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moongirlcleo · 2 months ago

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A Game of Love

❤︎ tags and content: foot play, oral, emotional sex, f!reader, video games ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo

A video game night with Caleb is always the remedy for a rough week. But after sixteen straight losses, you need to come up with another plan.

And when he finally loses— he doesn’t take it well

The rain had been falling for hours, a soft, unrelenting hush against the windows that framed Caleb’s apartment in a watercolor haze of neon and stormlight. Outside, Skyhaven flickered beneath the weather like a half-lit dream—rooftops slick with rain, flight drones gliding through the mist like lazy fireflies, and somewhere deeper in the city, the hum of distant sirens faded into the lull of thunder. But inside, nestled in the dim warmth of his living room, it felt like the rest of the world had narrowed to two things: the glow of the television screen, and the increasingly petty war you were waging against your childhood best friend.

“I swear to God, Caleb,” you muttered, squinting at the screen like it had personally betrayed you. “If you throw one more blue shell, I’m unplugging your controller mid-race.”

He didn’t even flinch.

Seated on the floor with his back against the edge of the bed, one arm resting lazily across his knee, Caleb tilted his head just enough to glance up at you with that insufferably calm expression that had only gotten worse since he’d ranked up in the Farspace Fleet. “Strategic use of available resources,” he said simply, as if that made his sins any more palatable.

You leaned over the edge of the bed, jabbing your controller in his direction like it might actually hurt him. “You waited until I was about to land the shortcut. The shortcut. That’s premeditated sabotage.”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Maybe you should’ve driven faster.”

You inhaled like you were about to start a full closing argument, then deflated with a dramatic groan, flopping backward onto the comforter like a wronged princess. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm.” He refocused on the screen, clearly unbothered. “You’ve said that before.”

You kicked the back of his shoulder, lightly, just enough to make your point.

“And I’ll say it again if you keep playing like an emotionally stunted AI.”

That earned you a real reaction. Caleb laughed—quiet and low, the kind of laugh that rumbled more in his chest than his throat. “Emotionally stunted? That’s a new one.”

You raised an eyebrow, peeking over the curve of your knee as you sat up again, your legs casually bracketing his frame from behind. “Not inaccurate though.”

He didn’t argue. Which was both satisfying and slightly concerning.

The race reset, new characters blinking into place, the next track loading in swirls of pixelated lava and looming deathtraps. You leaned forward again, shoulder brushing his as you reached for your drink, and he didn’t move away—just adjusted slightly to give you room, so casually comfortable in your space that it felt almost too easy.

“This one’s mine,” you announced, nudging your controller to select a new kart. “I’m serious this time. No more mercy.”

Caleb hummed under his breath, amused. “Didn’t realize I was showing any.”

You blinked. “You mean you’ve been trying?” A brief pause.

“No comment.”

You stared at him, scandalized, as he settled back against the bed frame, cool as ever, like he hadn’t just thrown down the most insulting challenge of the night. Your foot twitched against the carpet. Your fingers tightened around the controller.

Oh. It was on now. But not yet. Not quite yet. Let him get comfortable. Let him think he’s safe. You’d let him win the next race if you had to. Because the one after that?

You had a plan.

***

The rain was still coming down in soft, silver waves against the windows, blurring the edges of Skyhaven into a watercolor of distant lights and muted thunder. The apartment was cocooned in warmth and quiet, the glow of the television casting lazy shadows across Caleb’s living room, where the night had stretched longer than expected and the competition had grown increasingly one-sided.

You’d lost every round so far—sixteen straight matches, each more frustrating than the last, while Caleb sat with infuriating calm between your legs, his back resting against the bed as if he hadn’t just obliterated you over and over again with the reflexes of a soldier and the smugness of someone who absolutely knew it.

He wasn’t gloating. Not out loud. But that was the problem—Caleb didn’t need to rub it in. The quiet, unreadable expression, the way his fingers moved with surgical precision over the controller, the relaxed slouch of his broad shoulders beneath his worn black t-shirt… it was all just a little too composed. Too smooth.

And something about it made you want to ruin him.

You stretched out languidly across the bed, draping yourself over the blankets like you weren’t secretly plotting war. One leg tucked beneath you while the other slid down toward him, bare toes brushing the outside of his thigh in a way that could have been accidental. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just gave a soft hum of acknowledgment and loaded the next track, as if you weren’t currently bracketing him with your legs like a cat circling its prey.

“This one’s mine,” you said breezily, curling your toes just slightly against the fabric of his sweatpants. “I’m feeling lucky.”

Caleb didn’t look up, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve said that every round.”

“And eventually, I’ll be right.”

“Statistically, you’re due,” he murmured, and while it sounded like dry amusement, there was something tight in his voice now. Subtle. Contained.

You smiled.

The match began with a burst of sound, the digital race surging forward in a flurry of motion and pixelated chaos, but your focus wasn’t entirely on the screen. Not anymore. Because your foot was still pressed against Caleb’s leg—light at first, thoughtless in its rhythm, your heel nudging just beneath the curve of his thigh as you leaned forward into the controller.

You traced a slow circle. Innocent. Curious. Teasing.

And this time, you felt it.

The small shift in his breathing. The slight stiffening in his posture. The muscles of his thigh tensing beneath the press of your foot—not in reaction to the game, but to you.

You didn’t stop.

Instead, you let your toes skim a little higher, drifting upward along the inside of his leg. He missed a turn. Only by a fraction, but enough for his character to collide with the wall and bounce back into second place.

You barely suppressed your grin.

“What happened there?” you asked, feigning confusion, as if you hadn’t just begun mentally carving a notch into your victory column. “A little rusty?”

He didn’t answer. Which told you everything you needed to know.

You stretched again, slow and indulgent, as if shifting your weight for comfort—when really, it was to let your foot slide higher still, until it brushed something that definitely wasn’t his thigh.

You froze for a breath.

Then pressed.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He was hard. Not a little. Not maybe. Very. And you hadn’t even touched him properly. Not yet.

Heat bloomed behind your ribs at the realization, a flush spreading down your spine, but you kept your face serene, your voice light.

“Oh no,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the screen. “Are you… distracted?”

Caleb exhaled, long and controlled through his nose, but he still didn’t speak.

So you dragged your foot along the outline of him again—subtle, delicate, just enough to make him feel it and know you weren’t going to stop. You didn’t press harder, didn’t grope, didn’t shift from your position. You simply toyed with him, rhythmic and soft, feigning innocence like it wasn’t the most calculated thing you’d done all night.

And Caleb?

He fell apart in silence.

You watched as he clipped another obstacle, then another, his kart veering off course and struggling to recover. The Caleb who had dominated every single round before this was gone, undone by the slow brush of your foot where he was already aching, and the fact that you were pretending not to notice made it so much worse.

“Almost there,” you whispered, your tone drenched in sugar and smugness as you passed his character and hit a boost panel near the final turn. “I think I’m gonna win.”

You rolled your foot again—just once more, with the barest push of pressure—and in that moment, his hands slipped. His kart hit the lava. Yours didn’t.

The screen flashed: 1st Place.

Your mouth dropped open in mock surprise.

You gasped like you hadn’t just orchestrated his downfall with your toes. “Oh my God, Caleb. I won.”

Silence.

You looked down.

He was still sitting between your legs, his jaw tight, hands still gripping the controller even though the match was long over. His breath came slower now, deeper, the kind of measured inhale that said he was using every ounce of discipline not to react.

You tilted your head. “Wow. That’s wild.”

Another moment passed, thick and heavy with everything you weren’t saying.

Then you let your foot trail down slowly, featherlight against the line of him—one last indulgent stroke—and offered the most innocent smile you could manage.

“I guess I’m just naturally talented.”

Caleb set the controller down. And when he turned to look at you—really look at you—your breath hitched, because whatever flicker of self-control he’d been clinging to had snapped clean in half.

There was nothing amused in his eyes now.

No trace of that easygoing smirk he wore when he was being indulgent, no spark of sarcasm that might have softened the moment into something playful. Just… focus. Sharp, heavy, and confusingly quiet, like he was still parsing what had just happened, trying to sort it into a mental file that didn’t exist yet, because this—you—had just pulled something entirely out of left field.

“What the hell was that?” he asked finally, and the words weren’t harsh or angry, but measured, like he was choosing each syllable carefully, trying to keep his voice level despite the unmistakable undertow dragging through it.

You blinked, feigning wide-eyed innocence with only the faintest curl tugging at the corners of your mouth. “What was what?”

Caleb didn’t rise to it. Not yet. He just stared, like he could force the answer out of you with sheer will, like if he stared long enough he’d either unravel the joke or undo it entirely.

So naturally, you smiled.

And, because you were who you were—and because you were feeling particularly reckless in the aftermath of your very first, long-overdue win—you dragged your foot across the inside of his thigh one more time. Slower now. Lazier. Just a single, deliberate stroke of your toes down the heat that still lingered beneath the fabric of his sweats, the kind of contact that made no effort to pretend anymore, the kind that said yes, I know exactly what I’m doing—and so do you.

Caleb inhaled sharply through his nose.

His fingers flexed once on his knees, as if caught between restraint and reaction, between letting it slide and losing all sense of logic entirely. He looked like a man who had just spent the last ten minutes diffusing a bomb blindfolded only to realize someone had switched the wires mid-sentence—and now that same someone was smiling at him like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Are you serious right now?” he asked, and his voice had dropped, lower than before, rough at the edges, like it scraped against the gravel of something darker waiting just beneath the surface.

You shrugged, biting your lower lip with theatrical innocence, your foot resting now at the juncture of his thigh, no movement this time—just contact. Just heat. “I was just stretching. You’re the one who lost.”

Caleb’s jaw flexed, that sharp line cutting tighter as he looked at you—looked through you—with something dangerous gathering behind his eyes, something slow and inevitable, like the moment right before a storm breaks open and takes the world with it.

You’d pushed him. You knew you had.

He just looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, like every second of teasing had caught up to him all at once and now he was trapped inside the consequences, sitting between your thighs with a hard-on you definitely felt, and a silence between you both that throbbed louder than the rain outside. His eyes were dark, but not in the way you’d seen them flash with temper or combat intensity—no, this was something slower, deeper, laced with something he couldn’t quite mask anymore.

Need.

And when he finally moved, it wasn’t with a growl or a curse or any heatless snap of control—it was something far more dangerous.

He rose to his knees with the kind of focused, deliberate purpose that reminded you exactly who he was: a man trained to never act on impulse, a soldier who could shut down whole pieces of himself when necessary. But that part of him—the part that usually pulled back, held tight, deflected with a sharp joke or a silence—wasn’t in charge anymore.

One hand braced beside your hip, his weight shifting with practiced ease, and then the other followed, until he was above you, really above you, his body pressing yours back into the mattress with all that careful, smoldering control bleeding into something far more primal. He didn’t crush you, didn’t pin you fully—but there was no question who had the upper hand now, and no mistaking the heat radiating from where his hips hovered just above your own, every inch of him coiled like he was barely holding himself together.

And still, even now, even with your foot having driven him to the brink and your smirk still fresh in his mind, he leaned down slowly, close enough that his breath skimmed your cheek as he spoke, voice rough with restraint.

“Tell me to stop.”

The words were soft but firm, low and aching, the kind of plea that wasn’t begging so much as giving you a single, fleeting chance to pull the pin before everything detonated. His eyes searched yours, heavy with need and something almost tender beneath it, like even now—especially now—he wouldn’t take a goddamn inch you didn’t hand him yourself.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t push him away.

You tilted your chin up instead, just enough to bring your mouth a little closer to his, and the look you gave him was shameless, teasing, just this side of wicked.

“What if I don’t say it?”

For a beat, he didn’t breathe.And then something in him broke. Just a soft, slow surrender—a quiet snap of every rule he’d set for himself since the day he first wanted you and decided he wasn’t allowed to.

His breath left him in a slow exhale, shallow and unsteady, his eyes dragging over your face like he was still waiting for the moment to vanish into smoke—but when you didn’t pull back, didn’t say stop, didn’t tease him with another smug little remark, something shifted behind his eyes, something dark and final and hungry. And then he was moving—closer, lower, every inch of him pressing against you like gravity had finally given up and let him fall into the place he’d wanted to be for far too long.

His mouth found yours in a kiss that didn’t start soft.

It was slow, yes—measured for all of two seconds—but it carried the weight of every look that lingered too long, every secret touch that never happened, every thought he shouldn’t have had and had anyway. His lips crushed into yours with all the careful control of a man unraveling, the kind of kiss that tasted more like confession than victory, more like need than triumph. He kissed you like he didn’t know how to stop, like he didn’t want to learn, like he had no idea how he’d gone so long without this and no plans to ever go that long again.

And as he kissed you—deep and slow, teeth grazing your lower lip before sucking it in with a sharp inhale—his hands finally moved.

They weren’t shaking, not exactly, but there was urgency in them now, the kind of practiced coordination that trembled at the edges, like his body knew what it wanted but hadn’t yet caught up to how much it needed. One hand slid down along your waist, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt before curling at your hip, warm and possessive. The other dipped lower, slipping past the edge of the blanket to hook into the waistband of your pajama shorts—those soft, slouchy ones you wore around the apartment, the ones that barely hung on your hips and absolutely hadn’t been designed to withstand the rough drag of a man who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want you.

His fingers curled into the fabric, slow at first, tugging until the elastic caught beneath your thighs, dragging it down with such deliberate care it made your breath stutter. His mouth never left yours, only deepened the kiss with each breath, as if he could memorize you faster this way, as if he could make up for the time he’d lost, all the nights he’d come home and sat across the room, watching you laugh in those same damn shorts, pretending it didn’t drive him crazy that he hadn’t had permission to do this.

And now?

Now there was nothing holding him back.

He pulled at the waistband again, a little harder this time, his knuckles brushing the curve of your bare hip as your shorts slipped lower, and you could feel the restraint thinning by the second, his body tight with need and muscle and control that was so close to giving out completely. His kiss turned rougher, hotter, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a groan that he tried—and failed—to swallow, as if the sound alone might tip this into something too far, too soon.

But it was already too late– Caleb was losing himself in you, and he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

The fabric slid past your thighs in slow, uneven tugs, Caleb’s hands no longer moving with military precision but with the clumsy, desperate grace of a man completely undone, his composure disassembled by the taste of your mouth and the feel of your skin and the unbearable weight of having waited for this—for you—for so damn long. He broke the kiss just long enough to look down, to watch your shorts fall away beneath his palms like silk melting off fire, and the way his throat worked around a groan would’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so wrecked, so grateful, so full of a kind of awe that made your breath catch before he’d even touched you properly.

And then he did.

His hands slid up your thighs—slowly, reverently, like he was mapping out a holy place he wasn’t sure he deserved to enter. His palms were warm and wide, fingers splayed as they traced over the soft give of your skin, the inside of your knees, the curve of your hips, his touch unsteady now, because he was feeling you like he’d dreamt of doing in secret for years and could barely believe this wasn’t something he’d have to wake up from.

“God,” he breathed, low and ruined, his voice shaking with it as he leaned in and pressed his lips to the inside of your knee, his breath hot against your skin, his mouth moving slowly—so slowly—upward. “You don’t know… you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

You did. Maybe not the full weight of it, but the tremble in his voice, the reverence in his hands, the way he was breathing like every inch of you was oxygen—that told you more than words ever could.

And when he kissed your thigh again, this time higher, his teeth just grazing the edge of where your skin grew softer, more sensitive, you felt the moment he lost the last sliver of control he’d been trying to hold onto.

Because suddenly he was on you—mouth hot and open and worshiping, dragging his tongue across your skin like he’d been waiting for this taste since the day you first touched his hand and called him your best friend. There was nothing careful about him now. No slow tease, no smirking restraint—just heat and desperation and a groan that vibrated through you as he buried himself between your thighs and devoured you like he didn’t care about anything else but this.

And the way he touched you—God. It wasn’t just lust. It was awe.

Like he was trying to memorize every breath you took, every soft sound you made, every twitch of your hips beneath his mouth. His hands gripped your thighs like he couldn’t let go, like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold, and all the while his mouth moved against you with a rhythm that felt like it had been waiting—waiting—for permission to finally let go.

And now that he had it? He wasn’t stopping.

“Let me,” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a single, breathless moment as his fingers dug into your hips and pulled you closer to his mouth. “Just let me make you feel good. I need—God, I need to feel you like this.”

And then he did.

Again. And again. Until your back arched and your hands found his hair and the only sound in the apartment louder than the rain was your breathing shaking under his tongue.

You shattered beneath his mouth like glass catching sunlight—quiet at first, almost too stunned to move, then all at once, your body tensing in his hands, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your voice falling apart in a stuttering gasp that wasn’t even a word, just the beginning of his name and a sound so sweet and wrecked he nearly came right then and there.

But Caleb didn’t stop.

God, he couldn’t stop—not with your taste on his tongue and your fingers knotted in his hair and your hips rocking against his mouth like you didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world but here, with him, under him, coming undone because of him.

So he held you through it.

Pressed his mouth against you with a desperate, reverent rhythm, lips and tongue and teeth working in tandem as if he could drag every last tremor from your body and keep them for himself. One hand braced beneath your thigh to anchor you down, the other sliding up, up, until he was gripping your waist like he needed it to breathe. His groan was muffled, low and desperate against your skin as you bucked under him, overwhelmed and still unraveling, your body caught in that aftershock haze where every brush of his tongue was too much and not enough all at once.

And still—he didn’t stop.

Not until you pushed weakly at his shoulder, not until your legs twitched and your voice cracked and you whispered his name in a way that wasn’t teasing anymore, wasn’t daring or smug—it was raw. Real. Please.

He pulled back only then.

Only when you needed him to.

His lips were slick with you, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted through a firefight, and when he looked up at you, flushed and panting and ruined, you saw it—everything he’d held in for years. Want. Awe. Love, sharp and devastating in its clarity.

“Fuck,” he whispered, dragging a hand through his hair, trying and failing to slow his breathing. “You’re—Jesus, you’re unreal.”

You reached for him on instinct, still dazed, still breathless, and he came willingly, crawling up over your body with the kind of slow, fluid urgency that said he wasn’t going to last much longer if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. His hands framed your face as he kissed you again—sloppy and wet and needy, tasting like everything you’d just given him—and by the time his hips pressed against yours, there was no mistaking how hard he was, how long he’d been holding back, how close to the edge he already was just from touching you.

“Need you,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice cracking around it, like he’d never said anything truer in his life. “I need—God, please—I need to be inside you.”

You nodded, already wrapping your legs around his hips, already pushing his sweats down his thighs, already too far gone to pretend this wasn’t exactly where you both had always been headed.

And when he finally pushed in—slow at first, inch by aching inch, his breath breaking across your throat like a prayer—it wasn’t just sex.

It was relief. Like he was sinking into something he’d been starving for, denied for too long, and now that he had it, now that he had you, he was never letting go.

“Fuck,” he breathed again, his forehead pressing to yours as he bottomed out inside you with a shudder that shook his whole frame. “You feel so good. So fucking perfect. I can’t—”

He broke off, groaning low in his throat, and started to move.

He meant to hold still.

He meant to—God, he swore he was going to take his time, make this slow, make it unforgettable—but the second he sank into you, the second your body gave way around him, hot and tight and so much better than anything he’d ever imagined in all those nights spent alone with your name stuck in his throat and his hand on his cock, his vision blurred. Literally. His breath caught in his chest like a blow, his arms shook where they braced on either side of your head, and for a split second he just hovered there, forehead pressed to yours, like if he moved again—just once—it would all be over.

And then your legs tightened around his waist.

A soft, involuntary clench of your body around him, and he snapped.

He started to move—he had to, there was no choice, no air, no logic left in his body that could’ve kept him from chasing that heat once he had it—and his first thrust wasn’t slow, wasn’t gentle, it was needy, a little too hard, a little too deep, dragging a groan from his chest that sounded like it had been waiting years to be freed.

“Fuck—” His voice broke open on the word, breath shaking as he pulled back and pushed in again, the motion jerky, just shy of rough, driven by the kind of feral hunger that made it clear he was already half gone. “I—I can’t—I’m trying to—”

But he couldn’t finish the sentence.

Couldn’t form the words when every inch of him was raw with how good you felt, how you fit around him like you’d been carved to take him, like your body had been made for this moment, for him, and now that he was inside you, moving in you, it was napalm—burning through every last fiber of restraint until all that remained was the rhythm of his hips and the low, broken sounds tearing out of his throat.

He thrust again, harder this time, and the shock of it punched a sound from your mouth that made his eyes roll back, his body shudder. His pace stuttered, hands curling into the sheets beside your head, like if he didn’t anchor himself, he’d lose whatever was left of his control.

“Fuck, baby, you feel—” He gasped, eyes wide and wild as they met yours, voice hoarse and disbelieving. “You feel too good—I can’t—I can’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He kept moving, shallow, desperate thrusts that pressed your body into the mattress with every snap of his hips, his breath fanning hot over your cheek as he dipped his head, mouthing at your jaw, your neck, anything he could reach. He was muttering now, rambling between kisses, his words slurred with pleasure and disbelief.

“So perfect—so fucking perfect—mine—God, you’re mine—how did I go so long without this—without you—”

Your name broke from his lips like prayer.

He was close. Too close.

You could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered, in the way his hands gripped the sheets like anchors, his hips stuttering in those short, desperate thrusts that landed harder with every pass. He was moving like he couldn’t help it, like stopping would hurt worse than coming undone, like your body had swallowed him whole and he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe ever again.

And for a moment, all you could do was feel—the burn of his breath on your throat, the slick heat of him pounding into you with barely-checked force, the rumble of every half-formed sound he made in your ear as if his body was trying to apologize for how completely it had betrayed his control.

But he was trying. God, he was trying to hold back.

You saw it in his eyes, blown wide and dark with something almost vulnerable—like he was terrified this would end too soon, that this would be over before he could show you what you meant to him. He was chasing the high, but also resisting it, even as his body begged to let go.

So you moved.

One hand slid up the tense plane of his back, fingers splayed between his shoulder blades as you lifted your head to meet him, dragging him down to you, not with force but with want. And when your mouth met his again—slow, deliberate, tender in a way that cracked something deep in his chest—you kissed him like it was your turn to give, your turn to take. You kissed him like you’d been starving too.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound raw, trembling, wrecked, like the feeling of your lips on his had undone whatever last thread of control he’d been clinging to. His thrusts slowed—not because he’d regained composure, but because he was trying to make it last now, trying to breathe through it, to memorize the exact way your mouth moved against his when you kissed him back like that, like he was yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whispered against his lips, your breath mingling with his, your hands curling into his hair as you held him there, your eyes meeting his with heat and honesty in equal measure. “I wanted you—I just didn’t know how to say it.”

His expression broke.

A soft gasp left him as he pressed his forehead to yours, his hips still rolling into you in slow, uneven thrusts, deep and tight and aching.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, his voice fraying apart. “You’re gonna fucking kill me, and I’ll thank you for it.”

You smiled—soft, dazed, in love—and kissed him again, slower this time, coaxing a low, choked groan from his throat as he shuddered in your arms. His hips stuttered. His whole body locked. And then—

He came.

Hard. Buried deep inside you, holding you like you were the only thing in the galaxy keeping him tethered to earth, Caleb broke with a sound that was part prayer, part curse, part disbelief. His mouth found yours again as he spilled into you, his groan lost in the kiss as he rutted helplessly through it, lost and breathless and completely undone, moving even after he was spent until you followed him over the edge with a cry of his name.

***

Neither of you moved for a long time.

The rain kept tapping at the windows, the screen still casting a low blue glow across the apartment, but the world felt muted now, far away, as though it had receded to give you this—this moment of quiet, trembling peace in the wreckage of what the two of you had just done.

Caleb stayed pressed over you, his chest rising and falling against yours in slow, heavy waves, sweat cooling on his back, his arms trembling faintly where they braced his weight above you. He hadn’t pulled out yet—hadn’t even tried to—and when you shifted beneath him just slightly, he let out the softest sound, almost like a protest, almost like a prayer.

His eyes met yours, dazed and glassy, pupils still blown, lips parted like he’d tried to speak and lost the words before they could rise.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, brushing your fingers through the damp strands of hair at his temple, watching him melt just a little more beneath the touch.

He nodded, slow and shaky. Swallowed hard.

Then finally—finally—he lowered himself fully, letting his weight sink into you as his head dropped into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist like he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go even if he wanted to.

Which, clearly, he didn’t.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured into your skin, voice thick and muffled, as if saying it out loud might undo it. “I’ve wanted that—I’ve wanted you—for so long it feels like a goddamn fever dream.”

You let out a breathless laugh, quiet and shaky, your fingers stroking up and down his spine now, soft and slow, like you were still learning the shape of him beneath your hands. “You could’ve said something, you know.”

He exhaled sharply, almost a scoff, though it lacked any real bite. “You think I didn’t want to? You think I didn’t try?” He lifted his head, propped himself up just enough to look at you again, and his expression was still open, still raw, something so painfully honest it made your chest ache. “You were always right there, and I wanted you so badly it hurt, but I didn’t want to risk losing what we had. So I kept quiet. And I watched you laugh, and touch me like it didn’t mean anything, and wear those goddamn shorts—”

You snorted. “Those were your breaking point?”

“They were a breaking point.”

You couldn’t help but smile, one hand curling gently around the back of his neck as you leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth—just a soft, lingering press of lips against skin. “I didn’t say anything either,” you whispered. “I was scared if I made a move, you’d pull away. Or worse—you’d pity me.”

His expression twisted, wounded and tender all at once. “Never.”

“I know that now,” you said, voice breaking a little. “But I didn’t then.”

Caleb’s arms tightened around you, his forehead pressing back into yours as he breathed you in like something holy, something necessary. “I’ve been in love with you for years,” he admitted, voice so quiet you almost missed it. “I just never thought I’d get to tell you, let alone still inside you.”

You laughed, teary-eyed and breathless, pulling him down into another kiss—slow, warm, and deep, the kind that said this isn’t over and you’re mine now.

And when you broke apart, when you stared up at him with nothing but love and wonder softening every edge of your expression, you whispered, “Then don’t wait anymore.”

And he didn’t.

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