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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart.

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh.

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer.

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes.

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win.

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.”

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.”

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust.

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily.

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park.

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.

But soon, you run out of room to stall.

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach.

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering.

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off.

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination.

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well.

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch.

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion.

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late.

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!”

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip.

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues.

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand.

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below.

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not.

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise.

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.”

You nod brusquely.

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches.

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually.

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you.

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one.

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.”

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you.

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t.

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm.

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly.

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations.

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape.

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed.

You don’t know what to wear.

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look.

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall.

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use.

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway.

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect.

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you.

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other.

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied.

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss.

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin.

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did.

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street.

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious.

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift.

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood.

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs.

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.”

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth.

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.”

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well.

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard.

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.”

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb.

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you.

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed.

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much.

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years.

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world.

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try.

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint.

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it.

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet.

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you.

Caleb had had better nights.

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better.

He’s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn.

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself.

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle.

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him.

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening.

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good.

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would.

Instead, he feels his dog tag.

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings.

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace.

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you.

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him.

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago.

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away.

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface.

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it.

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back.

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force.

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?”

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.”

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you.

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside.

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended.

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern.

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy.

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times.

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness.

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault.

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you.

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it.

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure.

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand.

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be.

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole.

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided.

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you.

***

The days drag on.

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever.

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure.

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him.

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves.

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space.

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer.

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide.

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom.

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you.

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing.

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time.

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept.

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb.

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened.

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby.

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out.

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him.

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless.

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it.

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly.

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring.

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall.

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone.

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times…

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before.

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home.

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions.

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t.

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without.

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void.

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress.

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you.

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer.

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction.

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet.

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan.

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time.

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return.

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm.

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would.

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight.

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered.

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days.

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Where else would I go?”

And those violet irises find yours.

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did.

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end.

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation.

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.”

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.”

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.”

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily.

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.”

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone.

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours.

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.”

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.”

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.”

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue.

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him.

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch.

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back.

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time.

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead.

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.”

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there.

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises.

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much.

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully.

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct.

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months.

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air.

Then, a soft clink.

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck.

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight.

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened.

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend.

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push.

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try.

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

Text

IM AFRAID

HE SAID IT AGAIN FAWK 😵‍💫😳😍😫👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾

This was everything!! His voice actor had RENT DUE! I love listening to him speak omfg. 10/10

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

Text

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb VIII

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: Another 3000-worder (sorry lol). Non MC!reader as the law student. This chapter features our favorite trio. Light angst, lots of wholesome vibes, flirting, tension, and banter. We’re back at it and… we keep peeling barista booooi. Romcom all the way and deffo not 18+ (go away tumblr)

Parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7,

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil @zaynessdarling @gojosballsack69

Exhibit A(bsolutely not over him) | Pt. 8

You haven’t stepped foot in the café in two days. What you have been doing is eating Golden Delicious apples until your stomach turned.

And that’s what finally reminded you of something important: You are, in fact, still a law student. And law students cannot afford to tank their entire future over a man with unfairly good forearms, a devastating smile, and an apple charm that clearly wasn’t just an accessory.

Not when it’s obvious now—undeniably, painfully obvious—that he’s taken.

You were never in the running.

You were just… killing time.

And now? You’ve seen the proof.

Time to stop pretending otherwise.

So, you’re buried in case law��mortgages, foreclosure procedures, and the soul-crushing distinction between de lege lata and de lege ferenda.

Except for that twenty-minute break earlier when you absolutely, definitely did not go down a google rabbit hole about psychological testing in aviation training.

… Not to mention the newbie texting you yesterday.

newbie: he’s wearing a navy button-down. i know the case is closed. just thought you’d want the update.

newbie: hair’s messy.

newbie: he just offered someone extra foam with a wink. i’m going to throw myself into the milk fridge to remind myself that this case is closed. sorry.

You’d bitten the inside of your cheek just to keep from grabbing your bag and sprinting there like a woman possessed.

So yeah. Extremely focused. Laser-sharp.

But you had stayed away.

Your highlighter is again uncapped. Your outline is almost legible. You are, objectively, thriving. Eating a sad multigrain bar between paragraphs and chasing it with lukewarm water like it’s a performance enhancer.

And then your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You stare at the screen. Don’t open it. Just… hover over the preview.

Unknown Number: hey. don’t you want your caffeine anymore? i can make you something else. de-caf americano. lavender latte. fake espresso with oat milk and ego support. or something worse :3 caleb (got your number from the newbie. hope that’s not a crime.)

You actually stop breathing.

Like, for real. Chest still. Brain blank.

Your heart has the audacity to flutter. Traitor.

You check the time. You should be reading about lien enforcement. Instead, you’re calculating how long to wait before answering so it looks like you’re busy and unaffected.

You add him to your contacts like a normal, composed person.

Then scream internally for a full minute.

Exactly eleven minutes pass before a reply is sent—just long enough to look busy, not eager.

you: wow. illegally obtained contact info and weaponized oat milk? bold strategy, counselor.

He replies immediately.

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): i prefer the term morally flexible barista. you want the latte or not?

you: define “latte.” is this a real drink or a coded trap?

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): yes

You scowl at your phone, biting back a smile.

you: i’m studying.

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): and i’m offering academic support. in beverage form.

you: …is this a bribe?

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): depends. is it working? :3

Of course you don’t answer right away. You make him wait this time. On purpose. Thirty minutes pass. You even get through two and a half pages of your reading before you cave.

you: i could maybe stop by. for like ten minutes. purely for the fake espresso.

Barista Boi™ (DO NOT FLIRT): :D perfect. i’ll be ready. and i’ll make sure the newbie doesn’t rat you out for folding under pressure :P

You glance at your reflection in your laptop screen. You look like someone trying not to smile.

You fail.

——————————————————————————

Ten minutes. That’s what you told yourself.

Ten minutes. In and out.

And yet—you pause outside the café window, checking your reflection checking your reflection like Professor Litt’s about to grade it. Hair? Rebraided. Clean. Tight. Strategic. Lip gloss? Freshly applied. Not too much, just enough to look unbothered. Like you woke up glowing, not panicking about your response time and lack of emojis.

You push the door open.

The bell chimes.

And then there he is.

Behind the counter, in a black fitted tee that fits too well, apron tied low on his waist like it’s a fashion statement instead of a uniform, he’s cleaning the counter. He stretches forward to drag the rag across the far edge, one arm bracing his weight, the other gliding the cloth in wide circles. A vein pops along his forearm with the motion.

Your breath stutters for half a second.

He glances up.

Sees you.

And—oh no—he smiles.

The good one. Slow. Warm. Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room and he’s so glad you walked in.

“Hey,” Caleb says. “You look—”

A pause. His eyes scan you, just briefly.

“Really good.”

Your pulse skips like a badly written objection.

“Studying looks good on you,” he adds, tossing the rag aside as he steps toward the espresso machine. “What’ll it be? Oat milk ego boost? Fake espresso?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Whatever supports academic integrity.”

He grins. “So… lavender guilt with a hint of vanilla ambition.”

“Perfect.”

Behind the counter, the newbie ducks out of view with suspicious timing. Probably pretending to organize straws. Probably texting you in all caps.

Sure enough, your phone buzzes:

newbie: ok so we’re not dropping barista boi? because i distinctly remember “case closed” energy two nights ago… and you said you’d only show up during my solo shifts…

You exhale. Type back quickly:

you: i know. i meant it. mostly

You stare at the screen. Then add:

you: there’s just… one thing i still need to figure out. something he said. i’ll tell you when i know

A few seconds later:

newbie: i’ll be waiting (and possibly reorganizing inventory until then)

You glance up.

They’re crouched behind the counter, aggressively focused on a box of wooden stir sticks and definitely not subtle. Right.

You take your usual seat, pretending this is casual. That you don’t feel your lip gloss catching on your smile. That you’re not watching Caleb’s hands as he works—entirely too good at this for your emotional well-being.

He slides the drink toward you a moment later.

You rise, shift your weight like you’re pretending this is no big deal, grab the cup—and by the time you’re lowering yourself back into the chair, he’s already grinning.

Before you can respond, the newbie drifts by, eyeing the scene with quiet dread and maybe a flicker of amusement. They point vaguely between you two with a cloth in hand.

“Is this, like… scheduled flirting or do I need to update the roster?”

Caleb doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s call it a catch-up session. Someone’s been ghosting their caffeine dealer for two days.”

You raise your cup, playing it cool. “Had to detox from questionable latte crimes.”

The newbie snorts. “Sustained.”

Caleb leans in just slightly, voice low. “Counterpoint: I missed the chaos.”

You sip, eyes locked. “Careful. I might bring it back in full force.”

The newbie exhales like they’re watching an HR violation unfold in real time.

You sip your drink again. It’s perfect.

Of course it is.

Before you can take another, Caleb’s already untying his apron like he’s done it a hundred times without thinking. He tosses it behind the counter, then shrugs into his jacket. Then he walks over like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re not still trying to recover from the way he complimented you when you walked in.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits—casual, easy, focused entirely on you.

“Clock’s off,” he says. “Extension granted.”

You raise your cup. “Wow. An unsupervised barista in the wild.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Careful. I’m dangerous without caffeine supervision.”

You smile into your drink. “You are the caution label.”

Caleb grins, easy and crooked, like he knows it’s true. But then silence settles in—comfortable at first, then strange. You realize you don’t actually know what to ask him. Not anything normal. Not anything safe.

That’s when the newbie drifts over again, towel still in hand and one brow raised. “Didn’t you say you had to leave exactly on time? Plans, or something?”

Caleb doesn’t look up right away. “Yeah,” he says slowly, sliding a finger along the edge of the table. “Changed my mind.”

Then—just a shrug. No comment. They turn and walk off, disappearing behind the espresso machine like they’ve decided they’ve already witnessed enough plot for one shift.

Your phone buzzes a second later.

newbie: he totally bailed on a date for you. i’m not saying i approve. but i am saying… damn gurl

You pretend to stare into your drink, hiding the flush that climbs up your neck. One hand cradles the cup, the other slips under the table to text.

you: noted. proceeding with caution.

newbie: you’re already toast

And you’re left sitting there. Caleb still not looking at you. Still pretending your pulse hasn’t picked up again.

You look at him, careful. “So… how does your date feel about being stood up?”

You try to make it light. Offhand. Like it’s a joke. But your hands are wrapped a little too tightly around your cup.

He doesn’t flinch. Just holds your gaze and says,

“She’ll survive.”

You raise an eyebrow, and he adds—quieter now, more certain,

“I’m just… starting to make the right priorities.” He leans back slightly, eyes still on you. “Honestly? I prefer this date over the one I had lined up.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Wow. So cross-examination is your ideal date?”

He grins, unbothered. “I don’t mind a little pressure.”

A quiet breath escapes as your thumb drags along the rim of your cup, buying time you’re not sure you need.

“Well,” you say, a little softer now. “Something you said at the farmers market stuck with me.”

His smile fades just a little—still gentle, but cautious now.

“If you don’t mind,” you continue, “I’d like to ask one more serious question. And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

He nods slowly. “Go on.”

The question leaves your mouth before you can overthink it. “So… do they really make you take psych evals in aviation school? Like, sit in a room and prove you’re not gonna fly off the handle mid-flight?”

He hums, glancing down at his hands. The moment stretches—something careful and unfinished in the space between you.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “It’s… part of it.”

You wait. Just for a second. But he doesn’t add anything.

Doesn’t look up either.

You backpedal before you realize why. “Sorry—was that a weird question?”

He finally looks at you. Smiles, but not quite like before.

“Nah. Just… not all turbulence is flight-related, you know?”

It lingers. Quiet.

You nod like you get it. You don’t push.

Instead, you check the time and start to gather your things.

“Well. I should head back to the library. Real law waits for no one.”

Caleb stands up with you. “Mind if I walk you?”

You pause. “To campus?”

One corner of his mouth quirks up as his hands disappear into his jacket pockets. “Unless that violates attorney-client privilege.”

You try to act cool. Casual.

But your heart’s doing flips like it just passed the bar on vibes alone.

“…Sure,” you say. “As long as you promise not to distract me from my constitutional crisis.”

“No promises.”

——————————————————————————

You didn’t think walking back with Caleb would feel like anything.

But it does.

It doesn’t feel like the farmers market. There’s no soft buzz of vendors or distraction of overpriced produce. No easy banter. It’s just a ten-minute stroll through campus. And every step feels charged. Not tense—just aware.

Aware of the way his shoulder brushes yours every so often. Aware of the fact that he’s not saying anything too deep—but he could. And aware that whatever weight hangs between you now, it’s heavier than before. Not bitter. Just real. Like he’s thinking, maybe, just as loudly as you are.

You try to focus on the path ahead. The looming faculty building. The notes in your bag. The faint echo of de lege ferenda in the back of your brain.

But instead, your thoughts keep rerouting to him. To how beautiful he looks walking next to you—hands in his pockets, jacket slightly open, the chain around his neck just barely visible under the collar of his shirt. There’s a faint scent clinging to him—subtle cologne, warm cinnamon, and coffee. Familiar now. Unfairly comforting.

The apple charm flashes once.

And you look away.

“Campus is weirdly quiet at this hour,” he says, voice low.

You nod. “All the reasonable people went home to rest. The rest of us have finals and bad taste in coping mechanisms.”

He chuckles, a soft breath more than a laugh. “What category do I fall into?”

A breath of hesitation hangs in the air before your gaze flicks his way.

“You’re the exception.”

He arches a brow. “To which part?”

You smile, quiet. “Exactly.”

Then, casually—maybe too casually—you ask, “Why flying?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough.

“You already had your serious question,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “But fine. I’ll indulge you, Golden Girl…”

His gaze tilts skyward—toward the horizon where dusk spills purple into orange, soft as breath. The light kisses his skin, scattering gold across the freckles on his nose, tangling in the soft, unruly fall of his ashen brown bangs. And his eyes—those impossible eyes—catch every violet thread of sky like they were made for this hour, like the universe choreographed sunset just to wreck you slowly.

“There’s something about being up there,” he says, quieter now. “Everything feels small. Like it can’t touch you.”

You nod. “Sounds peaceful.”

He shrugs. “It used to be.”

It used to be.

You don’t press. You’re out of allowed serious questions. Dang.

He glances sideways at you, his voice a little softer. “You always this curious?”

You smirk. “I’m literally training to cross-examine people for a living.”

A quiet chuckle slips out, low and unsurprised. “Right. Should’ve seen that coming.”

The silence that follows is longer. He doesn’t fill it. Neither do you. Just the sound of your steps echoing on the pavement, both of you pretending this is still light.

And then, he says:

“I saw you.”

You stop. So does he.

His voice is softer now. Measured. “After I left you. At the farmers market. After we parted… I… I saw you walk away.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start.

“I know,” he says quickly. “You… don’t have to explain.”

You look away. It stings, hearing him say it. Knowing he knew. That you weren’t as invisible in your spiral as you hoped.

“She’s part of me,” he says finally, eyes on the dark stretch of sidewalk ahead. “Whether I like it or not.”

You don’t say anything.

“She was… important,” he adds. “Still is. Very much so. Maybe… In ways I wish she wasn’t.”

You glance at him. His jaw’s tight. Not sad—bitter. Quietly so.

“Serving coffee helps,” he says with a dry smile. “Stupid as that sounds. So does working. Part-time hours, full-time distraction.”

You don’t speak. Just listen. For once, you’re not cross-examining, not poking holes in the story.

“Flying was supposed to help too,” he continues. “Thought maybe if I was up there, I’d finally feel free. Untouchable. Like I could outrun… outfly all of it.”

He shakes his head. “Turns out… you land eventually. I… always get home on time. No matter how hard I try not to.”

He gives you a sideways look. Not for pity. Just to see if you’re still here.

You are.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he says. “And I didn’t want it to look like—”

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to explain either.”

He exhales, the sound heavy even in the cool early evening air. “Yeah, but I want to.”

You reach the steps of the faculty. He slows with you.

There’s a pause. You glance at him.

He glances at you.

Then he blinks—like he’s just realized how much he said. How serious it suddenly got. You watch him. Carefully. Then, quiet but steady:

“Caleb. Am I an emotional distraction to you?”

That familiar smirk flickers to life—like he’s winding up to make a joke about your dwindling cross-examination time. But then it falters. Softens. Something gentler bleeding in at the edges.

“You ask that like it’s a bad thing,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want you to see it that way, Golden Girl.”

You lean in, just enough that your shoulders brush—just enough to make it teasing, grounding, not heavy.

You raise a brow. “Depends. Is this a paid role?”

“Not yet,” he says, voice dropping just slightly. “But the benefits are excellent.” He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

“I wanted us to stay light, Golden Girl,” he mutters, then flashes a crooked, too-fast smile.

You open your mouth—don’t know what to say.

But he keeps going, softer this time.

“I like being around you,” he says, voice low. “Not because of her. Just…”

Caleb pauses, searching for the words.

“Just because it reminds me of who I used to be. Someone I could… be lighter with. Before everything got so heavy.”

You don’t say anything.

But something in your chest cracks a little—softly. Quietly.

You nod once.

Then, without thinking, he brushes your arm with his fingers. Light. Fleeting. Just enough to feel real.

He holds your gaze.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Not a question.

A soft certainty.

You could leave it there.

You should.

But you say it anyway, like it’s no big deal:

“…You could kiss me goodnight.”

He pauses.

Raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You shrug, playing it off. “Just to test it. See if it still feels lighthearted.”

A slow grin curves across his face. “Bit early for goodnight kisses, isn’t it?”

Then softer—closer: “And if I kissed you goodnight… it wouldn’t just be a goodnight kiss.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are still open—still watching. Fingers drift forward—just enough to brush against your hair. It’s not a kiss. But it feels like one.

Then—he exhales, a little laugh under his breath.

“We’d fail the test.”

You blink. “Why?”

His voice drops.

“Because I wouldn’t want to stop.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because the ache in your chest says it all.

Still—

You let it settle.

You let it stay.

Then he walks away.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then you turn on your heel and book it back inside. Back to the library. Back to your laptop. Your outlines. Your annotated casebooks.

Back to your safe zone.

The water bottle hits your desk like a gavel. A granola bar follows—torn open and half-devoured like it might file your stress for you. A blank doc blinks back at the chaos.

You start typing.

——————————————————————————

Caleb v. My F*cking Sanity

Exhibit A: Apple Girl

She exists.

Confirmed visual. Confirmed hug.

Still part of him. Still hurts.

Exhibit B: The Look

He knew I saw.

Felt bad.

Explained… sort of. That’s not nothing.

Exhibit C: The communication pattern

Texted me FIRST. Flirts.

“First-class comfort.”

Braid-touching violation.

Walked me back. Said “see you soon.” Like it meant something???

Exhibit D: The confession

“You remind me of who I used to be.”

He told me. Voluntarily.

Not sad, not sweet—true. Bitter?

Exhibit E: The proximity

The almost-kiss?!?!

Stepped closer.

Eyes open the whole time.

Looked at me like I might undo him wtf

Exhibit F: The Suggestion

I joked: “You could kiss me goodnight.”

He said: “Bit early for goodnight kisses.” …..

Like… early relationship-wise or early as in it’s not bedtime yet? Fml

Exhibit G: The Verdict

“We’d fail the test,” he said.

“Because I wouldn’t want to stop.”

(I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t… jesus)

——————————————————————————

You stare at the screen.

Your heart’s still pounding.

Your fingers hover over the keys—then type one last paragraph:

——————————————————————————

Case Status: Dangerously reopened. Evidence still being collected. *And I’m starting to think I might not want to win.

——————————————————————————

Part 9 (tbc)

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Ahhh, here we are again, dear readers: Spiraling straight back into his orbit. There’s just something about a guy who uses :3 So… are you feeling the vibe? Picking up on what Caleb’s trying to tell us? I really hope my initial arc for him is starting to take shape, hehe. (This is, without a doubt, the only arc I can imagine Caleb having… testing, maybe even choosing someone other than the MC. The song below is Caleb’s theme song “back to you, back to you nanananaa”) Now, technically, I could drag this story out forever. I mean, the banter? The flirting? Yum. However, I was thinking about starting to wrap things up… buuuut if you’re into this, I can absolutely slow-burn it into oblivion. Let me know! Anyway, see you in the next one, and have a great weekend, peepz! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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The first time Caleb comes to your apartment after you reunite he heads straight for your kitchen. He quietly rustles through your fridge and cupboards.

"Uhm," you mumble, watching as Caleb relocates to your pantry. His eyes scan over the labels on your bags of chips.

"What are you doing?"

"Your snack dispenser is receiving an update," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "Update... Eighty-seven percent complete. Beep boop beep!"

Caleb wants to know how your tastes have changed in the time he's been gone. Is that drink on your cupboard something you like? Or was it an experiment purchase? Do you prefer that flavor of ice cream in the freezer over your old favorite? Why did you purchase off brand cookies? Do they taste better or was the store just out of the original?

The next time you two go out together he's carrying all your new favorite snacks in his pockets. Can't have his little pipsqueak gettung hangry.

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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caleb canonically being a giant dork makes me happier every single day.

okay yeah sure colonel :3

im so intimidated by your xD

please command me with some ;-;

#lads #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb fluff #caleb headcanons

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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i will not be finishing this cuz the proportions upset me. the idea is there tho so pls do enjoy :D

the pose was referenced from a pinterest shot i saw. no credits shown there tho so :(

#lads #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb fluff #caleb headcanons #caleb x mc #caleb fanart #caleb art

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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LADS BOYS AS TAYLOR SWIFT SONGS (plus why i think these things)

CALEB

Call it what you want - The entire song is just MCxCaleb coded man. Im laughing with my lover making forts under covers trust him like a brother? my babys fly like a jet stream high above the whole scene loves me like im brand new? i want to wear his intital on a chain round my neck not because he owns because he really knows me? like. ACK.

Out of the woods - Bro “died” and came back, and their lives have constantly been hell. His especially. I feel like once MC is back in his life he kinda is soundtracked by out of the woods.

Like omg she’s here life is good again fuck yeah.

ZAYNE

Castles Crumbling - I feel like this is lowkey how Zayne perceives himself. Like he thinks he’s this big horrible thing and is dangerous ect ect and is guilty for letting HER down. he puts so much weight on his shoulders yk.

Innocent - As opposed to the previous one, this is like. MC’s view of him, and how she makes him feel when she kind of zeroes in on him.

XAVIER

Midnight Rain - HE is midnight rain and SHE is sunshine. in his mind. Angsty as fuck. thats all.

False God - Xav is a freak, once again, thats all.

RAFAYEL

The archer - This song is just so. JSIDKDJEOXJXOE OH IDODEKSOXJXKDKSJXI

and it hurts. and i fear when i listen to it i can just imagine raf having this perspective ab himself when it comes to MC.

Enchanted - Simultaneously, hes a piner. Silent yearner if you will. and specifically “pls dont be in love with someone else pls dont have somebody waiting on you”

that shits lethal

SYLUS

I really dont know Sylus that well so we are going based off of vibes. I fear he does just own reputation as a whole but specifically

Dont blame me - ahem. do i need to explain? All for herrrrr.

LOML - lowkey how i feel he is when it comes to her.

Sorry if you don’t agree/some dont feel as detailed/accurate. I started this game and I’ve been stuck up calebs ass ever since then. I’m still getting to know everyone else.

#lads #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #taylor swift

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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nothing more than some spring vibes. definitely nothing more than innocent best friend vibes here. nope. not at all.

#lads #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x mc #caleb fanart #caleb smut #love and deepspace caleb

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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“Friend” is an umbrella term

Caleb x Non MC reader, slight smut, yearnyearnyearn, annoyingly cute Caleb, a little angsty.

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

𝔰𝔥𝔢’𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡

𝔰𝔥𝔢’𝔰 𝔰𝔬 𝔲𝔫𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢.

A hot, sticky, summer day. The kind with cherry popsicle juice dripping down your chin, music playing softly; a persistent beat that relays joy. The sidewalk burning the pads of your feet, the smell of sweat and sunscreen painting the air. The lingering ache on your warm cheeks from grinning too much. It feels like a guitar riff that makes your stomach churn, painfully beautiful. Your hair blowing in the wind as you lean your head out of the car window in a desperate attempt at some coolness.

Thats what Caleb felt like. That scent of sandalwood and vanilla haunted your dreams. Whether he was in Skyhaven, or visiting in Linkon. His smile burned behind my retinas, replaying the exact moment I told a shitty joke and he laughed like I were the first person to ever make a joke. His head dipping down as he doubled over, clutching his stomach while his shoulders shook.

It was never that funny. But he still lifted his head, warring that devastatingly infectious smile, catching his breath and swiping a tear away from the corner of his eye. Your own smile reflecting back at you in the aster glow of his gaze. Like you were the only thing that existed. Tunnel visioned on you. Your heart beat a little quicker.

Childhood friends. Friends.

But not once in your life would you find another friend who looked at you like that. Who made you feel so individualized under their touch. Not once did you feel so seen.

They were dull, like a dreary day in late fall. The leaves are dead. Color gone. Your joints ache from the cold, and your nose burns. Jackets that are never thick enough, toes throbbing from the poor circulation. The wind biting, mean, brutal. The sky dimmed of that bright, warm beauty. Not a plane in sight. Clouds. Thick. Brooding.

They couldn’t compare to a warm summer day. To the taste of a fresh, golden crisp apple. The juice drowning out everything in its wake as it splashed on your tastebuds. The perfect bite.

Then.

A snap of my screen, and my laptop closed. Journaling done for the day. Or at least for now.

Eyes drifting to the opened window of my bedroom, curtains flowing effortlessly in the light breeze that poured through. Goosebumps birthed onto my arms and legs despite the suffocatingly hot air.

The soft buzz of music pouring out of his headphones. Caleb. Sat across from me, a book in hand. His eyes flickering up to me as a small smile crept onto his lips.

Fuck.

His hair was flattened down to his head in an endearing way, the summer heat gluing some sweat slackened strands to his forehead. His cheeks flushed a warm pink, his freckles enhanced from the sun that continued to beat down on everyone who dared to step outdoors. And all that ran through my mind?

Why is he so stupid fucking hot. Why do I feel like this. Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

“You okay pips? Wanna go out? It’s kinda stuffy in here.”

His voice smooth and tinted with hints of concern at my spaciness snapped me out of my own head. I blinked. Before nodding my head, my posture straightening as a quiet crack could be heard from my back.

“Actually yeah. You have to pick where though since I did yesterday. It’s your vacation ya know.”

He had been visiting home from the academy. I was on a summer break from college, and he had some time as well. So naturally, he came home. This was the first time we weren’t at Grans, with me now being stable enough to have my own apartment.

“Gotcha, gotcha. Meet me outside in 20?”

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

“Okay but hypothetically, if you really think about it, the apple juice would add a tang to the chocolate, and thin out the shake!”

He had decided on getting lunch at one of our favorite mom and pop diners, which then resulted in a walk to the lake nearby. He was sporting a white tank top that hugged too tightly to his chest, accentuating his muscular frame in a borderline illegal manner. I mean shit, the shirt looked painted. And there was no chance he didn’t realize it as he put it on.

I held the remainder of our shared milkshake, the cup gathering condensation on the exterior, sweating into my palm. My hand cold as a result as I sipped from the red straw that sat too high up from the rim. I had grabbed the straw for the large rather than the small, mindlessly gaping at Caleb instead of paying attention as we rushed out.

“Caleb. You’re disgusting. That idea alone deserves actual federal prison time.”

The air around the both of us was filled with a soft laughter. That summer day I talked about in my journal? We were walking in it. He reached out and took the nearly empty cup from my grasp, effortlessly tossing it into a passing garbage can.

I could feel the sun beginning to leave a burn on my shoulders, a tan line forming where my tank top and bathing suit met.

The sound of his footsteps pausing quickly caught my attention, my own ceasing on the pavement as I turned to look at him.

Without a moment to think, the world was upside down. My hair falling in my line of sight, firm hands resting on the backs of my bare thighs, the skin sticky with sweat. All I could do was kick my legs and yell, pounding my fists onto his solid back. The sound of his laughter filling the air as the ground I stared at moved beneath me. The pebbled “beach” that led to the lake following soon after.

“Caleb! I will murder you if you throw me in! I still have my clothes on!”

Louder laughter. And then water at his feet. Then the world spun again as he pulled my body over his back and effortlessly adjusted me to bridal style.

It felt like the breath had been stolen from my lungs the second I saw his grin. That shit eating, idiotic, beautifully warm grin. His eyes sparkling as he started to wade into the water, seemingly unbothered by his shorts getting wet.

“You looked like you needed to cool off pipsqueak. I’m simply…being helpful.”

“Evil, you’re being a mena-“

Splash, water, blinding my vision, and then the sun doing the same. Of course he would dunk me and bring me back up. My hair stuck to my face as I tried my hardest to glare up at him. Biting back the painful grin on my lips. It was a loosing battle though when he flew backwards, water cascading around both of us as he brought me down with him.

The resounding noise of laughter leaving the water as we both resurfaced again. My hands thinking before my mind as I splashed him, only to be met by his hands around my waist, playfully tossing me further into the water.

Even so, in the moment I couldn’t help but think about that white tank top being anywhere but on him.

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

The evening sun slowly turned the sky above us pink and purple. The clouds rolling in and creating a shelter from the miserable UV rays above us both. Water dripped at our feet. His eyes straight ahead as I held mine down.

Right, left, right, left, right-

fuck.

Left, right, left, right, left, right-

“Are you matching my footsteps Caleb?”

Gaze flickering up, I examined his smile that crept onto his lips. He still never looked at me as he removed his hands from his pockets and let them loosely swing at his hips.

“I couldn’t match your footsteps if I tried pipsqueak. Your feet never grew past mini.”

A harmless smack to the shoulder, paired with an eye-roll as the comfortable silence resumed around us both. Cicadas crying in the greenery bordering the path home. The sound of children laughing a distant music to our personal movie scene.

My gaze flickered back down, eerily aware of how each time his hand brushed past own, they never actually touched.

I wanted that. God I wanted that so badly. But not from the point of view of a childhood best friend. Not in the tender, ‘platonic’ way it always had been.

It must be the heat making me act like this. Feral. He just happens to be here for it.

But right as the thought for an explanation passes, my mind is filled with static when he effortlessly reaches for my hand. Intertwining our fingers and squeezing not once, not twice, but three times. He sighs a little bit from above. My heart fucking stutters.

What. The fuck.

My throats dry, and not from the weather. My fingers twitching slightly as I suddenly become painfully aware of how tightly I’m holding his own. I can feel every crease, the sweat building between our palms. My legs are barely carrying me at this point. My limbs numb.

It wasn’t the heat. I wanted this.

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔞𝔶 𝔪𝔶 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢,

𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫,

𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔱’𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔡

𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔦 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫

Cocktails were probably the worst idea to end our night together given my. Problem.

But I agreed. Of course I did. How could I not when he smiled at me and shot me a look that said ‘Please let me take care of you.’

So now, after three Apple Crisp’s, a borderline overwhelming tickle fight on the couch (he won), and some teasing over my flushed cheeks, the soft buzz of the shower running filled my ears while I stared at the ceiling.

Out of my head, get OUT of my head.

He was in my shower, using my soap. Singing one of my favorite songs.

Friend. My friend. My childhood friend.

“What the fuuuuck..” I groaned softly as I pressed my face into my hands. My face was hot, the alcohol making my mind even hazier than it had been as a result of the summer heat. The hot air now replaced by a comfortable night breezed that pushed in through my balcony doors. My stomach swirled with what I could call unease as a cop out, but what was definitely an insatiable craving to be in that shower with him. Running my hands down his abs with the water droplets, pushing shampoo through his dark locks, drinking in that expression on his face when my hand moves a little too far down-

Silence. No water running. No humming. I looked up, only to met with his b o d y. My face turned beet red on impact. Water dripping down his stomach, disappearing into the light grey fabric of his loosely fitting sweatpants. His eyebrow quirked up as a shitty smirk blew over his lips. His tone condescending, smug, borderline predatory.

“You look like you’re gonna eat me, or like you’re gonna explode.”

No words, lips sealed shut, teeth gritted together like that cocktail was infused with fucking cement.

Speak. Say anything. Defend your honor. Oh god he’s getting closer. His abs..No. Focus. Words.

“I…You…You’re naked.”

Oh my god.

A dry chuckled, deep, almost dark. Apparently being drunk turned me into a blubbering idiot, and him into a terrifyingly hot brick wall.

The couch dips, his eyes never once leaving my face, flickering towards my lips, blatantly at that.

“Hm. I’m pretty sure I’m wearing sweatpants. You got X-ray vision or somethin’?”

My eyes went wide, instinct kicking in as I reached over and smacked him. Or at least tried to. I moved too quickly, landing with a thud on his bare chest, my cheek now damp with the water than fell from his hair. And before I could scramble away, I was imprisoned by his vice like embrace. One that was familiar, but suddenly felt different. My eyes flying up to his as he seemingly examined me. Like a plane engine in need of fixing. Interest. Want. Need. All melded into one glance.

I could barely breath when his fingers brushed over the apple of my cheek, pushing some hair back behind my ear.

So close. He’s so close.

Then. 6 little words. Spoken low, slow, and smooth. Cool like steel, but detrimental in delivery like a pipe smacking my skull.

“Friends can be an umbrella term…”

🍎* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *✈️

Heavy breathing, apple and vodka mixed with toothpaste painting my tastebuds. Cologne, shampoo, sweat.

Skin. Skin on skin on what felt like fucking miles of skin. His calloused fingers tenderly snapping my bra strap against the faint sunburn that kissed my shoulders. I gasp.

“Caleb…” His name slips past my lips like a prayer, breathless, trembling. And mine slips past his like a promise, an oath to some sort of pledge. Breathless, yet steady.

Sloppy alcohol infused kisses, ones that meant more than just a drunken moment. Kisses that spoke for years of unspoken emotions. His hips grind against my own.

He’s rock hard.

My stomach backflips. My shorts feeling as if they were suffocating me once his hand confidently slides under the fabric. Eliciting a groan from him as he starts to examine my underwear blindly. Like he’s committing the fabric to memory or studying for a test. Then a huff of air against my cheek.

“God you’re perfect…Like…Like a great song…Better than that…I could touch you for the rest of my life…Please just…Fuck..Let me make you feel good pips…please let me do this for you…”

His intention while spoke selflessly, is completely selfish as his fingers start to roll circles across my clit. A breathless, broken moan of his name leaves my lips instantaneously. My back arching up into him. His next words sending a flood into my already soaked panties.

“Just…Friends helping each other out…Just a fa-hah…favor…”

Maybe friends is an umbrella term.

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: haunted-the band CAMINO

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ ▁ ▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ █ 100 %

A/N : So sorry if that felt a little rushed at the end, I’m not a smut writer, so. Yeah. I do hope you enjoyed tho. :P thanks for reading.

#lads #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb fluff #caleb headcanons #caleb fanfic #caleb x mc #caleb x reader

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ladsrants · 2 months ago

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Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb VII

Details: 3300 words (woops sorry). Non-MC!Reader as the law student. Expect flirting, heartstrings tugggg, kind, beautiful, caring barista Caleb and smoool romcom angst, but I promise it’s worth it (like biiig promise!). Caleb x law student special heeeh.

Parts: initial, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil

Fruits of Delusion | pt. 7

You’re not supposed to be here.

No apron. No espresso machine. Just Caleb in a soft tee, one hand casually adjusting a canvas tote on his shoulder like he’s in a lifestyle ad and not casually wrecking your emotional recovery.

Your heart stops.

Then slams back into motion.

And you spin on your heel.

Walk fast. Now. Escape. Evacuate.

But it’s already too late.

You catch the tilt of his head. The way his gaze shifts—searches—and then lands directly on you.

And the worst part?

He smiles.

Like this is normal. Like he’s happy to see you. Like you didn’t just spend twenty minutes pretending to buy basil while trying not to pass out behind a kale stand.

Your heart’s already halfway to a closing argument when—

“Hey,” he calls, voice warm and devastatingly casual. “Golden Girl.”

Your spine straightens like you’re bracing for impact.

You turn, slowly.

He’s already walking toward you, sunlit, smug, and alarmingly real.

“Didn’t think law students came out in daylight.”

Your escape plan?

Denied.

You make a face. “Briefly. A little sun is medically advisable, and I needed overpriced strawberries and a charisma challenge, apparently.”

He laughs—and for a second, it feels normal. Stupidly, unfairly normal. Then he tilts his head, grinning. “Nice running into you without that slick guy tailing you. Kind of refreshing.”

You smile, sweet but sharp. “What, you only approve of my public appearances when I’m unaccompanied?”

There’s a glint in his eyes as he lifts a brow. “I’m just saying, the view’s better.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach does that thing again.

He glances sideways. “You sticking around for a bit?”

You nod, casual. “Yeah. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Caleb tosses the bag of apples from one hand to the other, grin low and easy. “Mind if I tag along? Unless you’re… meeting someone else here.”

Shoulders lift in a casual shrug, like your heart isn’t pounding out confessions. “I’m… alone. But you can tag along if you promise not to judge my irrational strawberry purchases.”

He gives you a mock-serious nod. “Never. Fruit law is outside my jurisdiction.”

And then you fall into step beside him without even thinking about it. The crowd buzzes around you—children with juice boxes, someone selling soap that smells like your grandma’s bathroom—and Caleb, warm and very much here, carefully sliding the bag of apples into his canvas tote as you walk.

A quick glance his way. “So, this your idea of a wild Saturday? Buying fruit and intimidating civilians with your forearms?”

He snorts. “I’m a man of mystery and nutrition.”

You arch a brow. “You say that like you didn’t buy six apples and a single jar of fancy mustard.”

“Maybe I’m a minimalist.”

“Maybe you’re a serial killer.”

He grins, unbothered. “I could say the same about you. Didn’t peg you for a farmers market type.”

“I’m expanding my public image,” you say. “It’s important for future jury manipulation.”

He makes a soft, amused sound. “Hm. Strategic. I respect that.”

You both pause near a booth selling organic candles with names like Morning Sigh and Birchwood Intimacy. Caleb picks one up, sniffs it, and immediately grimaces.

“That smells like someone’s therapist’s office.”

You lean in. “That smells like heartbreak in a beige apartment.”

He laughs—full-bodied and bright, the kind that starts in his chest and spills into the space between you. And for a second, it’s easy.

Then you raise an eyebrow. “Also, bold of you to have such a specific take. Personal experience, or…?”

A lopsided smile flashes as the candle clinks back onto the table. “Let’s just say I’ve spent enough time around grey trauma furniture to recognize the scent.”

You squint. “Enough time because you’re actually a secret psych patient and this”—you wave a hand at him, the apples, the smugness—“is just your well-funded rehabilitation program?”

He just grins. Doesn’t answer.

Which is very much an answer.

You click your tongue. “Mysterious.”

He shrugs, still smiling. “Or unstable.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Violet eyes meet yours—still playful, but maybe a little too knowing. “No. They’re really not.”

Trauma-scented décor?

Your joke was, obviously, a joke. But still—your brain runs the analysis anyway.

Was that just a throwaway comment? Or a casual nod to whatever psychological minefield he had to dance through in aviation school? Or… something else?

You’re this close to launching into Exhibit G of your ongoing Caleb casefile when—

His phone buzzes.

He glances down, and just like that—the mood shifts. Shoulders stiffen. Eyes flick past you.

“Hey, I should—uh. I’ve gotta run,” he says, already stepping back.

You blink. “Oh.”

Hesitation hangs for half a second before warm fingers find your arm, light but intentional.

“It was really nice talking to you,” he says, a little softer now. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

You nod, trying to play it cool.

But his touch lingers longer than it should.

And then he’s gone.

You stand there for half a second, unmoving.

Then you start walking.

You’re not following. You’re investigating. Which is absolutely different. Or it would be, if you weren’t weaving through shoppers like a trained bloodhound with half a law degree.

You could’ve been a P.I.

You’d have crushed it.

This is fieldwork.

Character research.

This is what you came for.

You spot him across the street.

And then you spot her. The apple girl. It must be.

She’s already walking toward him—dressed like the human embodiment of a picnic daydream. Sundress. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. That kind of easy beauty that doesn’t even try to compete—it just wins by existing.

Caleb lights up. Literally.

He grins—wide, unguarded, the kind of smile you’ve never seen at full strength.

Then he hugs her. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they do this all the time.

You stop walking.

Your throat goes tight. Like you just swallowed a whole apple core. You look away before they kiss. You don’t know if they do. You don’t want to know.

You turn around. Walk fast. Faster.

You tell yourself you were just on a stroll. That you were curious. That your brain is a courtroom prep, and you were just gathering evidence.

But right now?

Right now, you’re the damn defendant.

And it hurts like hell.

So you run home. Toss your keys on the counter. Gather your books, your charger, your half-dead highlighters.

You don’t stop. You don’t think.

You make it to the study hall.

Sit your ass down like your future depends on it.

Because it does.

Your hands shake as you text the newbie:

you: update: apple girl exists. status: catastrophic

No reply.

You stare at the screen a little too long.

Then flip open your laptop, crack open a textbook, and throw yourself into 200 pages of law history like it’ll fix something.

You read. And read.

And don’t remember a goddamn word.

Just that necklace.

Just the way he looked at her.

The way he hugged her.

And the echo of your own voice, cruel and smug and right—

I’m not going to tank my grades over a guy who’s literally training to fly away.

… I told you so.

——————————————————————————

You walk home from study hall still feeling about as defeated as someone not technically on trial can feel. But spiritually? The jury’s in, and the verdict is tragic.

The Farmers Market incident has been haunting you like a ghost that smells like apples, coffee and smugness. And now, on top of that, your heartbreak induced study session confirms that you are falling behind on tort readings and forgetting basic Latin phrases. Unforgivable.

The outfit had been perfect. A cropped athletic zip-up—fitted, sleek, a little smug. High-waisted black pants. Crisp white sneakers. Hair: tight braid. Lip gloss: subtle shimmer. Jewelry: minimal, coordinated. It had even earned you a wink from Harv as you slipped into the study hall, still a little flushed from the walk over.

But now?

Now it just looks… tired.

The zip-up hugs you like it’s trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. The braid has unraveled into a sad-looking ponytail. The gloss is long gone.

You catch your reflection in a passing window and think: You tried.

But the day has emptied you. No reply from the newbie. No plan.

Just silence, and a very specific ache that settles somewhere between your ribs and your pride.

Honestly, with what little knowledge you have, if you were your own client right now, you’d probably be advising yourself to settle.

But you have a plan. Or… One last, responsible, future-focused move.

You’re going to tell the newbie that you both need to rest your case. Or risk tanking your grades over a man who hugs women at farmers markets and smells like cinnamon betrayal.

You’ll say it in person. Because the lack of replies can only mean one thing: they are spiraling alone.

Which, honestly, makes you the worst kind of co-counsel. So now you owe them a sit-down. A debrief. A legal meltdown with caffeine and solidarity and maybe mild defamation.

Because if Caleb is with her—if apple girl is officially out of the hypothesis phase and fully into confirmed status territory—then the case is closed.

Not in your favor.

And maybe, just maybe, if you say it all out loud— “We need to drop the case.”

—it’ll start to feel real.

Even if it never should’ve been admissible in the first place.

So, you swing by the café. Not dressed to impress. Not even to exist. Just to deliver your quiet little ‘case closed’.

And walk straight into the worst possible plot twist.

The café is empty.

Except for him.

He’s behind the counter, wrist deep in wiping down the espresso machine. Caleb looks up when the bell over the door chimes.

And he sees you.

Like—really sees you. Ponytail slipping. Eyes tired. The kind of defeat that even a strong espresso shot wouldn’t bother trying to fix. He raises an eyebrow, slow. “Didn’t expect to see you again today. Study break? Or did the prosecution finally crack?”

Your whole body reacts before your brain does. You turn on your heel, already halfway out

“I was just looking for the newbie.”

His voice follows you before you can escape:

“Ouch. Not your favorite barista anymore? They’ve surpassed me already?”

You freeze.

Stupid, stupid body.

Then—

Footsteps.

“Got a text from the newbie,” he says, a little closer now. “They weren’t feeling great, asked if I could cover.”

Of course they did.

Of course he showed up.

Because the universe doesn’t believe in restraining orders. Or emotional boundaries. Apparently.

Caleb crosses the room in a few strides and gently grabs your wrist, not tight—just enough to stop you.

You glance down, try to pull your expression together, but it’s too late.

He’s already looking at you.

Really looking.

“Hey,” he says, quiet now. “Are you okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. It’s just—school. Grades. Deadlines.”

He watches you for a moment, eyes scanning your face like he already knows what’s there. Then, gently: “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head before he even finishes the sentence.

But he doesn’t pull back.

He just watches you for a moment, then says—softer, like he’s offering a lifeline without asking for anything back—

“You can… you know… Tell me stuff.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the floor.

He adds, a little crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’m not saying I give great advice. But I’m an excellent listener. Very judgmental, obviously. But… I’m here.”

Still, you say nothing. You don’t have words yet. Maybe not even thoughts. Just static.

Not because you don’t want to.

Because you can’t.

Because you haven’t had time to come up with a version of the story where you don’t have to say I saw you with her, or you looked so happy it broke me, or you were never mine, and I forgot that for a second.

So instead, you just look down. Shrug. Swallow the lump in your throat like it’s admissible evidence.

“Okay,” he whispers.

And then he reaches out.

No warning. Just a sudden, warm hand resting on top of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair before settling there.

A gentle, grounding weight.

You freeze.

Then lean into it—helplessly, instinctively—like someone starved for affection, seeking warmth you didn’t realize you missed until it was right there. His palm is steady. His thumb brushes slowly against your temple.

“I know the feeling,” he murmurs. “Flight school finals are brutal. Same kind of pressure. Different altitude.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then, after a beat: “…You leaned into that a little fast.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t ruin it, silly.”

Then you breathe him in, and—yeah. Of course. His wrist smells like coffee. Subtle, warm, familiar. You knew it would. Because of course even that is unfair.

Then, voice low, with the faintest curl of a grin:

“Congratulations, Golden Girl. You’ve been upgraded to first-class comfort.”

Before you can reply, his fingers reach further up—gentle, casual—and give your ponytail a light tug to tighten it.

“I’m also decent at braids, if you ever need a professional,” he murmurs.

You laugh—a real one this time. Small. Shaky. A little bitter at the edges

You probably braid apple girl’s hair every night like you’re auditioning for boyfriend of the year in a Hallmark movie.

He pulls back, eyes scanning your face for a moment, then tips his head toward the bar. “C’mon. You need a distraction. I was about to close and head out, but I make exceptions for exhausted law students.”

You blink. “Are you about to make me your apprentice?”

“Temporary intern,” he says. “Zero pay. Unlimited caffeine.”

Then he gestures you behind the counter like it’s no big deal, and for some reason, you follow. Your bag stays by the door. So does your pride.

Caleb steps behind the counter, opens a drawer, and pulls out an apron.

“Here,” he says, soft.

Before you can protest, he’s behind you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. He slips the apron over your head, then reaches around, arms brushing your sides as he grabs the ties. His fingers skim your waist as he knots the ends in front of you.

Your pulse trips over itself. He steps back like nothing happened, and you try to pretend you didn’t just forget how to stand upright.

Then he starts walking you through the pour-over—steady, focused, his voice low and even. He talks ratios, temperature, extraction time. How not to burn the beans. It should feel technical. But with him? It sounds like a ritual.

Like he’s teaching you something sacred. And the whole time, you’re aware of the apron cinched at your waist. The ghost of his hands. The heat of him still lingering like steam over hot coffee.

You pretend to listen.

But really?

You’re watching that stupid necklace again.

It catches the light every time he moves—just a glint of silver chain, the dog tag shifting, the apple charm swaying like it knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

You want to ask again. You almost do.

But instead you say: “You ever teach the newbie this?”

He smirks without looking up. “They refuse. Keep saying they’re just here for the vibes.”

You laugh, and he glances at you—just quick, just warm. Like maybe this is his way of showing you what he does when the pressure gets too loud.

And maybe this is what kindness looks like from someone who normally disarms you with charm.

Maybe this is worse.

Because it’s working.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

He walks you through the pour-over like it’s a party trick, talking casually, hands steady.

“You always like this when you’re stressed?” he asks, glancing sideways.

You shrug. “I’m a law student. If I’m not stressed, it means I’m unconscious.”

Caleb chuckles. “Fair. But you’re doing great. Better than the newbie, anyway. Don’t tell them I said that.”

“You’re lying.”

“A little,” he says, voice low and warm against your ear. “But you’ve got good instincts.”

Before you can respond, he leans over you—slow, deliberate—his chest brushing your shoulder as he reaches around to adjust your hand on the kettle. His fingers wrap lightly around yours, steadying the pour, guiding the motion like it matters. Like you matter.

“Slower,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Let it bloom.”

You try to focus. Really. But his breath is on your neck, his voice soaked in something softer than it should be, and the charm sways beneath his collar, catching the light like it’s in on the secret. You huff a laugh—weak, distracted—trying not to drown in the heat of him. Trying not to look at his jawline or the way he’s basically breathing in your thoughts.

The coffee finishes brewing. He sets a mug in front of you.

“No pressure,” he says. “But this cup might turn your whole day around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You offering a refund if it doesn’t?”

He pretends to think. “No, but I can offer… moral support. Emotional buffering. Maybe a cookie if I dig around.”

You smile despite yourself. Sip. It’s good. Obviously. And for a second, just a second, it’s easy to forget everything else.

He leans on the counter, watching you.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, too easily. “Just nice to see you smile again.”

Your heart does something.

Stupid, stupid heart.

You look back down at your drink, cheeks warm, trying not to smile too wide.

Maybe you are a little pathetic. But it’s fine.

You don’t say much after that.

You don’t need to.

He wipes down the counter while you sip the last of your coffee like it might stall time. But eventually, the clock catches up. The quiet starts to settle into finality.

You turn to say goodnight, maybe thank him, but he steps in just slightly—just enough that your breath catches—and leans in.

A brief, barely-there kiss to your cheek.

Warm. Soft. Gone before you can react.

“Feel better, Golden Girl,” he says, voice low and a little shy now. “Come see me again. I’ve got more of that… upgraded comfort waiting.”

Then, like it’s nothing—like it isn’t about to undo you completely—he reaches into his canvas tote hidden behind the counter. Pulls out an apple. Smooth, golden.

“Picked this up at the farmers market,” he says, holding it out. “Figured you’d appreciate the brand.”

You blink, caught. It’s a Golden Delicious apple.

“A golden apple,” he says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For the Golden Girl.”

You take it. Silently. Trying not to show how stupidly much that means.

“Remember to eat,” he adds, already turning toward the entrance, voice gentler than it has any right to be.

You nod once, too stunned to speak.

Caleb opens the door for you.

And you step out into the night, cheeks warm, heart loud.

The air is crisp, your hands still wrapped around that stupid golden apple, and you tell yourself this is fine. Normal. Just coffee. Just golden apples—sweet ones that should taste like summer but land bitter on your tongue. Just a kind, caring barista with a heart already spoken for.

You nod to yourself. Yeah.

You can do this.

You can be a normal customer.

Order takeaway coffee. Smile. Leave. Study for finals. Because you made a decision—and you’re sticking to it.

Because you’re absolutely not going to fall back into his orbit.

A bite of apple, a quick tug to tighten your ponytail like armor, and then forward—no looking back.

You chew, waiting for the bitterness you assumed would be there.

But there’s none.

Just sweetness. Sharp and stubborn and almost cruel in how good it tastes.

And then your phone buzzes.

newbie: kinda had a moment. caleb’s covering for me. so yeah. case = closed, i guess.

You exhale through your nose, a small smile tugging at your lips. Fingers hover for a second before you reply—grateful to have the newbie in your life. Someone who gets it without needing a whole closing argument.

you: yeah. feels closed.

You hit send and keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Part 8 tbc

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Aaa, dear me. I hope I didn’t scare anyone off with that little burst of angst from the MC finally revealing herself. But trust me, the arc is arcing, and we’re just starting to brush against the edges of the complex man known as Caleb. This is… still achingly based on a true story aaaaaaa. My college days were the best and worst of days. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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