer there, somehow. Aaand, I’m much bigger than her. More comfortable too, I’m sure.” Your lips turned up in a smile, and your eyes closed for a second, trying to focus on calming your heart down. When you finally opened them, he was looking right at you with an unreadable expression. His face seemed to get closer to yours too, most likely unknowingly.

From such proximity you could see the freckles that covered his face like small specks of cosmic dust, that you have always longed to trace with your fingers. His eyes were also a sight to behold, even in the darkness they shined so brightly, violet mixed with a hint of a sunset, always so full of wonder and awe, looking right back at you. He was so handsome, even covered only by the moonlight, when you always thought that a warm sunlight suit him best.

“We’re not kids anymore, Caleb. Sleeping in the same bed would be a little bit weird, don’t you think?” He scoffed under his breath, and you bit your lip, not wanting your true emotions to appear on your face. Desperate to not let him know how much you’d like to join him, to fall asleep resting in his embrace.

“I don’t.” His reply instant, a sure whisper, accompanied by a slight shift of his head. His hair looked so soft, the strands falling into his eyes, making you want to reach out and fix them. His faint freckles seemed to flicker, once again catching your attention, teasing you to give each one of them a small kiss. But you knew that you didn’t have the right to. “Besides, we’re friends. You know I would never touch you or anything. You’re safe with me.”

These exact words echoed through your mind months later, a memory fresh and vivid, the only one you could think of when your heart wanted to beat straight out of your chest.

I would never touch you.

You remembered him saying, on that day that was supposed to be like any other, yet MC cancelled on you at the last moment. You were already drinking boba next to the relaxed Caleb, leaving you two alone for the first time in what felt like forever. An emergency mission, was her excuse, and although you were upset that she couldn’t make it, the happiness of finally being able to spend some time with Caleb, whom you missed just as much, was enough to raise your mood back up.

I would never touch you.

That sentence swirled inside your head, hours after you both went out for a hotpot, sharing a meal filled with laughter, catching up on nothing and everything all at once. You always had fun together, the years of friendship formed thanks to MC made you comfortable with one another, the banter teasing but affectionate, the atmosphere warm and familiar. Later you went for a walk in the park, searching for squirrels, and sending MC pictures of every single one you managed to spot with a short caption ‘You’. After that, you also stopped at the arcade to play with claw machines for some time: you managed to win a small cat plushie for MC, while Caleb gave you a similar one he got for you when you weren’t looking. And then, after the sun had long since set, you went back to his place—in the same way you always did when meeting up in Skyhaven. But this time, you two were completely alone.

I would never touch you.

And yet, by heavens, you thought that after that night there wasn’t any place on your body he left untouched. Not when he was paying such a close attention to you, his hands wandering absolutely everywhere, accompanied by his shaken breaths and whispers full of worship and wonder.

You weren’t sure who kissed whom first, your mouths connecting unexpectedly, meeting right in the middle, the movie you put on a while ago still playing in the background. The flakes of popcorn scattered everywhere around you; the bowl had fallen from your hands, so desperate was he to pull you to himself the moment he dared to push his tongue past your lips—uncertainly at first—only to feel how quickly you accepted him.

You were almost dizzy with happiness of finally having him this close, touching at his hair, neck, shoulders, waist. He was holding you in his arms tightly, squeezing your waist, while you sat comfortably on his crossed legs, lips sealed to his. But suddenly, your head became heavy the moment the gravity of the situation pulled you down. You pushed him away, pressing your hands to his broad shoulders.

You parted with a gasp, your breath uneven, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He didn’t look any better, if his equally red cheeks and tousled hair were any indicator. His slightly chapped lips chased after yours, eyes lidded and brows furrowed when he felt the loss of your warmth.

“C—Caleb, wait, stop, what on earth are we doing—” You tried to reason, your legs struggling to stand, your heart uncertain what it truly meant to him. A panic overtook you, your true feelings suddenly out in the open, composure lost in a moment of weakness. You remember meeting his eyes in the room lit only by his TV, his head already turned your way, closer than it ever was before. That’s all it took; the sudden closeness, his intense, lingering gaze and hand reaching your way, for you to start making rush decisions.

He didn’t let you escape. In one quick motion you were grabbed by your arms and pushed back into his chest. His hands softly squeezed the flesh, his head fell onto your shoulder listlessly. Dark hair brushed at your neck when you heard his shaky breaths, his body trembling under the touch of your fingers, which now rested on his torso. They were the only barrier keeping you from melting entirely into his embrace.

“No, please—please. Don’t go.” He choked out, his voice pained, his forehead nuzzling up to the juncture between your shoulder and neck. His lips touched your neck, and you gasped. “Don’t go. Don’t run away from me. Please.” A quiet plea, which made you close your eyes in an attempt to finally think; think of the reason it happened, think of the ways in which it would affect your friendship, think of what it truly meant for him.

Afraid that the answer would hurt you.

Your head suddenly felt too heavy for your body, mind spiraling with possible answers, when you heard his voice once again, loud and certain against your heated skin.

“I dreamed of this—Of you—” He nuzzled at your neck, sending a shiver throughout your whole body, your chest squeezing, the implication slowly uncovering into something crystal clear. “Of holding you. Touching you, like this—” His fingers started a gentle trial up your spine and you pressed your body closer to his on impulse. His left hand buried in your hair, softly touching your scalp, and he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze. He looked ruined; eyes glossy and eyebrows scrunched in an image resembling an anguish. His eyes were shifting between yours and your lips, which you were biting in uncertainty. “For so, so long, you have no idea how I—”

“Caleb—”

“Let me. Let me kiss you one more time, just once.” The last word a desperate whisper, his eyes stuck on your lips, his head getting closer and closer with every second, as though he psychically couldn’t help himself. He cupped your cheek and placed his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it from the confines of your teeth, his touch feather-light. A quiet grunt left him and he met your eyes again, your hands going to grab him by the shoulders to gain more balance. You were getting dizzy, his proximity maddening, his touches and honeyed words overwhelming. “I was always scared to be alone with you like this, and this is the reason. I knew that the moment you let me, I will continue to take, take, take…” He closed his eyes, his forehead falling onto yours, your heavy breaths already mingling. The hand on your cheek started shaking, but a calloused thumb never stopped caressing your skin. “You can say ‘no’ to me. You can say ‘no’ alright? Just—please. Please say somethin’. Anything. You’re so quiet and it’s killin’ me here—”

“I—I want the same thing. Caleb, I—” You finally breathed out, your eyes half opened, lowered to look at his chest, where laid a necklace you and MC gave him quite a while ago, before his first trip to Skyhaven. That memory appeared behind your lashes, along with MC’s face, the image making you halt momentarily. “Oh God, but what about MC? Wouldn’t she be weirded out when we suddenly—” You flinched again, and this time he caught you instantly, his big hands reaching for yours, pressing them into his forehead like a prayer, then huffing out a low laugh.

“She knows. She figured me out ages ago.” You didn’t hide your surprise, your heart beating so quickly you thought it will beat straight out of your chest. “You don’t have to worry about anythin’, alright? If only you feel—You fell the way I do, then I—”

“Ages…?” The word stuck inside your head, the implications making your eyes sparkle. He lowered your hands to rest flat on his chest, and you felt it—the thump of his heart matching yours, a rapid, uneven beat that could only mean one thing.

“Ages.” He answered surely, his violet eyes glued entirely to yours, his hand covering your palms. And when he nudged your nose with his, silently asking for permission, you found that you didn’t have any reason to refuse him anymore.

Not when you wanted him just as passionately.

Your lips met his again in a kiss so intense it was nearly bruising, your hands going over his neck, your mouth swallowing down his sigh of contentment. His hands quickly found their way under your t-shirt; grabbing and holding, caressing and squeezing everywhere he could touch.

I would never touch you.

And yet he did. He did and continued throughout the whole night, his hands never leaving your body, his lips almost permanently sealed to your soft skin, the quiet laughs and whispers of reassurance filling the entire room, your body almost floating even without his Evol, lifted by the feelings of finally being accepted. Of loving and being loved in return.

“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. I have seen countless sunsets above the clouds, and you are far more beautiful than any of them. Absolutely—” He choked out, his slow thrusts making you see stars, his sculpted body covering yours completely, mindful not to crush you in the process. His movements slightly awkward at times, totally inexperienced but you didn’t mind—it was your first time too, after all.

You had boyfriends before, but the relationships never lasted long. He was the first one you managed to open up to. The first one you were able to trust fully, the only man you ever loved. So how could you ever think of doing it with someone else?

“—magnificent. I can’t believe I get to have you like this… I—Ah—I still think that I must be dreamin’, what if I wake up and you’ll disappear? That’s how it always was. A lucid dream, a cry for even a scrap of—of your attention, and now you’re—” Your hands were gripping his biceps, leaving half moons in the glistening skin. Soft sighs were escaping your lips, along with the tears streaming down your cheeks, whether from the intensity of your feelings or the tight way he fit inside you, you weren’t sure. You closed your eyes and let him press more kisses along your shoulder and neck, cheek and lips, the very same ones to which he continued to speak his praises. “And now you are beneath me, f-fuck—Utterly beautiful. The best thing that ever happen’ to me, I knew that I was doomed ever since I met you—” You moaned his name and he smiled, his lips landing on your wet eyelashes, kissing the tears that had yet to come out. His lips were softer now, entirely covered in your chapstick, tasting of sweet apples and something that you already recognized as undeniably him. There was a hand placed under your back, bringing you even closer to his body, his hips moving more steadily, mouth attacking your breasts, making you shiver in pleasure. His hands were going up and down the sides of your body, a gentle touch, meant to bring comfort.

“Caleb—please. Faster, I can’t, I need—” Your hands went to grab his hair, pulling at the strands, making him moan, his body shaking. He looked at you as with so much adoration you thought you were dreaming.

“Okay, okay—Mmm—I got you. I—I got you, darlin’, I always got you. But if it was up to me I would have you like this the whole night long.” He lifted you up in a way that you were now straddling his thighs and sat down, not stopping his thrusts, his hands resting on your waist. Every single indication of inexperience he made up in passion, desperation and enthusiasm, always putting your pleasure above everything else. You opened your mouth in another gasp, his hips rutting into you without stopping, his arms circled around your body, refusing to let you get away even for a second. Not that you ever wanted to leave the safety of his hold. “I got you, my sweet girl. And will never let you go, never. You’re so adorable, so clever, so so kind and precious, you are—”

“—Annoying and too clingy to be honest. When you get to know her better, that is. Sooo, going after her would be a total waste of time, then.”

A quiet gasp, torn out of you suddenly, violently.

Unexpectedly.

You froze, your heart stopping, along with your hand which was already raised to push open the door to Caleb’s room. His voice, even though muffled by the door, was still perfectly distinguishable to you, having heard it even in your dreams by now.

You only came back for your makeup bag, which you had hastily left at his place this morning, the night after your moment of closeness, having overslept for work. You only managed to kiss his adorable sleeping head goodbye, wear the clothes from the day before and run through his door, smile not coming off of your face the whole day long, despite the slight soreness in your limbs.

It was reminiscent of your night together; that’s why it didn’t bother you. The night that was supposed to change everything for the better, the night that your feelings turned out to be reciprocated.

Or so you thought.

You knew that he was having a boys’ night—he told you during your hangout the day before, how excited he was to finally reunite with some of his college friends, after Gideon managed to get a hold of everyone. But you still hoped to quickly collect your things, maybe steal a small kiss or two.

You just hoped to see him again, even for a moment.

A second, nothing more.

You only wanted to—

“And she’s kinda afraid of flying, sooo not exactly a good girlfriend material for a pilot, guys.” His laugh, although a little nervous, made the crack in your heart spread further. “If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind—”

Crash.

Loud and echoing, pierced through the living room where you were standing, your hands shaking. One hand went straight to cover your mouth, which opened in utter disbelief.

At first you thought it was the sound of your heart breaking; exploding into millions and millions of pieces, from the way it squeezed painfully in your chest upon hearing the words undoubtedly coming out of his mouth. You nearly screamed in anguish, the scenes from the night before appearing in your mind, the wonderful things he said to you reverberating inside your ears, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin—his rugged hands so soft, so gentle, the touch loving, worshipping so why—

“Who’s there?” His uncharacteristically harsh voice reached your ears but you had no idea what was happening. You felt as if you were underwater, all sounds quieted down, your body moving in slow motion.

You looked at your feet and saw your makeup scattered before you, the actual source of the crashing sound, coming from the small bottles hitting his apartment floor. Your hands apparently too shaky, too numb to hold the makeup bag after hearing his words. A dagger to your heart would hurt less, you thought, your vision getting blurry, your legs taking a few steps backwards, the movement awkward, your body suddenly too heavy for you to move.

Why did you come back? Why were you here? Why did you need to hear such things coming from the same mouth that had whispered sweet nothings to your ear for hours on end, not even a day before?

You raised your head abruptly, tears staining your cheeks now, when you heard rapid footsteps coming from the other side of the door. The ones you would recognize absolutely everywhere.

You choked down a sob and bolted straight for the door, your shaky hands fumbling with the lock for a second—enough to give him time to process the situation at hand, to connect every single dot, to notice your makeup sprawled on the floor and maybe your pathetic little teardrops lying among it.

That’s what you were. That’s who you made yourself to be. A pathetic little fool, for kissing him, opening up to him, giving so much to him in such a short amount of time when in reality all he thought of you was—

“No. No. Oh, no, no, no, no, fuck, fuck, please, wait, no!” You heard him shouting your name the moment you opened the door and bolted for the elevator. You did not bother closing the door, he already knew that you were there just a second before. He already realized what you heard, even though the true meaning of his words still felt like a fever dream, a nightmare that was unfolding right before you, painful and so, so, unbearably cruel you feared you will pass out the moment your eyes met his face.

You needed to get out of there. You needed to go outside, to breathe, to find the air he stolen from you so suddenly.

Fortunately, the elevator was waiting for you, a spec of light in the darkness of the situation, and you jumped right in, your hand frantically pressing the close button over and over again, even faster now that you heard him running down the hallway to reach you.

Ironically, this time, the luck was on your side.

His shadow was the only thing you could see before the door closed, cutting him off completely. The echoing thump of his fists hitting the surface of it made you flinch.

“No! Fuck! No, no, please!”

Your name reached your ears, desperate, panicked.

But you were already on your way down, tears falling freely, your hands squeezing at your collar, at the material covering your chest, at anything you could reach just to lessen the pain of your heart breaking. Your knees shaky, threatened to give out but you were holding onto the knowledge that he was still following you, and you absolutely couldn’t let him catch you. That’s why, you refused to let yourself break before you were sure that you were somewhere safe.

And it paid off. You miraculously managed to ascape from him, that day.

And many, many days after that.

* 50+ messages from [ ur caleb!<3 ] *

✉︎ please, let me explain myself. I can only imagine what youve heard and I need you to listen to me, please.

✉︎ what I said wasn’t true. everything youve heard was a big fucking lie and I need to tell that to your face, you have to believe me.

✉︎ please don’t do this to me, I know that I deserve it but you have to hear me out, please.

✉︎ answer me.

✉︎ I beg you, give me anything. I need to know youre safe. I can’t locate your phone is it turned off? I don’t know if youre safe. please.

✉︎ its torture. its my fault I need to see you and tell you everything just let me see you. let me find you.

✉︎ I need to find you.

✉︎ I miss you.

✉︎ I need you, don’t leave me in this loneliness any longer, I will do anything. anything to earn your forgiveness, even if i have to work my whole life for it I will, even if you say that you don’t ever want to see me anymore I will stay out of your sight, I just need to tell you the truth, I need to see you and tell you what I really feel, not that awful lie youve heard me saying I wish I could turn back time and scrape these disgusting words out of my mouth.

✉︎ I will do anything for you. I will do anything for only a second of seeing you, I will fulfill your every wish, every desire and unspoken craving just for a second of your time, for a chance to say that I’m sorry.

✉︎ It ruins me, the thought that you may still think that what you heard me saying was true, you are not reading my messages and you probably still think that I meant it. I’m going insane, I’m losing my mind, I need you. I need to see you.

✉︎ I searched for you everywhere and I still haven’t found you, but I won’t stop, I will never stop searching for you even if it kills me, even if you will be the last thing I see, I will find you.

✉︎ baby, please. sweetheart. my treasure. please let me explain myself. where are you? where haven’t I searched yet? how did you manage to escape me?

✉︎ you know me too well, that’s how. you knew where I will be looking for you and you took advantage of that, my smart girl.

✉︎ but this one time, I wish you made a mistake. even a small one, a millisecond long. because I’m waiting and I’m ready to find you. and I will find you. you know me and how stubborn I am. I will never stop looking, you have to come back at some point. and i will get to you before that. I promise. wait for me.

Three weeks have passed since you last saw Caleb—the memory of his betrayal still fresh, and the wounds he inflicted on your heart with his cruel words still open and bleeding.

But the tears were no longer staining your cheeks, and a mere thought of him didn’t make you panic anymore. At least, not when you knew that he wouldn’t be able to find you here.

After you left his apartment that day, you knew that he would search for you, taking into account his desperation to catch you when you were running away. Yet you couldn’t bear to look him in the face, not after what happened between you, and how humiliated he made you feel.

You thought that he felt the same, that maybe he loved you, but it seemed that he was just playing with your feelings. That you must’ve been an easy target. And you just couldn’t believe it, no matter how frequently you repeated the things he said in your mind, both to you during the night and the to his friends during the day. You knew him ever since you were children, his presence constant in your life, even if you were not seeing each other that often after he relocated to Skyhaven. He was always there for you, and for MC, no matter what happened, his care and friendship something you got used to long time ago.

If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind.

Was your friendship always only a huge lie? Were you unknowingly only a burden, a nuisance that he had to put up with, because of your friendship with his sister?

And that night, when he was holding you so gently, treating you with such kindness and devotion, whispering the things you dreamed about hearing from him for so long, was it also something he did just because you were easy to manipulate? The easiest choice, a familiar body to satisfy his needs with?

And God, did he know about your true feelings before all of it went down?

You shook your head, trying to stop another train of thoughts, fighting with yourself not to break down in tears again. You came here not only to temporarily run away from him, you also wanted to take your time and relax, to calm the storm brewing inside your head, to survive that heartbreak and breakdown on your own terms, without anyone’s nagging or judgmental stares. Without others telling you what you were supposed to feel.

You fixed your sunhat, the slight wind making your hair gently caress your face, and you went down from the ladder, a basket full of fresh cherries hanging from your arm. You sighed, the fresh air and the smell of fruit filling your nose trills, reminding you that you were far, far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, the places that held too many painful memories.

Here, you were safe, because no one knew about your little, peaceful gateway, which was long ago introduced to you by one of your distant cousins. It was a peaceful little plot of land, belonging to one of your family members, a place they visited occasionally, usually in the summertime. And now, that small house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the trees of fruit, fields of flowers and tranquil atmosphere were exactly what you needed to get back on your feet.

You took a sick leave from work for a whole month, and you were planning to use that time to soften your dark thoughts and harden your skin before the gravity of the situation and its consequences met you upon your return to Linkon. Before you would have to inevitably face Caleb—the one you were trying to avoid at all costs.

“Here you are, auntie.” You approached her crouched figure, her hands paused in their strawberry picking, and she looked up at you with gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you sweetie, you helped me so much.” She answered and stood up, taking off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her baggy jeans, covered in strawberry juice and grass. A huge smile lit up her face, and you couldn’t help but return one just as bright, shaking your head.

“Oh, please, that’s the least I can do. I should be the one thanking you for letting me stay here.” You fixed your hat once again and went up to a bucket filled with rainwater, so that you could wash the cherries from your skin. “I haven’t known such peace in a long time, really. The air is so refreshing, the scenery so beautiful, and I’m visiting the orchard everyday. I probably ate half of your crops by now, like some kind of a pest.”

“Oh, stop it!” She playfully swatted your butt with a rug, and you giggled, snatching it from her to use it to dry your hands. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. Besides, you are a huge help with harvesting fruit each week. I always bring my boy with me, but as you can see, he’s nowhere in sight.” You laughed and picked up the basket with cherries again, as well as the one she was holding before. You peaked inside it and noticed that it was filled with strawberries and raspberries, a perfect amount for a snack. You opened your mouth and let her place one small strawberry inside it, the sweet juice filling your mouth, making you momentarily forget about your worries.

Everything here was just so peaceful and easy.

“It’s that age. He’s more interested in exploring than in sitting around and picking fruit. I was a chaotic kid, too.” You answered and she sighed, your walk to her truck much shorter than you wanted it to be. You placed the baskets inside the vehicle and saw the boy’s hair from where he sat in the passenger seat. You ruffled his hair, and he appeared startled, his hand immediately reaching up to fix it, a blush spreading to the tips of his ears.

“Chaotic and addicted to gaming, that’s what he really is.” She answered as you stepped back from the truck to hug her goodbye. She offered you a ride back to the house but you decided to stay in the orchard. The sun was still far from setting, and you wanted to read under the tress and snack on the fruits for a while longer.

You also remembered to thank her for delivering your letter to MC last week, in which you told her that you were safe, and apologized for not reaching out to her sooner, explaining that you will be back after some time alone. You decided to restrain from mentioning that you had to turn off your phone the moment you escaped from Caleb’s apartment, knowing damn well that if you didn’t, he would be able to track your location without any issue. You knew him and his little tricks like the back of your hand, or at least, that’s what you thought before everything that happened recently.

You were already waving goodbye to them, when it happened.

The boy opened the car door and handed you something, his small hands quick and secretive. Your eyes opened wide, and your smile faltered instantly, recognizing the weight.

“Sorry for taking it, mom never lets me take mine and I get so bored here… But I charged it for you!” He said your name and looked at you apologetically, his round eyes shining excitedly. You gulped, your mouth opening slightly, struggling to find your voice. “You can delete the game now. Oh, and you got a loooot of messages, are you, like, famous?” He asked in a hushed tone, then flinched when the aunt called out to him. He hugged your waist tightly, clearly thankful for your unintentional lending of possession, and went back to the truck, his small hand waving at you through the window until they disappeared from sight, turning onto the main road.

Leaving you by yourself, speechless, your hands full of something you avoided like fire throughout your stay here. The only thing that could betray your location.

A phone.

The one you intentionally turned off and left on the bedside cabinet inside the house.

Your phone.

A device that was Caleb’s only way of tracking you, now lit up after weeks of lying unused, for the purpose of your escape.

“No way, no, no, no, no.” You mumbled, your shaking hands going straight to turn it off, the device turning black again, your panicked gaze staring back at you from its small screen. You closed your eyes and hugged the phone to your chest, praying that it hadn’t been turned long enough for him to track you. For him to notice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not now, please. Not yet.”

You weren’t ready to face him yet. You didn’t know if you ever would, but you definitely weren’t ready right this instant, your heartbreak still fresh, your heart too weak to feel this much again.

You looked around slowly, taking in the the sight of the orchard and the endless expanse of the field, calm, steady and sunny, just the way it was during the weeks you’d been here. A gentle wind carried the strands of your hair behind you, the sunhat protecting your head from the light of day. You put the phone slowly inside the pocket of your shorts and began the long path back to the house, your plans of a leisure reading session long forgotten.

It was completely quiet, almost too quiet, but there was no one in sight. You had no idea if he had managed to track your location, or if he was even still looking for you. Maybe he decided to let go, you comforted yourself, even if you knew him well enough to realize how stubborn he could be. You just hoped that maybe if he truly didn’t care for you, he would leave you alone.

The wind intensified, and so did your steps. The house still not yet visible, the long way back made you anxious. You wanted to be inside already, lock yourself up, just in case he really waited for your slip up.

You huffed a small, nervous laugh under your breath the moment you felt the wind biting into the exposed skin of your arms, the temperature dropping, making goosebumps appear on your skin. You bit into your bottom lip and quickened your pace, your heartbeat already pulsing inside your ears, your mind trying to convince you that it was just a coincidence.

But when the wind blew away your hat, you didn’t turn back to fetch it.

Instead, your stride broke into a full-blown run, your legs moving in a panicked frenzy, your hair flying behind you freely. Your lungs and eyes already burned the moment the aircraft appeared in your peripheral vision, its shape and size so unmistakably matching those from the Farspace Fleet that you wanted to laugh at your brain for still hoping is wasn’t.

You heard it now—the deafening roar of it descending onto the field not far from you—and you cursed under your already ragged breath, knowing he must’ve already seen you. There was no one else in sight, after all.

You hadn’t stopped running. The house was twenty minutes away on foot, and if you were fast enough, you could make it before he caught up with you. The plane had already landed, and you didn’t have the courage to look back to see if—

“Hey! Wait!” The shout of your name pierced the wind in your ears, and a weak groan escaped you. He was close, too close if you were able to hear him, his voice bringing back all the memories from that day. Of comforting closeness, then cruel confession said so surely behind your back.

Every single muscle ached, but you didn’t stop running, you couldn’t stop running. The house was already there, peeking from behind the trees, and if only you could reach it in time, you would just lock the doors and regain your false sense of freedom for a while longer.

“Stop runnin’ away from me! Please!”

“Stop—Stop chasing me!” You screamed, the emotions built up inside of you finally having their outlet. “Leave me alone, I don’t—I don’t want to see you, I—I don’t—”

“Just talk to me! Let me explain—” He was getting closer, and your body was growing weaker, your legs moving seemingly only by the sheer force of your will.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” A sob almost escaped your lips, the knowledge and fear that he was this close to you again making panic squeeze at your chest. You were not ready to see him yet, not ready to look at that irritatingly handsome face of his, and hear him lying without batting an eye.

“Baby, please—” Closer. He was so close, just a couple of steps and he wouldn’t have to shout through the wind anymore, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck you!” You shouted right back, tears already forming in your eyes, your legs burning with extortion. How dare he call you this way, as if there was something between you, as if he cared about what happened, about the kiss, your first night, you. “Don’t call me that, don’t chase me like some kind of an animal—Ah!”

Your run stopped abruptly, your chest heaving as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Sweat stuck to your forehead and neck, your limbs tensed, grasping for something, anything, to keep your body from floating up in the air.

Naturally, you failed. His Evol too powerful, holding you gently up in the air, your body too weak to fight back against the invisible force, so you did the only thing you could do at that moment.

You took off your shoe and threw it at him, groaning pathetically when you heard it landing in the grass.

“Let—me—go!” You shouted, your breath heavy after the run, body refusing to calm down. You kept your head turned away from him, unable to look even at his shadow. The knowledge he was this close to you was enough to fill your eyes with tears.

You heard his footsteps close now, his breath heavy. You closed your eyes, tears instead of falling down your cheeks, drifted away from you, the temporary lack of gravity around you taking them away.

First your heart, then your sorrow—what else could he steal away?

You didn’t see how he stood below you, only few steps away, still wearing his Fleet uniform, looking up at your struggling frame with awe and relief. His hand reached out to catch your teardrop with his hand, the sign of your pain staining his fingers now. He brought it to his lips slowly, itching for any part of you, his brows furrowing with anguish.

“I can’t. I let you escape from me once and I won’t make the same mistake again.” His breath was already calming down as he crouched to pick up your shoe, not expecting the other one flying his way, catching it with his Evol right before it hit his head. He scoffed, his laugh sad and full of disbelief, as he let it fall right in front of his face.

“You coming here was a mistake.” He grit his teeth as he heard your poisonous words, spoken in a teary tone. He looked up at you again and his breath hitched. Your drifting body was surrounded by your teardrops, swirling around you and reminding him just how much pain he caused you by his own selfishness. “Me believing in your sugary words was a mistake. Me kissing you was a mistake, God, our whole night together was a—”

“Don’t.” His harsh voice cut through the air, silencing you at once. “Finish that sentence. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Why? You said you wanted to talk so let’s talk.” With your back still turned to him, your hands swatting at your flying teardrops, his audacity to use his Evol on you making you see red. “Let’s talk about how you tricked me. How you made me believe that we were friends, that I could count on you—”

“Please—”

“That I maybe, maybe meant something more to you. Because it turned out that you were feeding me lies for years—”

“That’s not…”

“You—You made me believe you liked me, and then you… You took advantage of—”

“Quiet!” He nearly growled, his harsh voice echoing in your ears, the tone unfamiliar, instantly making you flinch. The Evol with which he held you up faltered, shaking your body, making a quiet squeal come out of your mouth. For a second there, you thought that he will let you fall right into the ground, but the impact never came.

You finally looked at him, scared and stunned by his outburst. He stood there, eyes clouded and distant, arms hanging loosely at his sides— one hand gripping his hat—both of them shaking equally.

And just when you thought you had imagined his expression darkening, you noticed the clouds shifting faster, the sky growing darker.

A thunder stroke in the distance, forcing the hair on your nape stand straight.

“T-That’s how you think you’ll solve this? By force? By scaring me?” Your voice wavered, your fear slipping right through your confident facade. “I—I don’t take orders from you, Colonel. You will not intimidate me into anything. I don’t—I don’t—” More tears floated around you, your vision blurred, fear mixing with the feeling of helplessness.

He whipped his head, finally grasping the reality upon hearing how you addressed him. And when your eyes finally met, both equally red-rimmed, tired and pleading, he felt as if something in him broke.

Because while he was pleading for a chance to be redeemed, you, on the other hand, for him to stay out of your sight.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Please, don’t be scared, I’m—” Another plea, another apology, another way for him to mess with your mind, you thought. And you were scared, tired and hurt, lacking the energy for that conversation. Not knowing how to go about this, not being sure if there was anything that he could say that would fix this.

You were too shaken to listen—let alone react logically. Too unprepared to see his familiar face again so soon, to hear the voice that once offered you refuge for years, but now hurt you more deeply than you ever thought it could. Even the touch of his Evol—once used to help you, to ease your burdens, to cheer you up with his silly little teasing—was now a weapon. A way to trap you. To make you feel small. Helpless beneath the weight of his power.

It was not going well at all, both of you clearly too emotional, incapable of having a normal conversation. You weren’t prepared, but you noticed that he wasn’t either, his mental state unsteady, mind locked on one thing and one thing only—to catch you and never let you out of his sight again.

It was no way of resolving anything. And you really didn’t want to get hurt even more—not by his words, nor by the things you wanted to scream at him, rage tangled with fear, creating a poisonous mix that placed the most hurtful of things at the tip of your tongue.

You didn’t want to use them. Saying them out loud to him would break your heart in the process too.

“Let me go. Please. I’m not ready yet, I—” You closed your eyes, and the first drops of rain fell onto your warm skin. “I don’t want to talk. I can’t talk. Just—let me be. We will have to have this conversation at some point. And I know that. B—But for now just. Please, Caleb.” Your eyes full of tears met his, and he opened his mouth just to close it again, the sight of them rendering him speechless. The pleading, hurt look in them seemed to get him out of the trace. “Let me go.”

His breath hitched when you didn’t break eye contact. There was pain in your eyes, but also unwavering resolve. You kept looking at him with those radiant, exquisite eyes of yours, and that’s when he knew: he had lost this battle.

He slowly lowered you down, holding back tears when you refused to accept his hand to steady yourself. Then he bit his lip, his hands shaking, clenching into fists while he was forced to watch you run from him again, battling his desire to chase after you.

You said that you will have to talk at some point, and he believed you. He took your words and cling to them like a lifeline, a reason for him not to lose his hope. He would be patient, he could be patient, he had already waited for you for so long, he didn’t mind waiting some more. At least now he knew you were safe. Now he could protect you.

And he knew that the war to win you back had only just begun.

The heavy rain spattered against the windows, its sound echoing through the house, easing your shaken nerves and slowly lulling you to sleep.

A lightning struck in the distance, brightening the whole room. You rose quietly, waiting for the sound of thunder. Eyes closed, breathing evened out after what felt like eternity.

More raindrops hit your window, pushed violently by the wind as you stood, wrapping yourself in your huge, knitted cardigan, sinking your cold, shaking fingers into the thick, soft material.

He came here, for you.

A fact that you couldn’t shake for hours now, the weather outside an embodiment of what was happening inside your head. He came for you, the moment he managed to get your location, desperate, oh so desperate to talk, to explain, to repent, and you were left absolutely torn.

Because in your mind, you had already started seeing him as the bad guy, that thought a constant companion through these long weeks, your main coping mechanism. And now? He came here, looking anguished and miserable, his face thin and eyes red—a picture of a man in despair—and he was ready to drop everything just for a second of your time.

Which you didn’t give him. And that’s what kept you awake.

Your hand reached for the light switch but in vain. The storm that had lasted for hours must’ve cut the power some time ago, and you accepted it quickly. Your eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and you didn’t want to give any sign that you were awake either. You didn’t want to give Caleb false hope, knowing his aircraft still stood on the empty field, exactly where he had landed it hours ago.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, not if he was as apologetic as he seemed to be. You should’ve listened to him, maybe. And if he hadn’t scared you so much, if he hadn’t used his Evol or raised his voice, maybe you wouldn’t have been so afraid, so defensive. Despite everything he said that fateful night, a large part of you was still curious about what he wanted to say and how he intended to explain himself.

Your deep infatuation with him, your huge soft spot for his expressive puppy eyes, his gentle, playful voice and soft dark hair, were his real weapon. You saw him, looking so devastated and your first thought was to comfort him, despite everything he had done. And you hated yourself for it, hated how much power he held over you unknowingly.

Because was there anything to explain, really? The things he said sounded pretty self-explanatory, and even the simple recollection of them made your heart squeeze painfully.

You knew you’d have to have this conversation sooner or later. He was your best friend’s brother, he used to be your best friend and you had to return to Linkon soon. He would find you then, and the conversation would have to happen either way. So wouldn’t it be easier to just get it over with now and try, slowly, to move on? If moving on from that kind of heartbreak was something you were even capable of.

That was what scared you most about all of this. Caleb had been your friend—the man you loved more fiercely than life itself—and it had taken everything in you just to get out of bed after what you heard from him that day. And now? He had shattered your precious, tranquil solitude so suddenly, and even though you knew that you were supposed to hate him—you should hate him, because that was the easiest way, the only way to survive the heartbreak and reclaim the part of your soul he’d so cruelly taken when he betrayed your trust—You also knew, the moment you saw him running after you like his life depended on it, that what you felt deep inside wasn’t even close to hate.

It was relief.

That he searched for you, after all. A longing, for him to somehow fix this, to tell you that it wasn’t him who said these things despite the fact that it was indisputable, because you would recognize his voice everywhere, even from thousands of miles away you once thought, because of how his timbre made you feel inside. When you saw him, dressed in that stupid, stupid Colonel uniform you felt nothing but love. Love, excruciating love for someone who did not deserve it.

You were stupid, so stupid for being like this, so stupid for still thinking so fondly over the man who lied to you for years, who created a false safe space for you to drown in, who slept with you, even though he thought you were not enough for a wonderful pilot like him.

A sudden crash came from the window downstairs, making you jump in place.

You quickly ran down the stairs, your fingers brushing the wooden railing, your footsteps blending with the sound of falling rain. A cold breeze seeped through the widow, now flung wide open. The wind must have been strong enough to burst it open, and as you rushed to close it, something outside flashed in the corner of your eye.

And your heart almost stopped at the sight.

Your head turned, leaning from the window, the cool droplets hitting your skin harshly, reminding you that you were still awake, and that your eyes didn’t deceive you.

Caleb was sitting right there, on the porch, leaning against the wooden beams, his head hung low, arms crossed on his chest.

And he was soaked to the bone.

Rain dripped from his hat onto his crossed arms, his posture nearly curled in on itself. His body trembled every few seconds from the cold, and the moment you realized he must’ve been standing there ever since you left him—hours ago, just before the storm rolled in—you felt the blood rush into your head.

You left him, but he stayed right there, sitting, waiting patiently for you to come out, not knowing when it will happen. He let you go, but he never left.

“Caleb!” A sudden shout tore from your throat, laced with dread and disbelief, your hands instead of closing the window, reached for one of the blankets lying nearby. “God, Caleb, you—” The front door bursted open and you reached him in no time, falling onto your knees before him, taking off his hat and throwing it to the side in an attempt to wake him.

He wasn’t asleep. Startled, his head shot up the moment he saw you, alarmed by your sudden appearance. His eyes immediately fell to your bare legs, your sleeping shorts far too thin and short to stand against such weather, and he reached for you in a rush of panic.

“What are you—go back inside, you’re goin’ to be sick!” He said alarmed and you scoffed in answer, taking notice of his wet uniform, clinging uncomfortably to his glistening skin. His hair was completely soaked too, streams of rain tracing paths down his temples and nose, the sight making you furious.

“You—absolute—hypocrite!” You barked back, your hands tugging at his wet arms in an attempt to make him stand. You threw the blanket over his head first, his hand grabbing at the material, and then you began pushing him into the house. “I had no idea you—Why did you—?!” He raised quickly, letting you push him past the doorway, and you already felt the cold biting at your skin, the seconds spend outside enough to make you wet.

And he was sitting there for hours.

“I—” He started, but you didn’t let him finish, his posture slightly slumped under the weight of the drenched uniform.

“You—you have a literal plane nearby, why didn’t you hide in there? It’s been raining for hours.” Words escaped you faster than you were able to form them in your head, your hands already working to remove his soaked clothes hastily. He fell completely silent, letting you ease your frustration, his eyes glued to your face. “I thought you were safe in there, I thought you already left, I—I thought—” The heavy material hit the floor with a loud thud, your shaking hands trying to take off the shirt he had underneath, horrified by how cold his skin was underneath your palms.

You bit your lip and sniffed, tears already streaming down your face, whether from the cold piercing at your skin, the thought of him sitting for so long, freezing outside, or from his closeness, which you were deprived of for these weeks, you weren’t able to tell.

You grunted quietly, your fingers slipping from one of the buttons of his shirt, shaking too violently to take it all off. Suddenly, through your blurred vision, you saw his hands reaching for you. You felt their warmth the moment he covered yours, pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded so violently you could feel its rhythm through the wet fabric, sending a shiver down your spine.

A broken sob escaped you, the weight of reality pressing you down hard. His hands stroked your trembling arms, trying to soothe you; but it wasn’t working. The stings or remorse cut through you one by one, haunted by the image of him sitting there, drenched, and cold, and shaking—

“I didn’t want you to—to—I had no idea you were there this whole time, I thought you left t—to sit in your—” Another sob came out stifled, because he brought you in for a hug; his hard, wet chest strangely warm and comforting. You didn’t return the embrace, but stayed there, sobbing quietly, letting him drape the blanket over you both, the material somehow still dry enough to bring comfort.

“Shh… Easy. Don’t cry, okay? It was my decision to stay there.” His soft voice reached you, and another sob came out, this time right into the shirt still clinging to his chest. “I had to stay there. I couldn’t leave you again. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m sorry.” He leaned down and rested his chin hesitantly on top of your head, bringing you even closer to himself. He released a long, heavy sigh, followed by a whisper of your name and another apology.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered right next to your ear, and you trembled in his strong arms.

“I’m sorry.” His hold tightening, and you hated how good it felt to have him this close again.

“I’m sorry.” His words no longer held just one meaning, and you shook your head as best you could, restrained by his tight embrace. Yet you stayed, your eyes closing, heart heavy with the knowledge that you were too weak to run away from him anymore.

The sound of the rain intensified, a thunderstorm still raging outside, and you both stayed close, Caleb cradling you to his chest, swaying gently side to side, almost lulling you to sleep. You took a deep breath, the scent of rain and him washing over you, and realized that you were ready to at least hear him out.

After you both calmed down your breaths and beating hearts, and after your bodies started warming up again, that is.

Because how can someone so warm have bad intentions? The feelings inside you were messing with your head again, and you let them, hoping you won’t regret making that decision.

Wishing, that this love won’t bring you to ruin.

The kettle began to whistle the exact moment he stepped out of the bathroom, candlelight casting his shadow across the room. Every movement danced on the walls, creating the illusion of him surrounding you from all sides. Ironic, because that’s exactly how you felt ever since you let him back in. Your body cautious not to relax in his presence, caged by the unfamiliar weight of broken trust.

You bit your lip and began pouring hot water over the tea, waiting for the pleasant scent to reach you, hoping that it will calm your racing heart—if only for a second. Its rapid beating didn’t slow down since you brought him in here willingly—the very man you’d successfully avoided for a whole month, dreading your next encounter, having no idea how you should act upon seeing him again.

And now there he was—standing behind you nervously, thinking so loudly you were almost able to hear it. Yet you stayed silent, believing that you had every right to. The awkwardness in the air wasn’t your fault, after all.

Letting him inside, not being able to stand the thought of him sitting out there in the storm—that was your doing. And you hated yourself for how easily you let your guard down, and for failing to hide the pathetic trace of love you still carried for him, even after he hurt you so deeply.

Your first encounter several hours ago didn’t exactly end in the way you wanted it to: him using his Evol on you and you breaking down in tears could hardly be considered a peaceful reunion. You were both not ready to talk yet, too shaken by being in each other’s presence after all this time. You, stubborn in your hatred. He, desperate and unraveling at the thought of loosing you again. An explosive combination, a disaster waiting to happen.

So you ran, as fast as you could from him.

And now, because you couldn’t stay indifferent to his discomfort, you had nowhere to hide.

“The clothes fit. They’re even a bit loose.” Caleb’s light tone finally broke the silence, though the slight tremble in his voice betrayed his stress. He was as nervous as you were. “Phew, I’m lucky your uncle isn’t here today, he would totally take me in a fight. To him I would probably look like… a walkin’… A walking stick.” Voice grew quieter with every word he spoke, and once he noticed he was rambling, he clamped his mouth shut, cussing internally.

He had always made a fool of himself when you were near, ever since the day he met you, all those years ago. Even just the sight of your turned back, the knowledge you were listening, made his head heavy with the need to impress you, and now, to make things right. He was terrified that at any moment you might lock yourself away in one of the rooms, somewhere he couldn’t reach you again—and he had no idea how he’d handle it if that happened.

Suddenly, you turned to him, your eyes glued to the mugs of tea you were holding. You placed them carefully on the table in front of you—the only piece of furniture that provided a bit of a distance you so desperately craved to have. From the corner of your eye you noticed he wasn’t exaggerating—the black sweatpants and a white shirt seemed to be a bit loose, and you realized that his homely appearance actually made you feel a bit more at ease. Now, without his Colonel uniform to hide behind, he seemed more approachable, if not more lost.

The air of authority vanished the moment his wet suit hit the floor, leaving only an uncertain man in its wake, one who knew he’d been walking on thin ice the moment you let him into your space again.

And you just couldn’t bring yourself to make him feel more welcome—the words he said still ringing in your ears, despite the time you spend to forget about them entirely.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. And for the clothes.” He was still standing in the same spot and you still refused to meet his eyes. Your hands grabbed one of the mugs and you started blowing air to cool your tea down, thankful for that little distraction, for something warm to hold when your heart was freezing cold. “And I wasn’t sitting there to make you pity me. If you were wondering. I wasn’t tryin’ to manipulate you into anything, I just—”

“I know.” Your voice rusty from the uncontrollable sobbing from before, hands gripping the mug harder. The light from the candles was too low for you to see your reflection on the surface of the drink. Maybe it was for the best, you must’ve looked like a trembling mess, eyes puffy and lips bitten red, still shaken by the storm of emotions that had torn through you during the day. “That, I know.”

You slowly sat on the nearest stool while he processed the meaning behind your words, still standing motionless few steps before you. You took a sip—and the warmth of the drink did nothing to soothe your nerves.

So, you waited. For something. Anything. Feeling his intense gaze on your frame, almost drilling a hole in your head, a silent prayer for you to look back at him.

You couldn’t, and that broke him all over again.

“You run away from me.” His voice trembled and your hands grabbed the mug tighter, the rain outside intensifying—or maybe you just became aware of its sound again. “I’ve searched for you everywhere. Every day. And I was loosing my mind every minute I couldn’t see you.”

“Did you?” You couldn’t help the venom spilling out of you, the tone mocking if it wasn’t so weak. “Why? Because of guilt? Pity? Out of obligation for—”

“Guilt? Pity? Is that what you think?” He took a step forward, and you didn’t move, head held high, still not meeting his eyes. “Everything I did for you, everything I ever said to you was out of—Shit—” His hands ruffled his hair, tugging at the strands. A pause, heavy, followed by a thunder, and then—“Out of love!” The last word nearly a growl, ripped out of him suddenly, as if holding it inside brought him pain.

You froze.

A thunder roared in the distance.

And the tears filled your vision once more.

You stood abruptly, putting down the cup on the table with a loud thud, its contents spilling out, nearly burning your head. His voice calm and sure now, so sure it almost made you choke.

“Out of overwhelming love, that I have felt for you for as long as I can remember—”

“Stop.” You choked out, your head dizzy, hands shaking in fury. What was he saying? What was he even—

“—Out of desperation to make things right, because I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting somewhere alone, and hurting because of me, the things I said, the things I fuckin’ despise myself for—” He heard you, so he spoke much quicker, words spilling one after the other, hurting you more than you could imagine. He was getting closer to you, and you flinched, one leg already taking a step back.

He wasn’t serious, he couldn’t be. If he were, he wouldn’t have said those things, especially not after he got to have you. It wasn’t what you were prepared to hear, he was surely just messing with—

“Caleb, please.” Not more than a whisper, a calm before the storm, your head shaking, legs feeling weak.

“I lied. I lied that day and you need to believe me. I lied because I was a coward, and I didn’t know what to do, I panicked and I lied, because I love you, and they—”

“No, please, stop, I—I can’t listen to this, it was a bad idea, I—” With tears in your eyes you turned away and passed Caleb quickly, wanting to go back upstairs and hide: hide from his lies, from the hurt of his sudden confession, and from the way his voice sounded, so anguished and outright mad.

He didn’t love you, he couldn’t love you, because if he did he would’ve told you that night, when he held you so close and whispered broken praises into your ear. He would’ve said it then, not now, when you’d already made up your mind to cut him off, to forget the warmth of his body and the cold sting of the words you overheard.

You expected an apology, not a confession, which made and your whole facade crumble with his every word.

“No! Please—” He grabbed your hand, his touch frantic and secure, the contact and the memories it reignited made you gasp. And before you could realize what was happening, he fell down on his knees in front of you, his hands grabbing your arms, the hold strong but gentle, meant to slow you down, rather than cage.

You looked at the bare skin of his back, sticking out of the shirt, speckled with faint freckles, and noticed he looked thinner than you last saw him. Then your eyes landed on his dark hair, falling into his face freely, strands damp after the shower, but still looking so unbelievably soft.

“Please, I’m not lying, I’m—You have to believe me. You have to—Fuck—”

You eyes met and the time seemed to slow down.

Because you saw his beautiful, violet orbs, that always made you feel as if you were looking at the eight wonder of the world, flooded with tears for the very first time in your life.

His lips were trembling and you noticed how chapped they were, his teeth biting into them to stop himself from sobbing. You could hear the humming of your heart in your ears, your whole body shocked to stillness.

He looked absolutely torn.

And you couldn’t look away; your eyes traced the path of the first tear that slipped out of his eye, down to his chin, landing in front of your bare feet.

Like an offering. A statement. The last prayer of a man who lost hope.

“I’m not—I’m not lying to you. You have to believe me, please, please.” Tears. One after the other, tracing paths on his flushed cheeks, eyes burning with sincerity, lashes wet and shiny.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat, eyes filling with tears upon the sight, but you were trying so hard to keep them at bay.

And after a sniffle, he continued, warm hands stroking your shaking arms, eyes glued to yours like a lifeline.

“I lied that day. Everything I said was a fucking lie, okay? A big, pathetic lie to save my skin, to buy me more time. I said the first things that came into my mind—”

“But I heard you, Caleb.” You cut him off, your brows furrowing, unable to contain your confusion. “I heard you. If you really didn’t mean it how could you sound so sure? You said these things without even a single thought, and you expect me to—”

“I didn’t have to think! I just twisted—I think I just twisted the truth—”

“Wow. T—That’s low Caleb. That’s really, really low—” And when you started to back out from his hold he grabbed you harder, his arms going to circle around your waist, his face pushing into your stomach. You gasped and before you managed to push him away, his next words made you stop.

“No! Wait, shit, that’s not what I meant. Don’t go.” A sob escaped his lips and you took a deep breath, your hand almost reaching to caress his head. You’ve never seen him so broken and the need to comfort him was overwhelming. The sight of his tears excruciating. “I said you were clingy and you are—” Another sharp tug, but he refused to let you go. “You are. You are clingy and that’s okay, that perfectly fine, that’s perfect. And I love that about you. Every time you were holding my sister’s hand, I wished, God—How I wished you would hold mine instead. I wished, I prayed you would cling to me instead. Just as much as I wanted to cling to you.” He raised his head and you saw that he was telling the truth in the way his eyes gleamed, and his cheeks burned red, body trembling against yours.

And you felt your legs nearly bucking under your weight, his words making your head spin, not knowing whether you should stay offended or let him take your breath away once more.

“But—but what about me being annoying? You said—”

“You loved to push my buttons ever since we were kids, you are trying to annoy me all the time, just how I try to annoy you back. But for me, every jab, every joke, it was always to catch your attention. A pitiful attempt for you to just look at me, even for a fleeting second. And it worked—MC always called us annoying because of it, remember? That’s why it came to me so quickly. That’s the only reason I said it so surely.”

He was talking so fast he nearly lost his breath, his chest heaving against you, arms still holding you close to his chest. You took a deep breath and wanted to think, to have a second to process it, the burn in your cheeks intensifying, his words actually starting to make sense, because of your usual dynamic.

But it wasn’t all. It wasn’t what hurt you the most.

“You told them about my fear.” Caleb’s huge, red-rimmed eyes never left yours, and you fought with yourself not to fix the strands of hair that were slightly blocking his vision. His lips formed a straight line and turned slightly downwards, making him look like a kicked puppy. And you felt your anger slowly slipping, hope filling the hole in your heart. “And you listed it as my fault. You took my biggest fear and embarrassed me for it, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I didn’t even—I didn’t even know you noticed how scared I was when—”

“I did. I notice everything about you. Of course I noticed.” His strong hands hugged you tighter, and a single tear slipped out of your eye. He was still kneeling before you, showing no signs of raising. “Just how I noticed that it didn’t keep you from visiting me at my place, even though the stillness of the clouds terrified you to the point of loosing sleep. But it’s okay. It doesn’t change a single thing for me. I only dreamed of showin’ you the view from the clouds, I hoped that I would take you up there with me one day, to show you that it doesn’t have to be scary. That it’s actually beautiful, and freeing, and calm up there. Cause I would protect you, always. And if you didn’t change your mind it would be fine—It would always be fine. I would just share with you the stories ‘bout the things I saw. And I would be the happiest to do it.” His shaking hands reached to touch your face and wiped the tears from your cheeks, ones that you had no idea you even shed. “I never thought about it as your flaw. Never. For me, you are nothing but a wonder.”

His touch was feather-light and comforting, his hands warm and so painstakingly familiar, bringing you back to the night that changed everything. How he held you back then, as if you were something fragile, something precious.

A wonder.

A sob tore through your body and he shook his head, hushing you quietly, his hands taking a hold of yours, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss to every single one of your knuckles.

“Then, why? Why did you list it as one? I just—I just don’t understand why, Caleb.” You cried out, one of your hands leaving his to cover your face from him. The past month of running away flashed before your eyes, making you even more tired. And although you wanted nothing more than to believe him and let yourself be held, he still didn’t give you the reason for saying such things. “Why did you even say that? If you lied, why did you do that? Why, Caleb, why did I have to hear—?”

You were crying again, and Caleb looked at you from his knees in panic, his hands caressing your arms, spine straightening so that his head could rest against your chest. The way he hugged you so tenderly made you want to hug him back, your head fighting with your heart. Yet he still didn’t give you all the answers, no matter how better the situation seemed now. You still had doubts about believing him at all.

There was a beat, or two, and he let out a deep sigh, hands gripping you tighter.

You sniffled, the word around going completely quiet, just to be disturbed by his quiet groan.

“I’m even—I’m even embarrassed to say.” He stood up slowly, and you gulped, his size all-consuming, making him be the only thing you could see. You took a careful step back, and he took one of your hands in his hesitantly. From this position he was too stressed to hug you, opting for less intense contact, especially when your hand was still limp in his, not reciprocating the hold. He scratched at his neck, his eyes meeting yours, an anticipation visible on your features. “And I know that won’t make the situation better.”

“Caleb—”

“Yes. Yes, I know—They—” A squeeze of your hand, the orange spark in his eyes shining beautifully, making your breath hitch. His hand went up to gently touch your face, fingers tracing patterns along your cheek. “They started talkin’ bout girls that day. The boys, my friends from college.” His brows furrowed, eyes looking at your face as if searching for something there. You listened patiently, his earlier words still ringing inside your head, the gravity of them almost crushing you. “Asked me if I knew someone they could go out with. I said ‘no’. They didn’t believe me, though.” His eyes narrowed, chin went down slightly in annoyance while recollecting the conversation. “They started teasing me about MC first. Asking if I would like to have a brother, too. But then one of them mentioned you.” His eyes darkened, the hand on your cheek stopped its caress. “Said he liked you. And that he already had your number. He was pretty confident, said something ‘bout you two having a connection. He said he talked with you that one time you and MC were visitin’ me in my dorm, and I—I started sweating right then and there.”

Your frown deepened but you already knew where this was going. You closed your eyes and swore under your breath, one hand covered your mouth in shock. You couldn’t even remember the guy.

“And—And we just slept together that night, and I finally got to hold you, caress you, kiss you—I was on cloud nine. Wasn’t thinking clearly. And I wanted to tell him about us, that you were mine, but I realized that we haven’t talked about it. And you weren’t there when I woke up—”

“Caleb, I overslept for work, I had to leave quickly—”

“I’m so, so sorry, but I wasn’t sure. I haven’t confessed to you either, I was just too—too overwhelmed, I felt too much, I thought too much and I realized that I couldn’t tell them you’re mine because you weren’t. Not yet.” You bit your lip and looked at him in disbelief, his face getting closer. He put a strand of your hair behind your ear, and his jaw tightened. “And when he asked me what I thought ’bout you I couldn’t tell him the truth. If he knew what I felt he wouldn’t let you go. They wouldn’t let you go, it would only make them want you more.”

You felt your hands shaking, your mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say. His hands were still holding yours, feeling the tremble, caressing them with his thumbs in an attempt to bring you comfort.

“But you knew that what happened between us wasn’t a one time thing. You knew how I felt about you, and if you felt the same why didn’t you just—”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d pick me, if you had a different choice. And at that moment, I wanted to make sure you would. That they wouldn’t take you away from me. And that they would never want to again.” His hands cupped your cheeks, and you felt how rough and warm they were, your hands immediately going to hold at his wrists. He closed his eyes for a moment and you couldn’t believe what he was saying.

It was all a misunderstanding. And all of this happened because he was jealous? He hurt you so much just because he didn’t want others to reach out to you?

“So you had to say all these things about me? And that was supposed to be a better alternative than lying about us being together? Caleb, it really doesn’t sound—” You pushed his arms away, legs taking you further away from him, craving some space to think things through, but he followed suit, hands already reaching for you again.

“I panicked. I’m so, so, so sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where we stood, and I had no idea if that would make a difference for them. I had to say something to discourage them. So I did.” His hands went to tug at his hair and now he was the one who took a step back, breathing louder, obviously distressed. “And I hated myself for it. It felt so wrong the moment it came out of my mouth and I wasn’t even sure if they even believed me. And then I heard you. Fuck, when I heard you—”

A loud crash, making every single doubtful look from the boys leave Caleb’s face. Grateful for a distraction, his head heavy, heart burning with the weight of his lies. But when he opened the door and noticed your makeup scattered across the floor, his heart sank to his stomach. A wave of terror froze his body for a short while, until he heard you fumbling with the front door.

He didn’t even think about using his Evol, your beautiful frame running away from him enough to make him panic, the things he said hanging above his head, the knowledge that you had heard them becoming his worst nightmare.

And later, when he returned to his empty apartment after hours spend searching for you, calling you in hope you’d pick up, even by accident—he finally broke down. He screamed, throwing his phone against the wall, making it shatter. His Evol spiraled out of control, shifting the furniture, crashing the plates, the entire place left looking as if it had been broken into.

He lost you on the day he finally got to have you. And ever since that day, he hadn’t known peace, until your phone lit up again, a single red dot glowing on his device, revealing your location.

He left the Fleet right then and there in the middle of the meeting, everything else forgotten. Every duty postponed, every shout of his name ignored.

There wasn’t anything more important than you.

And now you were standing before him, as beautiful as the day he lost you, with tears in your eyes and your heart no longer open for him to take solace in. The eyes which used to look at him with mirth and affection—now uncertain, scared of him hurting you again.

And he felt that he was at his limit—one more second away from you and he thought he’ll burst into flames, the intensity of his feelings will turn him to ashes.

So, he begged.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Believe me. Take me back. Give me one more chance. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I swear I will never to it again, as long as I live.” You flinched when he fell onto his knees again, your arms trying to catch him before his knees hit the floor, but it was useless, his body too heavy for you to hold.

“Caleb! Caleb, stop doing that—” You grabbed his arm in an attempt to pick him up, but he was too strong, his bicep not even tightening. Goosebumps appeared on his skin under your palms and his head fell onto your arm pathetically.

And you just couldn’t look at him when he acted this way, your anger dissipating, the situation although still not ideal—him lying, then saying such things behind your back, whether he meant them or not, wasn’t something you could forgive him after one conversation.

Yet you couldn’t bear to look at him like that—on his knees, begging for forgiveness, crying and shaking, words slipping uncontrollably from his lips. In all the years you’d known him, this was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him—and the sight made your eyes sting. The image of the man you loved—once an unshakable, controlled pillar of strength—reduced to a broken mess before you.

You now knew why he did it. And that he didn’t mean it, not in the way you thought he did.

And you understood the jealousy, the anger, and the selfishness, because you had times you felt such way about him too. The image of him with another making you nauseous, the possibility of him loving someone else like a dagger cutting through your chest.

You took a deep breath, and glanced at him again. His shaking back, hands clinging to your body in an attempt to keep you close.

And you had made your decision.

“Oh, Caleb…”

To believe him.

“Caleb, please stand up!”

To build your relationship back up again, no matter how long i’ll take. And you just hoped you were making the right one.

“N—No, you have to understand. Please. I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness, no matter how long it takes.” He breathed into your arm, his face snuggling into it, his head slowly rising, eyes meeting yours.

And you gasped at the anguish displayed all over his pretty eyes, two eternal sunsets clouded with misery.

“I love you. So much. I am in love with you, and I’ll do anything to prove it, I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you. You want me to give you more space? I’ll do that. I will try to do that. You want me to leave the Fleet? Just say a word. I will. I will follow you to the end of space and time. You like it here? I can build you the exact same house with my own hands, brick after brick, and it would be the most beautiful, peaceful of places, you own private sanctuary. I will—”

Your knees hit the floor, joining him and you grabbed his wet cheeks in your hands, yanking his head down to meet your lips, effectively shutting him up.

And he melted.

Putty in your hands, leaning into your touch instantly, his chapped lips warm against yours, his soft sigh vibrating between your mouths. And when you broke the kiss and met his sparkling eyes, round with surprise and hope, you send him a small smile, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

You wouldn’t let them. Not anymore. Not when for the first time in weeks you finally believed that you will be okay.

It was all a huge misunderstanding. A big mistake, fueled by insecurities, secrets kept for far too long, his desperation to keep you near, no matter the means. When he spoke so rapidly, afraid you’ll leave him again, you realized that wanting to keep you to himself might have been one of the few times in his life he had ever done something purely for himself—even if his methods were far from right.

You could see now, that behind his thick skin, and the air of countless of responsibilities, he was still just a boy that had to grow up too quickly. For MC. For you. For all of you to live as comfortably as you could, the burden of all your issues and failures always spoken to him, knowing that he will be able to help and find a solution for all of them.

And yet, he never confessed when something bothered him, his feelings and desires always bottled up inside, kept hidden and threatened to spill when it got too much for him to handle.

And that one time, when faced with the threat of someone taking you away from him, the threat of loosing you, the one he loved, he acted on instinct. He chose the option that wasn’t fair, and certainly wasn’t healthy, but he truly believed it could work to keep you beside him for a while longer.

He wasn’t used to being selfish, so he had no idea how to start, and how to do it right.

He looked down at you through half-closed eyes, taking you in and memorizing your small smile—one he felt he hadn’t seen in ages. Then he dove in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around your frame, pulling you tightly to his chest. He couldn’t believe that you kissed him, his brows furrowing, wanting to make this moment last forever.

And you reciprocated every single one of his hasty kisses, your head finally freed from the questions that dragged you down.

You will work this out. You will fix this, together. And you will make sure he’ll know how you feel, so that he could finally realize that he doesn’t have to fight dirty battles just to keep you close. Because you would never want anyone else who wasn’t him.

“Caleb-mmmh. Caleb, oh God, wait.” He reluctantly let your lips go, your lungs filling with a deep breath, and you hugged him around his waist, feeling the fast beating of his heart under your ear. He placed his shaking hand on your head, stroking your hair, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“Sorry, can’t stop. Come back here, you kissed me first.” And he took your cheeks in his palms and dived in, wanting to capture your lips in his again, but you blocked his mouth with your hand, making him frown.

You giggled softly, eyes still teary, making his eyes sparkle—mesmerized by the happiness finally breaking through the walls you’d build around yourself over the past month. He kissed your fingers once, twice, his arms resting at your waist as he lost himself in the warmth of your body, and the pleasant fragrance of your skin.

He felt as though he had returned to where he truly belonged. He had finally come home.

You opened your mouth, your cheeks flushed and eyes sincere, and nothing could prepare him for what you said next, your tone soft, slightly unsure, a melody only for him to hear.

“I believe you, Caleb. But you hurt me that day so badly, I thought I would never get over that heartbreak. I thought I lost you, my best friend, the only boy I ever cared so deeply for. I thought you really hated me all this time. And I couldn’t face it, couldn’t even think about it, that’s why I fled.” He nodded quickly, eyes holding so much hurt and regret. You slid one of your hands into his hair, stroking the soft strands gently. And thats when you both sat down on the warm floor, bodies relaxing, hearts slowing down. “But it’s okay. I understand you now. And I’m sorry too, for not letting you explain yourself sooner. I was just so focused on trying to hate you to somehow cope with what I’ve heard—”

“Stop, it’s my fault, don’t—”

“I shouldn’t have run away. I should’ve faced you, even if I was scared of what I’ll learn. But it will take some time for me to forget about it, okay? It really—It really messed me up. The thought you put up with me only because it was convenient.” You bit your lip and he groaned softly, his head lowering, a symphony of apologies falling from his lips once again. You hushed him gently, taking his cheeks in your hands and wiping away the wet trails of his tears. He sniffed quietly, making your heart squeeze. “But it will be okay. Because I believe you. So you don’t have to be scared anymore, I won’t run away again.” His body shook as he kept nodding, biting at his lips, trying so hard not to interrupt you. You leaned over him again, the movement slow, and you looked deep into his eyes, silently asking for permission. Once his eyelashes fluttered, eyes looking at your lips expectantly, you placed a soft kiss on his swollen ones, red from his constant biting, still salty from the tears he shed. “And you have to promise to be honest with me. No more tricks. No more lies.”

“I promise.” Your name escaped his lips like a prayer. “I promise. I will never hurt you again, I swear. I promise. I love you more than you could ever realize.”

He groaned into another kiss, a quiet “mmm” followed by the touch of his hands on your cheeks. He brought you to himself closer, one kiss turning into three, four, five and still counting, yet all of them gentle and reassuring, meant to anchor, not escalate. One of his hands landed on your hip and tugged, touch meaningful—he wanted for you to sit in his lap, and although you were still shaken, you craved the closeness as much as he did.

You climbed onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at your lower lip.

You let him in, slowly, unhurriedly, your ears catching the sound of the falling rain, the storm coming back with the same intensity as before—but this time, it didn’t feel like a bad omen anymore.

You parted with a quiet pop, Caleb’s head instinctively following yours, unwilling to let the distance linger. His large hands caressed your arms and thighs, his expression love-drunk, looking as if he couldn’t believe you were really here with him again.

His eyes met with yours and you swiped the pads of your fingers below his under eyes, tracing the faint freckles.

A whistle of the wind, a spatter of rain against the window, the sound of your beating hearts, and then—

“I love you too, Caleb.” His breath hitched, hands clenching on the material on your shirt, eyes big and shining with disbelief. “I love you. So much. You’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.” His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching in a gesture so gentle your eyes stung.

“Again. Repeat that for me.” He whispered in awe, and you obeyed, another confession spoken into the night. One of the candles burned out, marking the end of a chapter, and, hopefully, the end of your separation. “Hmm, again.” He probed and you did, watching as a soft smile spread on his lips, his thumbs swiping circles into the exposed skin of your thighs. “Wanna hear it again.” Caleb’s voice unbearably soft, his touches even more so, and you put your hands on both sides of his neck, putting more distance between you. “And again. And again. I never want you to stop saying it.”

He opened his eyes and studied your face, eyes closing when you pressed a lingering kiss on one of his eyelids, his breath shaky, hands warm against your skin.

“I love you. Have been for so long I lost count ages ago.” His lips formed a line, happiness squeezing at his chest, and he nodded once, eyes opening slowly to bore into yours and don’t stray.

“Ages?” He repeated, partly mimicking your words from weeks ago, but still visibly shaken, chest filling with the warm ache of being accepted. Of loving, and being loved in return.

He cursed himself internally, eyes nearly filling with tears, dread rising in his chest at the thought that he had almost lost you, because of his selfishness and insecurities.

You kissed his lips again and he almost sobbed right into yours, his head falling onto your shoulder, kissing the soft skin, feeling the way in which it warmed up under the contact. He hugged you to his chest, kissing your neck, wanting to be even closer, to get under your skin, to merge with you for evermore and never let go.

“Ages.” Your answer sure and final, your arms returning his embrace, hands tracing patterns into the skin of his strong back. His necklace rested right next to your heart, where it should always be.

You began to hum a lullaby,letting your soft voice replace the harsh sounds of the rain and thunder. The melody drifted through the house, seeping into the walls, and into Caleb’s memory.

And when he whispered more confessions, his lips marking your skin with them, you exhaled a long, steady sigh, marking the end of this cruel storm.

And later, as you fell asleep in a tight embrace, listening to each other’s heartbeats and imagining the life ahead of you, neither of you noticed the objects gently floating around the room—silent signs of Caleb’s excitement. The heavy stone of guilt had finally lifted from his chest. He had won you back, and he wasn’t going to let you get hurt again—not by him, not by anyone else. He swore to protect you, and he would keep that promise for as long as he lived.

And if the sound of plant pots shattering, books tumbling, and your things scattering around woke you up from your slumber hours later, his puppy eyes, a kiss to your cheek and a promise of a breakfast in bed was enough to make you melt. You could always clean it up later.

This time, together.

*bonus!*

3 years later

* 15+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ hii babey, why is caleb being so weird today??? he literally called me earlier, asked me to freaking pray for him and hung up on me that menace.

✉︎ did u like fight or smth? u never fight what did he do this time

✉︎ the last time he acted so weird was when he ate his bday cake day early cause he didn’t realize what it was for, remember that? what do u see in him i cant quite understand we’re like, losers trapped in hot bodies istg

✉︎ wait he just send me a pic

✉︎ OH MY GODDDSSG???? BABY CONGRATULATIONS!!!!! THIS SECRETIVE LITTLE SHInzsn

✉︎ you look so happy in that picture!! im literally bawling, the ring’s so pretty and you both look gorgeous. im so so so happy for you (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡ ♡ ♡ i love you guys sm please INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING IN CASE CALEB FORGETS TO TELL HIS SIS SOMETHING THIS IMPORTANT AGAIN

✉︎ im so happy for you, can’t stop looking at ur lil happy faces. U both deserve the world. NEXT UP!! picking a wedding dress!!!!! Im already on it, you’ll look like a PRINCESS!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ gorgeous little b caleb’s a lucky maaaaan

✉︎ call me when you’re done with kissing!! or u know, other stuff. u guys can be pretty gross.

✉︎ i love you. both. can’t wait for the wedding!!!!!! AHH!!!

thank u for reading!! 🤍 if u managed to that one’s LONG. I hope it was worth ur time 🥺

if u want to support me, u can do it here!!: https://ko-fi.com/kitimeq

every like, comment and reblog would mean the world to me 🤍

[blxssom-221]

can I request Yuta smut pls 🙏🏾

ෆ You were only supposed to tutor him.

Late nights at his dorm turned into longer nights, until the space between you shrank into soft shoulder brushes, shared laughter, and those lingering glances he never meant to hold for so long. He’d start biting his lip when you leaned over him. Fidgeting. Swallowing hard. Sometimes he’d squirm in his seat when your hand grazed his thigh under the table.

Yuta wasn’t subtle.

But he was innocent. And sweet. And all the more heartbreaking when he finally stammered, one night, “Can I try something? I—I trust you.”

You didn’t make him beg. Not for the first time.

You kissed him slow. Let him breathe. Gave him time to squirm and adjust as you sank down on him for the first time, your cunt swallowing his virgin cock inch by inch while he moaned like he didn’t know pleasure could hurt that good. His fingers clutched your hips, trembling, and he came too fast—hips twitching up into you as he whined, “I-I’m sorry—!”

You didn’t stop.

You held his face. Told him it was okay. Kept him hard inside you, cockwarming him while he shivered and panted under you, already overstimulated but clinging.

That was hours ago.

Now you’re still riding him—slowly, gently, his swollen cock dragging against your soaked walls with obscene, sticky sounds as his body writhes beneath yours. He’s cum at least four—no, five? six?—times inside you, and you’re sure he doesn’t even know anymore.

He’s gone.

Sweat drips down his neck. His pretty hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes flutter weakly, rolling with each thrust of your hips as you keep bouncing on him, trying to coax just one more orgasm out of him. His voice is hoarse, cracked from sobbing, and he’s shaking so badly you finally pause, hovering over him.

“Yuta…” you murmur, brushing his soaked bangs back, your breath heavy. “Baby, we need to stop.”

He blinks up at you, confused, like the words don’t register.

“I’m serious.” Your voice softens. “Look at you. Your legs are shaking, you’ve cum so many times… I think I’m gonna break you.”

“No,” he breathes, still dazed. “No, please—don’t stop…”

His hands grab your hips—weak but desperate—and he bucks up suddenly, thrusting into you.

You gasp, gripping his shoulders. “Yuta—!”

“Please…” he sobs, and the panic in his voice hits you harder than anything. “It still feels good—need you to move, need you to keep going—wanna cum again—”

Your heart stutters.

He’s crying—again—but his cock is still twitching inside you, hot and hard and sensitive, like his body refuses to give up. He thrusts up again, helpless and frantic. “I don’t care if I break—I want it. I want you—please—”

You bite your lip.

“Baby,” you whisper, brushing tears from his cheeks. “I’m scared. You’re so out of it, and I—what if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” he cries. “You won’t—you never do—just wanna be good for you, please…”

He sounds like he’s begging for his life.

You don’t move for a moment, your hands cupping his flushed face, your thumb tracing along his jaw as his hips twitch up into you again—this time weaker, but just as desperate. His eyes are glassy. His lips trembling. He looks like he might start sobbing again if you stop.

You swallow thickly.

“I need you to promise me,” you murmur, slowly easing your hips down to let his cock sink in deeper. He moans—broken and high. “If it gets to be too much, you’ll tell me. You’ll let me stop.”

“I—I promise,” he breathes, and even though he’s barely holding on, the words are honest.

You nod, kissing his forehead.

“Okay.”

And then you ride him again—this time not slow. You roll your hips harder, grinding deep, letting the sounds of your slick and his soft whimpering fill the air as your hands cradle his head and you fuck him through another orgasm.

He doesn’t even warn you.

He just screams, full-body shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks as hot cum spills inside you again, thick and pulsing, cock twitching with no rhythm. His fingers dig into your skin and his sobs melt into nonsense.

You kiss him.

You hold him.

You stay on him, unmoving now, warm and full, keeping his cock inside you as he cries into your chest.

“You did so good, baby,” you whisper. “You did so, so good.”

And even as he breathes shallowly, shaking like a leaf, he still clings to you like he’ll die if you leave.

“Don’t—don’t pull out,” he mumbles.

You don’t.

Not yet.

[blxssom-221]

yuuta who loves a mean-but-secretly-enjoys-being-put-in-her-place girl

author's note: im not even like this i'm just in love with the loser x mean girl trope so sorry (i'm absolutely not)

warnings: aged up yuuta, mentions of yuuta being bullied </3, reader is a shit talker, mentions of oral sex (m!receiving), not an actual fic, just horny thoughts

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

standing up for himself is something yuuta’s never been able to do well, not for most of his life anyway. passive, polite, meek, it’s all he’s ever been, quiet as a mouse and all too apologetic for his own good.

the kind of guy who’s give up his seat for an old lady on the bus, or a much larger, much older man who gave him one long, good look. he’d give up the seat with a sheepish, polite smile. he’d mumble a small ‘oomph, sorry’ when bumping his elbow on the sharp, wooden edge of an inanimate piece of furniture, give a bratty, whining child the snack he was about to buy in a convenience store despite the fact that it was his favourite and the last on the shelf.

he just preferred avoiding unnecessary conflicts, that’s all, he’d tell himself. deep down however, he knew he was a little bit of a doormat.

but you? god, you’re nothing like that.

you’re not a regina george, or a heather chandler per-say, but you definitely know how to stick up for yourself. polite to a fault, perhaps a little catty, and possibly the most sharp-tongue person he had ever met. quick wit shutting down any rudeness that came your way.

he admired it, he admired you

behind closed doors, you like to gossip, you like to laugh at other’s expense sometimes, was it a little bitchy? of course. but he’d never tell you that. at least you’re talking to him about something.

a girl like you would’ve never spoken to him before Jujutsu High, he’ll take anything he can get, even if it’s you bad-mouthing a girl’s terrible, unblended foundation simply because you didn’t like her for whatever reason, or a weirdo guy's BO because he looked at you too long for your liking.

he shouldn't like a girl like this. a girl who to everyone else was so sweet and kind, the girl next door type, but when alone with him was the cattiest, snarkiest shit talker alive.

he used to be bullied himself, after all. if anything, he should condemn this behaviour, but he just can't fucking help it.

you're just so pretty. those skirts, the ones that let him get a peek of the curve of your ass cheeks when you stand in front of him on an escalator, those thong fluttery falsies that give you the cutest doe eyes (blow job eyes), and those slutty lips of yours, slick with glittery gloss and what you call your 'lip combo'.

although, he has developed a back bone in recent years. he soon grew to realise he quite liked to put you in your place when you took it too far. when the bitchy-ness went public, when your insults were no longer funny but downright rude.

of course, sweet, sweet yuuta would never embarrass you in public! he'd never tell you off, no, he couldn't do that. but he would deliver a quick swat to your ass, an all too arousing warning, whilst looking at you with deadpan disappointment, mouthing an almost threatening 'stop it'. it's honestly worse than if he just told you to stop being a bitch in front of all your friends, feeling yuuta being so utterly upset with you.

but the delicious, long loser cock that filled your mouth when he pulled you into his dorm later that night was so fucking worth it.